the life and death of mister honda.
"Don't tell me about the world. Not today. It's springtime and they're knocking baseball around fields where the grass is damp and green in the morning and the kids are trying to hit the curve ball." - Pete Hamill
Monday dawns breezy and overcast with just a hint of rain. It rains more often than not in La Pine. He just can't get used to it, the scarf and heavy wool coat, grass that crunches like tiny icicles under his boots. Cold makes his body balk rebelliously; gooseflesh runs up his arms. Maybe he was born in the tropics and walked around without a shirt. Either way, the extra layers disagree with him, clothes damp with mist and sweat and clinging, and laundry means missing socks. There's really no winning against Oregon weather.
It isn't all bad though. The kids totter around like miniature polar bears, Cecil making a big show of lacing her brother's doc Martens, tugging beanies over his scruffy head. "Monday is waffle day, Mister Honda," she says solemnly. "Jake likes it when they're crunchy." This is a lie, of course. Jake likes all his meals half-cooked and syrupy. But kids aren't too different from adults. They never say what they mean.
Mister Honda, like the car. That's what they call him around here.
*
Cecil shuffles up to him, Jake lagging half a step behind. These two are like cats, always getting under your feet and once they like you, you can't get rid of them. They're bundled up in their 'baseball gear,' red-cheeked and awake earlier than the wild geese. 6:03, clutching a scrappy mitt each and buzzing with excitement - something about it seems nostalgic, but he can't quite put his finger on it.
It happens sometimes, thin impressions slotting into his head, dreams about weird things that make him think he's a scientist or a sportsman or maybe a burglar. Sense memories, backaches, the strange callouses on his hands. Then there are the nightmares: odd-coloured flames, knives on strings, sharp drops and the whites of men's eyes - they get him thinking maybe he escaped from a mental hospital. Could be prison, for all he knows.
Except that's not right either.
They'd found him laid out and bloody in the middle of highway 97, no ID, almost empty wallet, empty head, and his prints came out clean as a whistle. "Well son," they joked, "You're either a good citizen, or a damn good crook." He'd laughed, but now he wondered. Living so close to forest, wide open space, it's like neighbouring isolation; a lot of quiet to fill and not much to think about. When the sun sets milky red and everyone else heads for the dining hall, he can't help feeling uneasy.
Ellie says it's only natural, a blow to the head like that. She thinks he was mugged, just needs a bit of time to set himself right. It's too much, finding him, hospital visits, as good as adopting him into her little bed and breakfast where there's only a handful of cabins and she's always cutting down on pancake mix towards the end of the month. "Nonsense," she snorts, brandishing her spatula against his thanks. Nonsense. She says that a lot.
The radio tuned permanently to the news, bandaids for the sores between his toes. Once you save someone's life, you're responsible for them forever. He doesn't want to owe her something he can't pay back. A couple of euros and a thin wad of yen to his name, police that advise him to stick close in case someone comes by to claim him - what choice has he got?
Nothing's left of his old life, whatever it was, just an aversion to coffee, a couple of dubious scars and one faded photograph. In it, he's young and grinning, arms draped around the shoulders of a tousled brunette. The shot's off-centre; there's another skinny guy walking out of the frame.
None of the faces mean anything.
*
The sheriff drops by a few times at first, assuring him he's being run through missing persons (again). The fifth occasion with no news, Honda rubs the back of his neck, thanks him for driving out here, "but I think I'll be okay." The sheriff drains his latte, promises to keep him updated.
Life's not bad. The English doesn't come easy but he learns, fumbling over the meaning of 'sunny side up' and copping the occasional racial slur. It gets better when Ellie lets him try the kitchen; turns out he makes a mean crêpe. She's good company, patient as a saint, and the kids are usually enough to keep him occupied. When they're off at school, he vacuums, oils latches, changes lightbulbs, drums fingers that won't stop itching.
He asks himself, what am I waiting for?
*
He doesn't see the punch coming. He's turning away from the stove, shrugging apologetically, "Sorry man, you can't be in here," and the next second the guy's on top of him like he's a ninja or something, socks him so hard he can't feel his nose. "What the-" Blood on his mouth, and fuck, what is with this nutcase-
"You bastard," the man chokes, all menacing like, and - wait, that's not English - thinking hard, the photo!
"You-" he gapes, speechless, because you don't get hair like that just anywhere, and it's almost, almost familiar.
"Quick," he blurts, "My name. What's my name?"
