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Misfortunes’ Windfall

  Copyright 2016 John Jeng

  Cover design by www.viladesign.net

  Misfortunes’ Windfall

  By John Jeng

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  Table of Contents

  Part 1: The Wind Knocked Out

  Part 2: Christmas Eve

  Part 3: Someone Who Needs Me

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  “How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot!

  The world forgetting, by the world forgot.

  Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!

  Each pray’r accepted, and each wish resign’d.”

  —Alexander Pope, Eloisa to Abelard

  Sasuke Inari Jinja is a Shinto shrine in Kamakura, Kanagawa Prefecture and the site of the Hidden Village of Kamakura. Visitors pass through a series of vermilion torii to reach the worship hall guarded by a pair of fox statues called kitsune.

  Part 1: The Wind Knocked Out

  “Tabasa, based on your performance reviews from the teachers at Iwai Girls' School from the last six months, we regret to inform you that your services are no longer required.” The nondescript recruiter spoke the practiced lines evenly, not meeting Tabitha’s gaze. Tabitha had suspected this might happen, yet hearing the words still surprised her. A shiver traveled down her spine and hands tingled with cold sweat. She had to say something fast.

  “Won’t you please reconsider? I really need this job. I mean, I admit the situation caught me off-guard, but I’d know how to handle it now. It won’t happen again.”

  The recruiter shuffled some stacks of papers and stood up. “I’m sorry, Tabasa, it’s out of my hands. As per the employment contract, your apartment lease will be terminated at the end of the year. Please shut your keys in the mailbox when you vacate the premises.”

  “The end of the year? But it’s already Christmas Eve! That only gives me a week.”

  “I'm sorry, Tabasa,” the recruiter repeated with a tone of finality, ushering her outside. “I hope you enjoy the rest of your time in Japan.”

  The door slammed shut in her face, and just like that, the exit interview was over. Tabitha’s chest tightened and blood rushed to her head. A roaring tiger was trying to claw its way out of her stomach; a mix of indignation and anxiety seethed out of her ears. She gritted her teeth and resolved not to let getting fired bother her just yet. She slapped her cheeks twice to perk herself up for her next task and walked around the corner toward a local café.

  Tabitha swung open the door and the door chimes reverberated upon her entry. She never could get used to how narrow Japanese spaces were—how the café parlor’s acoustics always seemed to amplify the cacophony of people chitchatting. Finally, she reached the end and sat down on a wooden dining chair which groaned under Tabitha’s girthy frame. Mrs. Ishida, a slight, dainty woman in her fifties smiled at her from across the table. For the past three months, Tabitha had been teaching her basic English conversation. Mrs. Ishida, however, never relinquished her special seat in the parlor’s innermost corner.

  “Hello, Tabasa, how are you?”

  “Not bad, how about yourself?”

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  “Christmas is tomorrow. Do you have any plans?” Tabitha asked loudly over the din, steering the conversation.

  Mrs. Ishida’s eyes swam as she searched for the right words. When she spoke, it was in the Japanese staccato accent Tabitha had never quite gotten used to. “I’ll go to... how I can say... onsen?” She made a breaststroke motion in the air. “Hot water?”

  “You’ll go to the hot springs?” Tabitha guessed.

  “Yes. I’ll go to a hot spring with my husband. Then we will eat kentakkii furaido chikin for dinner.”

  “Wow, I didn’t know Kentucky Fried Chicken made Christmas dinner. Is that popular?”

  “Yes, too popular! My husband made… how I can say… yoyaku in English?” She mimed picking up the phone and dialing a number.

  “Oh, you mean a ‘reservation.’ The KFCs in America are all closed on Christmas.”

  “Yes, but do you know this television CeeEm?” Mrs. Ishida sang the jingle “‘Kurisumasu ni wa kentakkii!’” She paused to take a sip of tea. “Do you like furaido chikin, Tabasa?”

  “Love it. I have a lot of fond memories of KFC. My folks and I used to get a bucket of the colonel’s original recipe all the time and eat it in front of the TV.”

  Mrs. Ishida was eyeing Tabitha behind her mug with a you-don’t-say sort of smile curling on the edge of her disappearing lips.

