An Uchideshi Experience: Chapter Two
Mailboxes, Et Al
I had often expressed concern to Ken about what I was going to do to support my uchideshiship in Monterey. I was willing to do whatever it took, but without knowing exactly what that entailed, I couldn’t shake a sense of trepidation.
“Don’t worry,” he’d assure me, “Monterey has a ton of jobs. Cannery Row is practically right next door to the dojo, and they have a mall there with a bunch of little shops. You can get a job sitting at a register, ringing up T-shirts or whatever. It may only be six bucks an hour, but it’s easy. Just relax. You’ll be fine.”
I tried hard to relax. I knew I would be able to engage in some kind of employment that would tide me over, but as I had learned already, life can be difficult if you land a job you’re not well suited for.
After arriving in Monterey, I headed to the Cannery Row mall Ken had described and began the job hunt. I took and filled out applications from a variety of shops and restaurants, but nothing seemed quite right. I definitely needed something far removed from the realm of manual labor, or else I wouldn’t have the energy to focus on training. I wasn’t looking for great pay; I just wanted something that allowed me to heal during daylight hours.
There was one store, not to far from the dojo, that did catch my eye. It was one of those copy and shipping convenience stores, but it wasn’t quite operational. Their grand opening was a week away, so I waited, and continued checking out other possibilities, but nothing really panned out.
Opening day arrived and during a midday walk, I stopped in. There were several people in the store, but I went straight to an attractive woman in her mid-to-late forties. I introduced myself and inquired about part-time work.
Her name was Jill, and she soon introduced me to her husband, Jim, and the center manager, Kathy. Jim and Jill were the owners of this new store, with a successful store in Carmel. We all hit it off, soon I was working for them.
It was the perfect job for an uchideshi. Hours were fixed so that I would have adequate preparation time before afternoon classes began in the dojo, it was a clean environment, only lightly physical, and the technology of the copiers, color copiers, and computers allowed us to have a creative outlet if we were so inclined.
One of my co-workers who was innovative with the tools at his disposal was Matt. He was hired shortly after I was, which was a large leap for the conservative owner, because Matt was a true punk with all the trimmings: shaved head, Black Flag logo tattooed on his forearm, and a leather jacket covered with spikes, stripes, and airbrushed art. He was from Huntington Beach, and had a colorful past which included bit parts in music videos, and associations with the then unknown groups No Doubt and Sublime. He had his own band, too: The Jon Benet Stranglehold. Tasteless, to be sure, but not completely unexpected. After all, it was punk rock.
Despite his severe image, Matt was charming, very funny, and highly intelligent. His mother was an executive with an international electronics company, and having grown up with computers, he was definitely a whiz.
After moving to Monterey, he’d begun promoting and generating interest in punk shows, hoping to give the local youth an activity to channel and focus their energy. His promotional strategies included the creation of punk flyers, under the name 8 Ball Graphics, using some of the tools available at work.
An unusual thing happened after we hired Matt, though. For a variety of reasons, we couldn’t keep more than three employees for any length of time. First off, they let a girl go just as I was being hired. Then Pat, our packing specialist, was fired. That left Matt, Kat, and me. Ryan was next; an aggressive multilevel marketing zealot determined to be a millionaire in five years. He didn’t know how to leave the spiel at home and quit after no one would buy his product. Then came Tammy, whose life was too full to take the time to actually work. She lasted about two weeks. Bryce worked out well, but his father fell ill and he had to rush back to San Diego to care for him. There were others too, but the pattern held. The fourth employee was doomed.
What really made a job like this such an experience was the variety of people I met. I’ve had a number of interesting jobs in the past, from office bliss in the federal government to digging ditches in Oregon, but I had never had a job that dealt directly with the public. Being exposed to unfiltered humanity leaves a lasting impression, and definitely gives you the ability sympathize with those who deal with unruly customers.
Our store was a crossroads of sorts. Everyone from pro-cannabis artists and anti-Eastwood activists to honeymooners and housewives came through our door. Wealthy or homeless, they all got our best service, but the unreasonableness of certain customers could leave you bitter and frustrated. Some people push your buttons just because they can, but it’s only a matter of time before they get what’s coming.