"Yamamoto Takeshi, you stupid, reckless idiot-"
And Yamamoto comes into himself.
Monday dawns breezy and overcast with just a hint of rain. It rains more often than not in La Pine. He just can't get used to it, the scarf and heavy wool coat, grass that crunches like tiny icicles under his boots. Cold makes his body balk rebelliously; gooseflesh runs up his arms. Maybe he was born in the tropics and walked around without a shirt. Either way, the extra layers disagree with him, clothes damp with mist and sweat and clinging, and laundry means missing socks. There's really no winning against Oregon weather.
It isn't all bad though. The kids totter around like miniature polar bears, Cecil making a big show of lacing her brother's doc Martens, tugging beanies over his scruffy head. "Monday is waffle day, Mister Honda," she says solemnly. "Jake likes it when they're crunchy." This is a lie, of course. Jake likes all his meals half-cooked and syrupy. But kids aren't too different from adults. They never say what they mean.
Mister Honda, like the car. That's what they call him around here.
*
Cecil shuffles up to him, Jake lagging half a step behind. These two are like cats, always getting under your feet and once they like you, you can't get rid of them. They're bundled up in their 'baseball gear,' red-cheeked and awake earlier than the wild geese. 6:03, clutching a scrappy mitt each and buzzing with excitement - something about it seems nostalgic, but he can't quite put his finger on it.
It happens sometimes, thin impressions slotting into his head, dreams about weird things that make him think he's a scientist or a sportsman or maybe a burglar. Sense memories, backaches, the strange callouses on his hands. Then there are the nightmares: odd-coloured flames, knives on strings, sharp drops and the whites of men's eyes - they get him thinking maybe he escaped from a mental hospital. Could be prison, for all he knows.
Except that's not right either.
They'd found him laid out and bloody in the middle of highway 97, no ID, almost empty wallet, empty head, and his prints came out clean as a whistle. "Well son," they joked, "You're either a good citizen, or a damn good crook." He'd laughed, but now he wondered. Living so close to forest, wide open space, it's like neighbouring isolation; a lot of quiet to fill and not much to think about. When the sun sets milky red and everyone else heads for the dining hall, he can't help feeling uneasy.
Ellie says it's only natural, a blow to the head like that. She thinks he was mugged, just needs a bit of time to set himself right. It's too much, finding him, hospital visits, as good as adopting him into her little bed and breakfast where there's only a handful of cabins and she's always cutting down on pancake mix towards the end of the month. "Nonsense," she snorts, brandishing her spatula against his thanks. Nonsense. She says that a lot.
The radio tuned permanently to the news, bandaids for the sores between his toes. Once you save someone's life, you're responsible for them forever. He doesn't want to owe her something he can't pay back. A couple of euros and a thin wad of yen to his name, police that advise him to stick close in case someone comes by to claim him - what choice has he got?
Nothing's left of his old life, whatever it was, just an aversion to coffee, a couple of dubious scars and one faded photograph. In it, he's young and grinning, arms draped around the shoulders of a tousled brunette. The shot's off-centre; there's another skinny guy walking out of the frame.
None of the faces mean anything.
*
The sheriff drops by a few times at first, assuring him he's being run through missing persons (again). The fifth occasion with no news, Honda rubs the back of his neck, thanks him for driving out here, "but I think I'll be okay." The sheriff drains his latte, promises to keep him updated.
Life's not bad. The English doesn't come easy but he learns, fumbling over the meaning of 'sunny side up' and copping the occasional racial slur. It gets better when Ellie lets him try the kitchen; turns out he makes a mean crêpe. She's good company, patient as a saint, and the kids are usually enough to keep him occupied. When they're off at school, he vacuums, oils latches, changes lightbulbs, drums fingers that won't stop itching.
He asks himself, what am I waiting for?
*
He doesn't see the punch coming. He's turning away from the stove, shrugging apologetically, "Sorry man, you can't be in here," and the next second the guy's on top of him like he's a ninja or something, socks him so hard he can't feel his nose. "What the-" Blood on his mouth, and fuck, what is with this nutcase-
"You bastard," the man chokes, all menacing like, and - wait, that's not English - thinking hard, the photo!
"You-" he gapes, speechless, because you don't get hair like that just anywhere, and it's almost, almost familiar.
"Quick," he blurts, "My name. What's my name?"
"Yamamoto Takeshi, you stupid, reckless idiot-"
And Yamamoto comes into himself.