  “So, Tabasa. Will you spend kurisumasu with your boifurendo?” Mrs. Ishida held up the thumbs up sign with a glint of mischief in her eyes.

  “Oh no, I don’t have a boyfriend. I’ve got to start looking for a new job, actually. The company I was working for gave me the bad news today.”

  “Oh, that’s terrible. But why you don't have a boifurendo?”

  Tabitha was not prepared to answer this question. “I guess I just haven’t met the right man yet,” she hedged.

  “Pardon me, but how old are you?”

  “Me? I’m 30.”

  “Already 30? Difficult, quite difficult…” Mrs. Ishida murmured to herself in Japanese, tilting her head and examining the American from different angles. “A challenging fixer-upper, yes, but the potential is there.”

  “Say, are you familiar with any English Christmas carols? ‘Jingle Bells,’ ‘Deck the Halls,’ and all that jazz?” said Tabitha, trying to change the subject, but Mrs. Ishida talked over her.

  “I know how you can get a boifurendo. Many Japanese bijinesuman like American woman because they want to learn English.”

  “Please, I’d rather not discuss it,” Tabitha protested, but Mrs. Ishida didn’t relent.

  “You should go on a daietto. A thin body will make you more beautiful. You lose twenty kilos, and you can get a boifurendo. Just tell me your type. I can recommend you to a gentleman.”

  “No, it’s really not nec-”

  Although Mrs. Ishida’s English was far from fluent, when she found a topic to criticize, she rambled without stopping. When she didn’t have the vocabulary to describe her feelings, she threw in some Japanese words Tabitha didn’t understand. Mrs. Ishida would not let the topic go during their hour-long tête-à-tête, and Tabitha suspected that Mrs. Ishida wanted English conversation lessons because, more than anything, she loved hearing herself talk. She kept finding tangents to lecture Tabitha on the meaning of true happiness.

  “Tsumari,” concluded the matronly Mrs. Ishida, “a woman is not complete until she finds a husband and has children. My husband’s cousin’s daughter is haimisu. Almost 40 and not still married. She works as a bar hostess. Her poor mother almost die of haji. I tell my husband, I take her to omiai to find a nice gentleman, but niece says ‘no’ always. So selfish, deshou?”

  Don’t get angry, Tabitha thought. Don’t talk back. Don’t get defensive. Before long, the one-sided conversation had turned on Tabitha. Mrs. Ishida didn’t pull any punches listing Tabitha’s faults and what she should do to change them for her future husband. By the end of the relentless assault, Tabitha was feeling defeated.

  They stepped outside into a midday thunderstorm—Tabitha feeling grateful the ordeal was over. Mrs. Ishida barely came up to Tabitha’s shoulders, yet Tabitha could palpably feel the woman looking down on her. Tabitha resolved that this was the last time she'd let Mrs. Ishida walk al
l over her and call it a favor. She broke the news outside the café entrance.

  "I don't think we should meet here anymore."

  “Why?” Mrs. Ishida asked sharply through narrowed eyes.

  Uh-oh. Tabitha gave the most convenient excuse she could think of: the truth. “My company told me to pack up my apartment, so I’ll be busy looking for a new place to live,” she said. Mrs. Ishida’s expression softened into a look of pity instead.

  “Oh! Then you must do a homestay with us until you find a new apaatomento,” she declared.

  “No, I mean I don’t think I can give you lessons anymore.”

  “Don’t enryo so much, Tabasa!” Mrs. Ishida laughed, and Tabitha knew her protests had fallen on deaf ears. A quintessential Japanese social grace was knowing when to enryo, or hold back for fear of becoming an imposition. However, Mrs. Ishida lived in a western-style condominium and was nothing if not wealthy enough to dismiss just about any statement as enryo. She chortled as though Tabitha would even worry about taken advantage of her hospitality. “I still pay you for lessons. You stay with us for free. No problem! We have ekisutora room.”

  Tabitha wilted under Mrs. Ishida’s imperious gaze while Mrs. Ishida’s triumphant smile grew smugger by the second. She’d been to Mrs. Ishida’s house once before and knew exactly how much extra room Mrs. Ishida had. Since her adult children had married and left home, Tabitha suspected Mrs. Ishida had a bit of the empty nest syndrome because she constantly demanded her children to