Random Act of Kindness

I fire up my iPhone as I get off the plane, checking for phone messages during the two weeks I was home.  A text message pops up with one word.  "Shipside."  It's from Alpha Male, my favorite Japanese man in Japan.  I stop in my tracks.  Still half way down the gangplank, I stare at the message on the screen.  Shipside means "I'm coming out to the plane to get you."  It takes sway, real sway with real connections to get permission to come out to the plane.  He has this sway, I know, because he came shipside last March when I first arrived to volunteer.  I keep walking, slowly, thinking this through.  Alpha Male is coming shipside?  When?  Today?

"Hey," I hear, and look up.  "Welcome home."  And, just like that, there he is standing by the wall, under one of the many Citibank ads covering the tunnel from the plane into the airport.

"Hey," I say back, completely stunned.

"Come on," he says, "You're holding up the line."  I am.  People are trying to move around me, some still behind me.  "Let's go."

"What are you doing here?" I ask as I follow him down the rest of the narrow hallway.

"I came to get you," I think I hear, but he's in front of me so I'm not sure.  He acts if this is the most natural thing in the world.  I tag along behind him, still totally dumbfounded.  We all mull into the concourse, walking fast.

"Why?"  It's not what I mean to ask, but this is what comes out.

"Come on.  I'll get you through immigration and customs.  We'll talk later."  We walk in silence.  I've not been this confused in a long time.  What is he doing here?

I look at his back as he walks in front of me.  I'm reminded of how I described him to my son on one of my last trips home.

"He's as wide as he is tall," I said.  My son guffawed.  "That would make him a cube."  We both laughed.  "I get it," my son then said.  "He's a big guy."

That's putting it mildly.  He is big.  The phrase "parting the waters" comes to mind.  People simply move out of his way.  This is the man in Japan whom I feel safest around.  He's just the slightest bit badass, and people really do look at him and scurry.  He could and would beat the crap out of people harassing me if I asked him to.  In this context, size matters.  Walking behind him, I realize in the sea of medium-sized people, he sticks out.  What a sight we must be.

At immigration, I walk towards the line of people standing to get passports stamped, and he tugs at my arm.  "This way."  I follow again, silent and still confused.  He stops in front of an immigration official standing at the room reserved for "problem passengers."  The officer beams, recognizing Alpha Male.  Of course.  I shouldn't be surprised he's known all over the place.  The immigration man greets Alpha Male by name.

"What are you doing here?"  Alpha Male nods his head over to me.  "Came to get her," and uncharacteristically, starts talking fast.  "I brought her in last year, late March.  Remember her?"  I see the immigration guy look at me.  It’s de ja vu.  I know I was here last year with Alpha Male, but I couldn’t tell you if this was the man who processed me then.  "This one came here to volunteer up north last year.  She's back.  Rather, she's been back.  She’s been working up north again since December."  Here, Alpha Male takes the passport I've been holding, and shoves it into the official's hand.  "Stamp it.  Let her in.  Quickly.  She's tired."  "She's tired"?  Well, yes I am, but since when does he talk to airport officials this way?  What the hell is going on?!

The passport is taken from Alpha Male with a quick bow, and the man runs back into the room, and within a minute, he's back bowing again as he hands it back to me.  "Thank you for what you're doing for Japan," he says.  I'm still having a hard time understanding what's going on.  All I can muster is a bow back.  Alpha Male jumps in.  "Why don't we go up there and work?  Because we can't, right?  We've got work," and I know he's being sarcastic.  "It takes a foreigner to get things done.  We should be ashamed."  The man from immigration nods, looking down at the floor.  I'm now officially totally and completely embarrassed.  I bow, and when I look up, Alpha Male is walking down the stairs towards baggage claim.  I run to catch up.

"How many bags?" He asks over is shoulder.

"Two.”

"Show me."  We stand next to the baggage carousel both quiet.  When my two come out, I point, and he grabs them as if they're filled with nothing.  Pushing my cart he marches forward, and I'm running again.  At customs, he just walks on through saying "She's got nothing to declare," as if daring the man to stop him.  I look at the uniformed customs cop standing behind the counter who is looking just as confused as I feel.  He looks back at me.  He doesn't say anything, so I hand him my paperwork, and take this as a cue to follow my host.

Once out in the waiting area, he says "You like the Chinese place here, right?  Let's go.  My treat."

"Wait," I say, finally finding my words, and I stop walking.  "Stop.  What is this?  What's going on?  How did you know when I'd arrive?  Why are you here?  What are you doing here?  I mean it.  Really. What's going on?"

"Food first," is his response, and he's walking again.  I roll my eyes, but then it hits me.  Something must be wrong.  This is way too weird to be just a normal "I came to get you” visit.  I will simply wait for him to tell me.  There must be a good explanation for all this.  He’ll tell me soon enough, I’m sure.  I’ll make him tell me.  Ha.  Right.

