An Uchideshi Experience: Chapter Three
Christmas Kamikazes
I took a trip out of Monterey right before Christmas. It could’ve been a vacation, but the word vacation usually implies that the traveler had a good time.
Every year, my brother Brad hosts a Christmas party at his home in Oregon. I’d heard the stories, seen the pictures, but the geographic realities of living in Alaska sufficiently blocked me from ever attending. Now, for the first time, I was close enough to rationalize taking money out of my savings account and buying an airline ticket to Portland.
Since Brad was significantly older than I was (he was 40 at the time, I was 22), and we didn’t grow up together, I always thought it was important to put in a little extra effort to maintain some sort of connection with him and his wife, Julie. Brad and I got along really well, and four years earlier, I had lived with them for a summer, working under Brad at a large azalea farm he managed. It was hard work, but definitely worth it since we got to know each other on a level beyond simple family visits. They had to put up with an 18-year-old kid for an entire summer, which was (I’ve been told), torturous.
So I was definitely going to the fabled Christmas gala, which was a good idea. Then I came up with an even better one: Why not bring a date? I knew a girl who lived in Oregon, fairly close to the Portland area. I had met Jenny years earlier at a scouting convention for models in Seattle, and knowing I’d be back in Portland eventually, we’d both kept in touch. Now, circumstances aligned for us to meet again. I called her and told her I’d be coming into town for the party, would she be interested in attending? She said that her parents would have to meet me first, but she was sure she’d be able to go.
I arrived in Oregon on a Thursday night, with Brad picking me up from the airport, along with an old friend who also flew in from California. I had talked to Brad about bringing a guest, and that was fine with him. I just needed to meet her parents, so I called Jenny up and arranged a breakfast meeting in a town halfway between Colton and Portland. Turns out she didn’t live quite as close as I’d thought.
Brad and Julie were close with a couple named Bobby and Renee. Renee was a sweetheart, sending me care packages of cookies through the year, and once again, she came to my rescue by driving me to the morning meeting and vouching lies of respectability on my behalf. Thanks to her, it all worked out well. Jenny’s stepfather had studied kempo, so he loved the fact that I was into martial arts, and her mother seemed to like me as well.
As for Jenny, she was certainly a pleasant surprise. The years had been quite kind, and she was nothing less than a knockout. Having grown taller and fuller, every pound was precisely molded and properly proportioned. We were very excited to see each other, but if her enthusiasm hadn’t matched mine, it wouldn’t have mattered. I had enough for both of us.
Just standing next to her was electric. It’s difficult to describe exactly how I felt, and this may sound esoteric, but there was something about her energy that was intoxicating. I had dated some attractive girls before, what she had didn’t depend solely on exterior appearance. Still, between her creamy complexion and the way she filled out those jeans- every curve, every fold, from every angle, was delicious.
But there was something deeper, and more primal, taking over. I was wholly alive, but whether my awakening was due to hormones, pheromones, or energetic phenomena didn’t matter. I was just looking forward to spending the rest of the day with her and her parents as we indulged in a Christmas shopping spree. Renee drove back to Brad’s house, where Jenny’s parents dropped us off around six that evening.
It was only a few hours until the party and I was hoping to catch a nap, but I simply ran out of time. Jenny and I helped prepare a little (most of it was already done), got dressed, and began sipping wine as guests rolled in. Family, friends, work associates; everyone invited had a great night as bottles were drained and Brad’s culinary spread was devoured. He’s a fantastic chef, and had prepared two deep-fried turkeys for the occasion (sounds heavy, but it’s great), both of which were fully consumed by the end of the night.
Eventually, guests filtered out and when only the hardline loyalists who were spending the night remained, Brad broke out his specially mixed Kamikazes and threw some old records on the stereo. The Kamikazes were so smooth going down, I didn’t really heed Brad’s warnings of their potency, and Jenny and I danced slowly to the Elton John LP “Madman Across the Water.”
Exhausted from a long day, we decided to hit the sack. The room I usually stayed in was already reserved for Bobby and Renee, so Jenny and I made our bed downstairs in the den, in front of the fireplace. I’m sure I hadn’t lain down for more than 30 seconds before I shot up and ran to the bathroom, hurling Kamikazes like an Allied nightmare.