Matt had already made plans for the day he was going to lose it. Eventually, a customer would force him to take the laws of common courtesy into his own hands. Calmly, he would look into my eyes. Clearly, he would enunciate his resignation before launching himself over the counter, fists flying at the offending customer, giving him a lesson in manners the old-fashioned way. Matt took these precautions to ensure the owner would not be held liable for the beating. Now that’s foresight.
I certainly met a wide spectrum of people through the store. At the end of it all, only the most extreme qualifed as memorable. One of those acquaintances whose saga urges retelling was a man that I’ll call Don.
Don originally came to the store because we were running a three cent copy special. He would always have a large volume of work to reproduce, often occupying two copiers at once. One of those days I glanced over and saw that he was copying screenplays. I inquired about them, we got to talking, and he told me they were original screenplays he had written. I’d always thought writing one would be a great project, so I asked his opinion of Syd Field’s Screenplay and the other books available on the subject. He seemed very knowledgeable, friendly, and we had some captivating conversations in the store.
He also mentioned that he taught songwriting, and had composed hundreds of songs, but that I’d probably never heard them. This was another interesting cornerstone, and I gave him a tape of a musical project I had completed in Alaska.
It was either that night or the next that he called me at the dojo, very excited with what he had heard. We began talking about music, and covered a range of topics and artists that included U2, Brian Eno, Paul Simon, David Bowie, and Trent Reznor. We talked at length, possibly two hours or more.
I was impressed with the depth of analysis and thorough understanding of songwriting he had cultivated over years of careful listening, keen study, and musical passion. He mentioned how, at my age, he was being groomed as another David Bowie, but for whatever reason, had not gone down that road.
But what Don really wanted to do was work with me, and help me as a young artist. Seemed good to me. I was interested in working with someone like him, who could possibly provide guidance as a mentor. Things were still pretty up in the air, but we were both optimistic about the connection we had established.
I did, however, tell him that I had committed myself to life as an uchideshi for at least one year, and explained exactly what that entailed. He was not deterred, and within a short period of time, we were getting together at night. Either he would pick me up from the dojo in his car, or more often, I’d borrow Sensei’s bike and pump pedals half an hour to his garage, which he had converted into a studio.
He had a bunch of musical equipment in this studio, but didn’t have it connected and didn’t know how to use it. Nor could I put his equipment to use without a keyboard. He didn’t have one, and I didn’t have one, so Don came up with a solution. He’d buy one that I could use for whatever projects we were working on, but he would own it, and retain it after I left. He volunteered to do this, much to my surprise, and we shopped the local music stores and settled on a used keyboard I thought would be appropriate. Don excitedly plunked down five hundred-dollar bills and left with yet another piece of equipment for his studio.
It wasn’t too long before signs started popping up that all was not well. Sensei withheld judgement on him, as did my best friend at the dojo, Carolynn, but Matt didn’t trust him from the beginning. “Satan, line 1!” was how he’d notify me that Don was holding on the phone at work.
Initially, there were little things that didn’t seem right. Once, having left his phone number in the dojo while I was out, I failed to call him at a specified time. I had made numerous attempts to reach him ranging from calling 411 to guessing his unlisted number. The next day, he phoned me at work and berated me, furious with my failure to call.
He had mentally prepared himself to have a conversation with me, but forced to go without, he sat up half the night, unable to sleep. As his insomnia was obviously my fault, I apologized and vowed that next time I’d call him at the appointed hour, ending the conversation. Within 15 minutes, he called back and apologized, quite sincerely and with a tremendous amount of remorse. He acknowledged I was under a great amount of stress already, and did not want to contribute to that stress load. A remarkable about-face within a number of minutes.
That was just the beginning, though. His neighbor trained at the dojo, had seen me with Don, and advised that I be careful since, in his opinion, Don wasn’t mentally stable. I filed his advice away, since Don had warned me, over and over and over again, how people would say terrible things about him, that he was misunderstood, that they had him all wrong, that he was often ostracized because he knew The Truth and people didn’t want to listen.
But he listened to others. In fact, he recorded every phone call he received. In the studio, I spied a huge tape case filled with cassettes of conversations past. When I asked him about it, he told me it was necessary to document the death threats he received, which set me as ease.