We're seated in the back of the restaurant, which is my favorite place to eat in the airport.  How he knows this is beyond me, but this whole evening has been too strange so I put it out my head.  “Stop wondering how he knows,” I tell myself.  He stares at the menu, and then looking up asks "What do you want?  Eat.  Anything you want.  It's on me tonight."  At this I laugh, partly annoyed, partly amused. 

"When have you ever let me pay for anything?"  He doesn't laugh back.  Great.  Now I've pissed him off.  "Order," he says, and calls over a server.  I quickly tell her what I want and finally sit back, giving him my best "Well?" look.

"I realize you're surprised," he starts.

"You think?  What the hell is going on?"  I snap at him.  He stops.  I'm sorry.  I'm not.

"Let me talk for a few minutes," he looks up at me, probably checking if I'll snap again.  I don't.  "Let me just talk.  Okay?"  There's something in his voice.  It's softer.  There's nothing soft to this man.  That he's trying to tell me something, that he's trying to be kind melts me inside, and I'm afraid I will cry.  I hate being this confused.  My emotions are all over the place.  I nod so he won't notice. I’m fighting tears because I’m tired, right?  Right.  I didn’t sleep the night before I left, and actually I don’t know how long I’ve been up.  Two days?  Three?  I’m so tired.  

Out of the blue, I flashback to boarding school.  Working on a deadline for the yearbook, the two of us in charge of the photos stayed up days pumping out one photo after the next.  Between the fumes from the chemicals in the darkroom, and exhaustion like I’d never felt until then, I was a walking disaster.  One sharp word from the editor and I lost it.  I shot back with words not usually a part of my vocabulary, and promptly burst into tears.  At that moment I knew it was the lack of sleep that pushed me over the edge.  “Get her out of here,” was the editor’s reply, and I promptly marched back to the dorm, brushing off people trying to calm me down.  I felt the same way now.  I’m so incredibly tired.  Alpha Male’s kindness is too much right now.  I will not cry.  I will not cry.  I will not cry.

"Look," he starts.  "You're here for how long this time?"

"Seven weeks.  Maybe eight."

"Right.  That's a long time to be away from home.  From your husband."  At the mention of my husband I'm confused all over again.  And angry.

"You think we're splitting up?  Not you, too."  Annoyed by all the nasty comments and insinuations my husband and I get back home, my question sounds more like an accusation, and this time I am sorry.  He doesn't say anything.  I look away.

"Let me keep talking," and this is my cue to shut up.

"There are a bunch of us who are concerned about you."  I look back at him.  What?  Who?  Why?  He looks at me, and I know he's wondering whether I'm going to talk or let him keep going.  I keep quiet.

"We're worried about you.  What you're doing is really important.  Really brave.  Amazing.  We're all really impressed that you keep coming back."  He pauses, and I stay silent.

"We also know you don't ask for help.  You keep plugging away, and you push yourself.  We know you."  Here he smiles, and I lose it.  The tears start flowing.  All the aggression I've felt is gone.  There's nothing wrong.  He really did come all the way out here just to tell me this.  Elbows on the table, I put my head in my hands and focus on breathing.  I really don’t want to cry.

Alpha Male doesn't smile often.  He doesn’t crack jokes.  He’s quintessential old school.  He doesn't do "nice."  He doesn't speak softly.  That he's doing all of this now I realize, is for me.  To put me at ease.  I've been so confused, and shocked by everything that happened from the moment I turned on my iPhone, and it's now all coming out.  I really do not want to cry.  I'm embarrassed.  I get up to go to the bathroom.  I need to compose myself.

"Sit," he says, and his voice is kind.  Gentle.

"No, please.  I want to get some tissues."

"It's okay.  Sit."  He passes me some not-the-kind-you-blow-your-nose-in napkins from the holder on the table.  I sit back down, defeated.  These things are useless as napkins, much less Kleenex.  I dig into my purse for some real tissues.

"Listen, okay?"  I nod.

"You have to take better care of yourself.  You need to find a way to take time off, and I don't mean by going home.  You go weeks without taking a break.  You need a day off here and there.  You need to eat better.  You need to get out.  Have fun.  If you don’t, you're going to burn out.  We're all worried you're going to get sick.  You can't keep going like this."  He stops.  I'm not sure whether I'm allowed to speak, so I don't.

"Do you understand?  Does this make sense to you?"  Yes.  No.  Maybe.

"You came out to the airport to tell me you and others are worried about me?"

He doesn't reply right away.

"Yeah."

"Can I talk now?"

"Yeah."

"You're all worried about me.  Why?  I mean, I get it.  You think I work too hard, but I’m not some fluffy cotton ball…" and before I can finish, he interrupts me.