Waking up the next morning, I remembered every time I swore to God I’d never drink again. I had consumed, at the top end, three beers in the two months I had been an uchideshi. Now the weight of my overindulgence had been brought to bear right on top of my head, and there was nothing I could do to alleviate the pain, except to maybe not speak. Or move. Or breathe.
It got worse because I had to drive Jenny home, rush back, then have Brad run me to the airport to catch my plane. Jenny and I got in Julie’s car and headed out fairly quickly, since it was almost ten o’clock. My plane left at two thirty that afternoon, so I was under some definite time restrictions.
I wasn’t in the mental space to handle independent thought, so Jenny gave directions and I followed orders, only pulling over once(!) to throw up alongside the road. It took an hour to reach her house, which was deep in the rural countryside, basically in the middle of nowhere. Her father implored me to stay for breakfast, which I did, and felt considerably better for doing so. We said our good-byes and I tore back to town a little before noon.
I was making pretty good time when I looked at the gas gauge and realized I was low. Very low. I saw the sign for a station, took the exit and went down a few blocks, expecting to drop a few bucks and be on my way.
Instead, I stopped the car and stared in disbelief at what was in front of me. There were 12 to 15 cars in a line that spilled back into the street. I had seen something like this once in a black and white photo retrospective of the 70s, but I thought those dark days were behind us. After all, this was America. We’re here to waste the earth’s natural resources, not stand in line for them. The whole scene had communist undertones.
I don’t know if this was the only gas station within 50 miles, or just the place to be seen. All I knew was that I didn’t have enough gas to get to the next station, time was ticking away, and all I could do was sit there in line… fuming.
I suppose the enlightened thing to do in my situation would have been to calmly ride it out, wryly noting my circumstances versus desires, then trusting in the process. The terribly human, massively hungover approach would be to scream obscenities at the cars in front of you, slam your fist on the steering wheel, and break out in a sweat of frustration and rage. I chose the latter. It may not have served my spiritual growth, but it felt better than doing nothing.
Waiting in line, I spied a pay phone and called Julie. I tried to explain that I was in a slow line at the gas station and was going to be even later. She didn’t say much before hanging up, so I knew I was in the doghouse. I got back in the car and continued to let the people in front of me really have it.
Forty-five minutes later, I reached a pump, filled the tank, and went inside to pay. There was a line of people waiting inside like you wouldn’t believe, and no cashier to be found. What could I do? I guess I could have left, but instead, I waited with everybody else. I was accustomed to it by now.
Eventually, the attendant moseyed out of the back room, lazily wiped the counter off with a rag, looked at the people lined up before him, and finally called out a number. The grateful customer quickly paid, then our counter sloth called for pump number nine. That was me. I don’t know how I got to the front of the line, but I wasn’t in the mood to be chivalrous or fair. I just threw my money down and got out of there.
I raced back to Brad’s house, but it was far too late. It was after one thirty, and Julie and Renee were the only ones left. They explained to me how Brad had waited around, got frustrated, wrote me off, and took off with his other guests. Harried, adrenalized, and hung over, I was beside myself as Julie drove me to the airport.
She was very gentle in explaining to me that this didn’t mean they loved me any less, they were just disappointed that I acted like an irresponsible kid. She dropped me off and I thought about it all on the plane ride home. I had spent a considerable amount of time and energy cultivating this relationship with Brad and Julie, only to piss it away with the first distraction that came along. I was so wrapped up in Jenny that I wasn’t thinking clearly, if at all, and burned up time I should have spent with my brother. Not that there were obligatory time periods pre-established, but to come into town, crash a party, then leave is pretty inconsiderate. But what was done was done, and I couldn’t undo the past.
Carolynn picked me up at the airport, and stepping off the plane, she could tell I was an emotional wreck. I told her the whole thing, and she hugged me, which made me feel better.
I called Brad that night and apologized. He accepted my apology, and said it like it was. “Hey Roy, you just fucked up, that’s all.” I certainly did.
I’d like to think I learned from this lesson. From then on, I was going to watch out for whirlwinds of pleasure that left you high and dry. I couldn’t forget to think. Always use your head, Roy. Always use your head.
I still felt terrible, but for now at least, I was home.