Although he accused me of being self-absorbed, he found it difficult to empathize with my point of view or personal challenges. Despite my explanation of being an uchideshi, I don’t think he ever understood that my lifestyle was physically draining. This lack of understanding was a large blot in what could, at times, be a very strong rapport.
I once told him that I was too tired to ride a half hour to his garage, in the dark, through questionable neighborhoods, on an ill-fitted bike, after several classes and many hours of martial training, in addition to working all day. He was totally unsympathetic. He would tell me, “Listen, I used to do improvisations after going without sleep for 36 hours! Trust me Roy, you have not even begun to stretch yourself!”
Perhaps his unsympathetic reaction was situational. He had no experience in the martial arts, and although not in ill physical health, did not appear to be highly athletic. Or, it may have been his detachment from the necessary energy expenditure of the working world. He wasn’t actually employed, but instead lived with/off his pregnant wife, who had a good job with a publishing company.
What really divided us was an agreement he drew up about our working relationship. It wasn’t necessarily unfair, but warning bells were going off in my head when he continued to push me into signing it and then having it notarized. Carolynn looked it over and didn’t like it either. Although Carolynn wasn’t a contract lawyer, her father was, and his clients included a number of notable rock stars. Using a combination of common sense and knowledge gathered from conversations with her father, she didn’t like what she saw. I didn’t like the contract, she didn’t like the contract, and Don didn’t like Carolynn for “interfering.”
Eventually, my refusal to sign the contract led to a hand-delivered notice regarding our working relationship. I wasn’t actually there when he dropped it off at the dojo, but I took the bold type that read “HAND DELIVERED” at the top of the page as a tip-off on how it got there. The letter read as follows:
December 23, 1996
Dear Roy:
Effective immediately, my studio rates will be $25.00 per hour. This will include unlimited use of my equipment, and my moment-to-moment presence, which you may utilize in any way you wish. Transportation to and from my studio will cost you $2.50 each way. This rate applies to all discussions of music and composition, including those conducted over the telephone. Payment will be in cash, immediately after services are rendered.
I trust all other aspects of our relationship will not be affected. I will remain available for unpaid discussions of films, metaphysics, consciousness, etc.
This in no way diminishes, or is meant to be seen as diminishing, my continued high regard and fondness for you, or my deeply held belief in your potential as a man and as an artist.
Very Truly Yours,
Don
The next day, I received the following fax at work:
December 24, 1996
1:30 PM
Dear Roy:
On November 29, 1996, after conducting searches in Los Angeles, Monterey and Salinas, I bought, in accordance with your wishes for a “weighted keyboard,” a used Roland EP-7.
I want to divest myself of what is to me a useless apparatus. Not including travel time, mileage, and wear and tear on my vehicle, I have spent over $500.00 on this instrument.
You can purchase the instrument from me for $505.00. If you wish to do this, please inform me.
Very Truly Yours,
Donald
This is not the kind of fax you usually expect to receive on Christmas eve, but it’s the one I got, so I called Don up and told him that I’d buy the keyboard. I didn’t have the money, or the time to practice, but I think I rationalized it as a way to get this man out of my life. He was happy to hear that I was going to buy it, but as I was going to tell him my reasons for doing so, he cut me off and completed my sentence. Imagine this:
“Don, I’m going to buy the keyboard because-”
“Because you have a heart, Roy.”
This guy was uncanny. Because I have a heart. That’s it exactly.
But that wasn’t all. He said that he had been investigating Sensei, and warned me that I was in a very dangerous, cultlike environment. This, coming from a man who admitted to spending more than 10 years in a Gurdjieff “cult,” was a bit much for me, but I bit my tongue. I told him I’d be interested in knowing more, and asked about his sources. He assured me they were very reputable, and we scheduled a time for him to come by the dojo so I could buy the “useless apparatus” for $505.00.
On December 31, New Years Eve, I received yet another fax from our friend, explaining that he had received copies of Julio Toribio’s expulsion papers from Hakko-Ryu Jujutsu. Perhaps if Don had investigated further, he would have realized that every single person who signed those papers had subsequently left Hakko-Ryu Jujutsu, many of them forming their own styles, including Yasuhiro Irie, who should have rightfully inherited the system from Ryuho Okuyama.
