A short few mornings ago, I was standing in front of my building enjoying the sun before the humidity made my underarms smell like a Turkish bazaar. As I stood there, I saw an older gentleman in full business attire, complete with briefcase, ambling in my direction - a common sight at this time of day.
As he approached, it sounded like he grunted some kind of greeting, so I bowed deeply and said good morning in my most Japanese-sounding Japanese. I figured I'd made a new friend; perhaps we'd share a drink that evening, a dinner at a ritzy eatery and then sail to Guam with his family and wealthy business associates. The possibilities were endless.
He stopped in front of me and, much to my surprise, did not seem to be the fancy dinner-sharing, yacht-inviting man I had envisioned. He raised his arms in imitation of holding a rifle and pointed said "air rifle" in my direction. Not knowing what to make of this development, I figured that he simply wanted to scare off some thug lurking behind me. Just like my friendship dreams, however, this fantasy shattered as he carefully aimed the barrel of his arm gun at center body mass, pulled his trigger finger twice and grunted with each shot fired.
And, as if nothing had happened, he strolled off muttering to himself in a most disturbing fashion.
I recognized that I'd been violated by this salaryman assassin in some horrific way, but I struggled to reason exactly how or why. Perhaps he didn't like my tie, perhaps he hated my apartment building, perhaps some member of his family had been deposited in the dumpster behind me. From all I know of the Japanese and their universal love of foreigners, it couldn't possibly have been because I was white (dashingly handsome) and red haired. No way - not possible.
It must have been my tie.
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