Waiting room annex of the Immigration Center at Narita airport. A tiny box lined with pale blue benches in pew-like formations. A love hotel for the Government of Darkness.
Florescent light reflects harshly off white walls, strikes out to the sole concessions to decoration inside: an industrial clock and a tall potted plant in need of some water. Desperate, hasty graffiti is scratched into the backs of the benches, where the walls become corners. Random words in Hangul, Tagalog, and at least one solid all-caps FUCK.
Korean middle-aged man. Filling out an epic questionnaire at prison issue metal desk while young Immigration Officer stands over him. They can’t speak to each other beyond nods, grunts. The only common ground is a shared air of annoyance.
Chinese man, in a cheap baseball jacket (Grandpa’s Clothing Co.), sits scratching at his face and five o’clock shadow, like he’s trying to peel them off. A Buddhist monk in an Orange robe wanders in. Takes a seat. Walks out escorted by stewardesses.
Enter burly white American, belly hanging over the pants, manila envelope in hand. “Look, I’m only going to be here for two hours. Then I’m going to Bangkok to deliver this package to Jupiter. Just two hours.”
“Yes, but you have no spaces left in your passport, and we can’t stamp over another countries’ stamp in your passport.”
“Just two hours, then I’m gone.” Just two minutes later, so is he. Shown the way out, he slaps the Immigration Officer on the back, to thank him. “Where are you ladies from?” he says loudly to a team of female flight attendants passing by.
“Thailand.”
“Ch'an Rak Khun” he says to them, which sets off embarrassed giggles.
An hour in all. Then it’s my turn to stand tall before the man, all compressed and fatigued after 10 hour flight. I show them the Sapio article, tell them I’ll have something in Cyzo next month. The officer flips though Anime City, puzzled look on his face. He takes notes of affiliations in perfect English. Chronicle Books, Ohta Shuppan, Captain Cosmic Reading Club.
“Thank you, please go back to the room and wait.”
Psychic vision: Forty feet away and below, my unattended baggage circles the luggage carousel like a lazy slot car. Gut instinct: none of this would be happening if I were white.
When I finally make it to the exit, camera crews and mass crowds. The Japanese team returns home from the World Baseball Classic via. Petco park in San Diego. Morning news on hotel TV. The Koreans have been caught ripping off classic Enka songs.
Arrived in time for the funeral for Hiroshi Miyagawa, dead of a heart attack at 75 years young.
The Yamato is silent for now.
yeah, fuck.
Posted by: Steve Harrison | March 22, 2006 at 08:56 PM
Gonna pour some One Cup Ozeki on the curb near Shinjuku Koma for my dead homiez. Be Forever Miyagawa.
Posted by: Patrick3 | March 23, 2006 at 04:15 AM
If only you had been able to scrawl discreetly:
"Fools fleeing they countries to come here black
But see the same bullshit and head right back
They learn what niggas already know
The world is a ghetto."
Posted by: Carl Horn | March 23, 2006 at 08:58 AM