The fax continued with a list of allegations, beginning with simple questions like “Was he an Assistant Physical Therapist with the U.S. Army?” and “Was his first wife half Japanese?” to eventually, “Is it true that the loft where you live was originally built by associates of Julio to facilitate his ‘meditation’ before his classes, but that he used the space for illicit sexual relations with students?”
Carolynn and I had a good laugh over it, but it clearly signaled to me that I should steer clear of Don. He just liked to stir things up. I had been told that he showed up at the funeral of Luis Valdez, handing out flyers that explained to the mourners the reason Mr. Valdez hanged himself was that he was a criminal. He was so dirty he couldn’t take the heat from civilian researchers like Don who were on to him, researchers who knew The Truth. I don’t know, I wasn’t there at the funeral, but I certainly wouldn’t put it past him.
So the day came for him to come to the dojo, and swap the apparatus for a check. I helped him unload the keyboard from the trunk of his car, and brought it inside. I had my checkbook ready, and was about to make a check out when handed me a bunch of papers, stapled together, and tells me to sign them as a receipt. I briefly scanned them and stood there, aghast.
What he gave me was a six-to eight-page manifesto, written in the first person (as if I were verbally confessing), detailing our entire relationship. I mean, everything. How I had sought to use him for his “connections” to the music industry, personal information I had shared, my relationship with Carolynn, it even detailed buying lunch at the McDonalds drive-through, which he paid for, he duly noted.
Making assumptions of my intentions and internal thought processes, then writing them down with his twisted perspective made my stomach turn. It was sick. In a mixture of shock and disgust, I stammered “I- I can’t sign this.”
He didn’t say a word. Don grabbed the papers out of my hand, picked up the keyboard from the chairs it was resting on, and headed for the door.
Coincidentally, a female worker for the electric company had come into the dojo to check the meter, and happened to be right in front of Don. Ever the gentleman, he walked straight through her, slamming her shoulder and blasted out the front door.
Clutching her shoulder with her other arm, she turned to me and asked, “Did you see that? Can you believe what he just did? Who was that guy?”
“An asshole,” I replied, “Just an asshole.”
Even though I thought, and hoped, that I’d never see him again, he came back into the store about a year later, with his wife and new baby girl. He told me how great everything was going for him, and how he thought of me every time someone mentioned Alaska. He acted as if nothing unusual had ever happened between us. He even gave me his phone number and asked me to call him. It’s been hard to find the time.
Not every experience is as dark as that one was. In fact, the other customer who qualified as most memorable was the polar opposite of our martyred artist friend. We’ll call her Simone.
Simone was a retired schoolteacher in her 60s. She had, on occasion, asked me to join her for a drink, which I regretfully declined, as I was always on my way to class. She would regularly come into the store, and set me to task on a variety of projects, most of them centered around her small Lhasa Apso dog, Muffin.
Simone had even written a book, “Muffin Magic,” rife with illustrations, stories, and odes of adulation toward her beloved “child.” After the book was printed, actual sales were below expectations, and thousands of copies remain in storage to date. Nevertheless, she carried on, trumpeting her affection in the grandest manner yet: A birthday party celebrating Muffin’s 15 years on earth.
It was going to be held in the Garden Room at Quail Lodge, one of the most spectacular and expensive resorts on the Monterey Peninsula. I knew that Simone, on a teacher’s retirement, had to have been financially strapped by selecting such an exclusive setting, but such is a mother’s love. Money was not the concern, only Muffin was.
She had given me an invitation and told me to “bring that girl of yours.” I called Carolynn and explained the situation: Simone’s invitation, Quail Lodge, Muffin’s birthday, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. She laughed and persuaded by my argument that she’d be missing the social event of the year, she was game.
A few weeks later, we got dolled up and drove out to Quail Lodge in Carmel Valley. It was a gorgeous Sunday morning, and we were careful to arrive early for the noon party time.