"It’s not about that.  We know you're strong.  We’ve seen you work.  We know you.  You’re good.  We know you're capable.  But, we've also seen you tired.  Exhausted even.  We just want you to be careful.  Pace yourself."  It's my turn to interrupt.

"But, what makes you think I'm not pacing myself?"

"Because you're not.  You run full-steam ahead.  You don't eat three meals a day.  You don't sleep well.  How many times have I called you to take you out somewhere and you've had an engagement?  Said, ‘I’m booked for the next several days.  Sorry.’?  How many times have I taken you out to eat, and you've said, ‘I haven't eaten yet today.’ laughing like that’s no big deal?"

"But, that's my job right now.  I'm supposed to be busy.  You're busy.  Busy is good.  I'm okay," and I feel like I'm a child talking to my parents, telling them something untrue, hoping they won’t catch me in my lie.

"You're okay, but you're not okay," he continues.  "Look.  All we want is for you to be healthy.  This time around, these next seven or eight weeks, you can't go at the pace you've been going at.  You just can't.  Not alone, at least.  We want you to ask for help if you need it.  We want to help.  Let us in.  Let us help you."  I try not to look at him.  

“Let me ask you this.  How many people do you have here in Japan you can call and complain to?”   The question catches me off guard.

“I do,” I say.  “I have people,” and I know I sound defensive. 

“Right.  You have people.”  And then, “Name them.”

“Fine.  I will,” and I start ticking off names, my index finger touching fingers with each name.  “That’s the list of people you call to chat, isn’t it?  Friend-chat.  I’m talking about people you can really complain to.  People you can be yourself around.  Cry, yell, say nasty things.  Who’s on that list?  Your visa sponsor?”  And he recites several more names of people I’ve told him about.

“I’m not going to call my visa sponsor and cry,” I say, offended by the implication that’s somehow acceptable.  “Nor would I call those other people you mentioned.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re men.”

“So?”

“They’re businessmen.  They don’t ‘do’ emotion.”  I quickly add, “You don’t.”

“Fine.  They’re not on the list of people you call.  But, I can listen, “do” emotion, as you say.  You just don’t ask.  That’s the problem.  You don’t ask.”  He pokes his finger into the table with each word. 

“You said so yourself the first time you came after the tsunami last year, that you can’t do this work without ‘safe people.’  Those are your words.  So, I’m asking.  Who are your ‘safe people’?”

Not about to be told I haven’t thought this through, I start listing names.  He’s on this list, too, of course.

“Okay.  Good.  You’ve got a list.”  Then leaning in, “But you don’t ever call this list.”

“I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do, too,” and now I really feel like I’m ten.  Then it hits me.  It’s true.  I don’t call these people.  But, how does he know that?  How does he know I don’t cry into the phone?  He knows half the people on the list.  They’re mutual friends.  No.  No way.  Please.

“Because I checked.”  Dear God.  He didn’t.  He did.

“You went around asking people I just listed to see if I call them.”  It’s a statement, and not a question.

“I did.”

“Why would you do something like that?”  Now I’m angry.

“Because this is exactly why we’re all worried.  You go at all this alone.  You don’t ask for help.  You go home to your husband, which is great by the way.  But, the rest of the time you’re here, you act as if you don’t need help.  When’s the last time you cried?  I mean here in Japan?  When’s the last time you yelled at someone?  About someone?  When did you last vent about someone you don’t like?  Someone who did you wrong?  When’s the last time you did something fun that wasn’t work related?  When’s the last time you went out and didn’t talk about work?  See what I mean?”  

My food arrives and I'm not the least bit hungry.  I pick at it, moving the bits of vegetables around on the plate.  Afraid he'll say "Eat!" if I don't, I start to put food in my mouth.

"You understand?"

I nod.

"Really?"

I nod again.

"You've got people who care about you.  Hey.  Look at me.”  I look up.  Crap.  More tears.  “Let us help.  If nothing else, let us take you out every now and then.  You need to have fun.  You need to slow down.  We can help with that.  Once you relax, we’ll get you to start talking.  We know that’s not a problem."  Here he laughs.  I laugh, too, more relaxed.

 “I don’t go shipside for just anyone,” I hear him say.  With that, we’re done.  That last statement was a big one.  It’s true, I know.  He doesn’t pull rank, strings, or make calls to get himself out to the plane. I’m touched.  I’m really touched.  If I’ve been annoyed until now, this realization diffuses that annoyance.  I sit back in my chair and exhale. 

The rest of my meal was spent with me grilling him on how he got my itinerary ("You told me", "Did not", "Then it's a secret"), and me eating while he watched.  It will take a few days for all this to sink in.  One random act of kindness from someone I think the world of is potentially changing the rest of my time in Japan.  I'm touched and confused, but more touched, and certainly in more ways than I can express.