Hokkaido Highway Blues

wanted to talk about girls.
    “What is your technique?” asked Mac. “How do you meet them?”
    I don’t have a technique. So I lied. I told them what my college roommate used to do. He would go to a laundromat and—in plain sight of a lady he liked—he would prepare to pour Mr. Clean floor polish into the washer. The woman would rush over to stop him, and he would act dumb and helpless, saying “I thought cleaner was cleaner.” She would then scold him in a playful manner and, next thing you know, they’re in bed together.
    “Japanese women love Americans,” said Mac. “They think you’re exotic. We’ll take you with us, as bait.“
    Big ol’ Tom agreed, and When we finally reached Fukui City, we pulled up to the local Mr. Donut. “Girls who like Americans come to Mr. Donut,” said Mac knowingly. The three of us sauntered in and flopped down in a booth, cool as all get out. Mac started talking to me in English in a really big voice. This was to (a) establish our presence, (b) demonstrate that we were cosmopolitan, international English-speaking dudes, and (c) scare away any competition. Having defined our domain, we scoped the room. At the counter were a pair of college girls sipping milk coffee. Mac stared at them until they noticed our throbbing presence. He then jerked his head in my direction and said with a cocky grin, ”American.” Tom smiled in a shy yet vulnerable manner. I tried to look cool, dark, and American (as opposed to clumsy, pale, and Canadian).
    The two girls, as if on cue, dropped their smiles and gave us looks that were utterly devoid of any expression. It was beyond disdain, it was a look of absolute indifference. Slowly, they turned back to their coffee and continued their conversation. My face was burning. Children laughed. Strangers stopped to point. Crowds were bussed in from neighboring cities. Satellites shifted their orbits to capture the moment on film.
    My charm as a woman magnet having failed, the ride came to an end. Mac told me to call him when I got to Hokkaido, but there was a lack of conviction in his voice that I found disheartening.
    “We could try again,” I said. “I just needed to warm up. Look, some more girls are going in!”
    But Mac and Tom exchanged significant glances and my pleas were ignored. “Here’s how to get out of Fukui,” said Mac. “Walk down to the first set of lights. Turn right and then left. You can start hitchhiking after that. It won’t take long. Very easy.”
    The weather was good; the traffic, steady What could go wrong? I thanked them for the ride, we shook hands, and off they drove. I took a deep breath, briefly reconsidered making another sally into Mr. Donut, and set off down the road.
    And so began the longest day of my life....
     

7
     
    WHEN I WAS young, I wanted to be Alexander the Great, not because he had such a nifty nickname. (How many people do you know called “the Great?” Hey, guys, Bob the Great called. He wants to know if he should bring cheese dip?) No, I wanted to be Alexander the Great because he had his own conquering army. I always thought a conquering army could come in handy. For example, if Alexander didn’t like a particular place—say the service was bad or he couldn’t find a parking spot—he would simply turn his army loose and they would raze the buildings, salt the fields, and enslave the general population. It sounded like a lot of fun.
    The point being, had I my own conquering army, Fukui City would no longer be standing.
    What a hole. The citizens are actually proud of their reputation as Japan’s rudest people. “We are very rude in Fukui,” they will say. “May I spit in your coffee?”
    The day started out just fine. I was on the perfect stretch of road: wide, uncluttered, just beyond the city limits and several hours ahead of the evening rush. Surely one of these stalwart citizens would stop. They didn’t. They did swerve, however, in my direction. Ostensibly, this was to get a better gape at the strange foreigner, but had they managed to clip me as they passed I suspect they would have pumped the air with their fists and shouted, Awwright! Ten points!”
    The sky darkened, the wind picked up, and these bloated, bottom-heavy clouds rolled in, looking like large wads of wool that had been soaked in a mud puddle. A raindrop splattered to the ground in front of me. A moment later another splatted on my right, then another on my left, like a sniper trying to find the range.