Sons of Loki

I’m back in McDonalds. No idea why I come here; it’s certainly not for the overpriced food. But I guess it’s the familiarity. I know what I’m getting. I know that the staff will say “<Welcome>”, “<What drink would you like?>”, “<Are you eating in?>”, and “<Thank you please wait>”. In fact, when I ordered today, the cashier was mute for some reason, so I just said “Big mac setto. Orenji juusu. Kochira. Hai.” without the other side of the conversation.

Woke up this morning afternoon feeling glum as usual. Then I went out on the balcony and the sun was shining, the air was warm, the sakura was in blossom and there was a scent of spring in the air. I always find smell induces nostalgia in me. There was a particular smell in Uguisudani, where I used to live, and today it had returned to Fuchu-shi.

I thought I’d cycle to Musashi-koganei for a coffee and a bit of study, to try and begin gearing up for the big test in a month. (A month!) But then I got out on my bike, the weather was beautiful (easily matching an English summer day), I had “Katamari on the Rocks” in my ears and I cycled past the baseball teams practicing and under the falling blossom petals and past the big bowl of Ajinomoto Station and thought life is beautiful, I’m going to cycle to Shinjuku again.

So I did. There’s not much you can say about Route 20 from Fuchu-shi to Shinjuku-ku. It’s got bike shops and family restaurants and bric-a-brac shops and PC depots and houses and more family restaurants. I made pretty good progress, reaching Meidaimae within an hour. As I got closer to Shinjuku, though, and as the NTT DoCoMo building loomed on the horizon like … uh … the Empire State Building looms over Brooklyn, the crowds on the pavement increased and I had to cross the road. Through the whole journey my chain came off seven times, seeing as it’s pretty old and rusty, I only have one gear, and that I tend to push my little old lady’s bike past its capabilities. In one case the chain came off the pedal gear, resulting in me having to grab my emergency screwdriver (thank god I had that with me), partially disassemble the chain case, and thread it back on.

Then I saw the cops. A group of three, obviously bored. Hey, what’s this? A gaijin on a bike! I had the misfortune to stop at a red light, so the three of them come bumbling over.

Cop 1: “<A bike.>”
Cop 2: “<A bike!>”
Me (removing earphones): “Huh?”
Cop 3: “<The bike.>”
Me: “<The bike…?>”
Cop 1: “<Whose bike is this?>”
Me: “<My university’s bike.>”
Cop 2 (into radio): “<Registration six-three-four-eight-nine-seven-zero…>”
Cop 3: “<What university?>”
Me: “<Tokyo Gaidai.>”
Cop 2: “<…four-four-three-one-seven-one…>”
Cop 1: “<Oh, Tokyo Gaikokugo Daigaku? Ah, it says on the bike, here.>”
Cop 3: “<Oh, Tokyo Gaidai.>”
Cop 2: “<…nine-six-five-six-eight…>
Me (exasperated, pulling out wallet): “<Here’s the bike registration and my student card.>”
Cop 1: “<Oh, I see.>”
Cop 1 (apparently losing his mind): “<Say, what country’re you from?>”
Me: “<Ah, England.>”
Cop 1: “<Oh, England.>”
Cop 2: <”…eight-four-two-one-six, over.”>
Cop 3: (not at all sorry) “<Sorry for interrupting you.>”
Me: “<Everything’s alright, then?>”
Me: “<Turns out that just because I’ve got a beard and no epicanthic folds and I’m on a bike, I’m not necessarily a criminal?>”
Cop 1: “<Yes, excuse us.>”
Me: “<No problem! Excuse me!>”

At least it’s funny in hindsight. And I didn’t show my gaikokujin card, though I did kind of fold by showing them my student ID. I just wish I’d had the guts to ask, “Why have you stopped me?” because the answer is “Because we think this bike is stolen,” and … Yeah, racial profiling in action. I have never seen a Japanese person on a bike being stopped.

Anyway, these things happen. No sense in letting it get you down…

I’m cycling. I’ve gone out for a bike ride. Listening to Mark Kermode’s podcast, I turn to go down into a tunnel, and I’m not entirely sure if bikes are allowed to, so I stop and turn around.

A Japanese policeman is running towards me.

For a split second I think “Oh, he’s just going to tell me that I can’t go that way.” But then I realise the truth. He wants to card me.

This is it! This is my Rosa Parks moment! Except I fold like a piece of origami before the cop. I forget all the advice I’d read on Debito Arudou’s website about asking for their ID and asking why I’m being stopped and instead, shaking slightly, I try to work out what he’s asking for. I assume it’s because I’m biking, and he wants to check the bike is mine. Fair enough. I’m sure Japanese people get stopped all the time, too, for the crime of being on bikes.

So I show him my bike registration card, explain that I’m a foreign student and it’s rented from the uni. Then I think I catch him asking for my alien registration card (half-remembering the Japanese gaikokujin tōroku shōmeisho), but I don’t have that yet, and I don’t know how to explain, so I show him my student card.

He radios it in.

I’m on edge.

It all seems fine.

So I can go now, right? No, not yet. Now up to this point, it’s been a little disturbing but – fair enough, he has to check that it’s my bike, fair enough, I might be an illegal immigrant or something. But then he asks to look in my bag. This is when I should have stopped and asked “doushite?“, but then I already know the reason, don’t I? Being an entirely legal foreigner on a bike I am legally entitled to ride, I must instead be in possession of drugs. Yeah. Of course. That’s why he has to search me.

Anyway, I give in, and he sees my friggin kanji dictionary and digital camera for what it’s worth, and he sends me on my way. Of course, he doesn’t check the inside pocket, which is chock to the brim with two bags of grass, seventy-five pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high powered blotter acid, a salt shaker half full of cocaine, semtex, and a HK MP7 4.6mm SMG. So the joke’s on him!

The initial shock gave way to anger – why me? because I’m dangerously-coloured and threateningly-bearded, in the wrong part of town? – then grudging acceptance: I know he probably didn’t mean anything by it, it’s pretty much the norm here. But – eurgh. Still leaves a bad taste in the mouth.

Take us out, Jay.

I heard “Son, do you know why I’m stoppin’ you for?”
“Cause I’m young and I’m black and my hat’s real low?
Do I look like a mind reader sir, I don’t know,
Am I under arrest or should I guess some mo’?”
“Well you was doin fifty-five in a fifty-fo’,
License and registration and step out of the car,
Are you carryin’ a weapon on you? I know a lot of you are…”