Hokkaido Highway Blues

were headed for the big bad city of Osaka, their trucks loaded down with shipments of crushed granite, their clothes dusty and gray. The leader was a neckless man, heavy-browed with close-cropped hair, who took an immediate, antagonistic liking to me. He spoke in rapid bursts, in a thick Osaka accent: “Gaijin! Don’t go! Stay and—drink this beer and—tell us where you’re going and—what you think of Japanese women and—can you eat Japanese food—talk to us, Gaijin!” I shook his hand, or rather, he clutched my hand and whipcracked it something fierce. He handed me a beer and dragged me down to the seat beside him. The rest of his crew wedged in. “Look! The gaijin likes our beer. He’s drinking it, so quick, get— another can. We’ll get this gaijin drunk, if it’s the last thing we do.”
    Normally, my instincts are to avoid drunken, unruly truck drivers. Avoid drunken, unruly truck drivers: that’s my motto. Bjjt in this case I made an exception. Shūho, the priest on Shōdo Island, had warned me that the ferry port at Himeji was far from downtown, that there would be no buses this late, and that a taxi would be exorbitant. I had hoped to wheedle a ride into Himeji with one of the passengers onboard, but most were sound asleep in their cars, and the only lively, approachable group were these Osaka truck drivers. So....
    “Ha ha! Gaijin wants a ride. Of course we will give him a ride! Are we not truck drivers? Are we not Osaka men? Quick—get him another beer so we—can toast our new gaijin friend! Kampai!“
    “Isn’t it illegal to drink and drive?” I asked with contrived innocence. I knew quite well the answer. It was very illegal. Japan had the strictest laws of any modern, industrial nation. Zero tolerance. If you drove after even one drink, you would lose your license. If you worked in the public sector, you would also lose your job.
    “Tonight’s drivers are below, asleep. We drive in shifts and now—it is time to drink!” He emptied the can directly into his gullet, without swallowing, and then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth with a grandiose flourish. “Now we drink!”
    Great, of all the people I had to latch onto, I ended up with Zorba the fucking Greek. At any moment, I expected him to toss down his beer can and leap into a dance. I tried to squirm away, but he had a death grip on my shoulder at this point and I was trapped. Even worse, he pounded my back in exaggerated mirth every time I did anything even remotely entertaining. This wouldn’t be so bad, except that—as a foreigner—he found my very existence entertaining, so I was getting my back pounded an awful lot.
    At least I had a ride. Or so I was led to believe. At some point during the festivities, I realized that Zorba was arguing with his minions over which bar to take me to—in Osaka. “Excuse me,” I said. “Osaka?”
    “You will love Osaka!” It was not so much a promise as it was a threat.
    “But—but I’m going to Himeji.”
    “No, you’re not.” Then, loudly, “More beer!”
    “Now, wait a sec. I have to get to Himeji. It’s very important. I have to see a doctor. Very serious. Life or death.”
    “Forget Himeji! Himeji is nothing. The women of Himeji— bah! —-ugly, like this.” He screwed up his face. “But Osaka women! Ah, Osaka women!” He threw his hands heavenward and grinned, convinced he had won the debate.
    “Osaka women are horny,” said one of the other truckers. “Yes, yes,” they all agreed. “Horny, very horny. They wear red, bright red. They just don’t care.”
    Jeez, how do you argue with that? Again, I tried to escape. It was hopeless. They had me in their clutches. One man, slurred beyond comprehension, kept grabbing my arm and pulling me in to whisper some reeking gibberish in my face. Another kept up a steady round of toasts, raising his beer at the slightest provocation. But the most unnerving man was the one who kept bringing up the American soldiers who had assaulted a young Japanese girl in Okinawa. He looked pissed off. The more he drank, the more he stared at me. And the more he stared at me, the angrier and more persistent he became. My few instincts dedicated to self-preservation were screaming. Run. Jump. Hide.
    “Excuse me, I have to go to the washroom,” I said.
    “Me, too! Ha ha! We can have a pissing contest!”
    To which another trucker immediately yelled, “Ten thousand yen on the gaijin!”
    “Yes, but first I have to go get