We weren’t sure in which building the Garden Room was located, so Carolynn and I approached the front desk in the lobby to get more specific directions. A male and female concierge were behind the counter, and making a wild stab at discretion, I quietly inquired of the gentleman where the Garden Room was, as we were en route to a party.
“Which party would that be sir?”
Exactly the question I was trying to avoid. “It’s, umm, Muffin’s birthday party,” I muttered. Then Carolynn and I both cracked up and explained this event was actually for a dog. Ha Ha. Can you believe it? Isn’t that funny?
They were totally stoic. Obviously this wasn’t the first ridiculous eccentricity they had experienced working there, and the concierge calmly explained where we could find the party.
We made it in plenty of time, so Carolynn and I loitered, taking in the scene. At least twenty other guests were milling outside the Garden Room, which was decorated in a pink and white motif, complete with a large cake (scrolling birthday cheer), adjacent to an enormous portrait of Muffin, painted in her prime.
We were the youngest people in the room by at least 30 to 40 years. Simone was active in several organizations, so guests were fielded from Meals on Wheels, a swim club, and a line dancing class for seniors. Members of the press were also present, ready to record this momentous occasion.
The stage was set, the time had come, and finally, Simone and Muffin made their grand entrance. All eyes were on the adorable couple as they slowly strode through the crowd. Muffin was ravishing, and Simone … Simone looked very relaxed. The center of attention, Simone announced that she would “like everyone to have a good time,” and it appeared that she had already gotten a head start in that department. The guests filed into the Garden Room after their matriarch, many depositing birthday gifts for Muffin in a heap to the left of the entrance.
Carolynn and I sat at a fairly lively table, all things considered. Lunch was Cobb salad, and afterward, dessert was sliced by Muffin herself. Really. Simone picked Muffin up, put the knife in her paw, and then guided the dog in cutting the cake. That was weird enough, but I thought the people taking pictures and blocking Simone out of the shot (capturing the illusion that Muffin was doing the work) were even further out there.
Next, Simone wanted everybody to say a few words and toast Muffin. Not everyone had close, intimate knowledge or a long history with the dog, so despite the struggles of many, only a few managed to rise to the occasion. I was lucky enough to have something to share, and stood up to tell a heartwarming story of welcoming Simone and the little one in our store, on which occasion Muffin had promptly dumped one of her special biscuits in the middle of the floor. Smiles and tears received my story, and glasses were raised. Here’s to ya’, Muffin.
The last toast was also memorable. One of the waiters went to the front of the room, silenced everybody, and with a thick Spanish accent said, “My name is Juan, and I am from El Salvador. I have never before been to a party for a little dog, and I was very afraid that it would not be behaved. But it has been very well behaved, and it is a very good little dog, I think.” Amen brother, and bottoms turned up on our glasses again.
After this was finished, Simone had one of her friends from Meals on Wheels sing a few songs to serenade the guest of honor. A huge black man walked to the front of the room, put a cassette in a tape player, and with a resonant voice akin to Luther Vandross, began to sing, “You are so beautiful… to me.”
It was too much. Having him sing that line pushed me over an edge I couldn’t recover from, and I just lost it. A stifled laugh shot through my nose and my body bent over. With the exception of the song, and my little outburst, the room was absolutely, unquestionably, pin-drop silent. Maybe no one noticed. Clearing my throat, I grabbed my water glass and tried to play it off as a cough.
I was better behaved during his rendition of “Wind Beneath My Wings,” and shortly after, Carolynn and I made our exit. We rushed off to make a prior commitment, despite its lack of comparative significance.
It was all too surreal, but so were my associations with Don and the loads of other random characters that filed through the doors of that store. I’m sure any job that requires interaction with unfiltered humanity produces equally unbelievable stories. You can’t make stuff like this up. People simply wouldn’t buy it.
Who needs fiction when you can look at life as a bizarre adventure, meet vengeful artists, and attend regal birthday bashes for dogs? I certainly didn’t need transport to an imaginary world. I’ve had enough on my plate making heads or tails of the one I was living in.
But what happens if I don’t ever manage to make sense of this world I’m living in? What if the Donalds and Simones of the world are just too much for me to handle? I can always retreat to the ordered sanctuary of the dojo, right? Well, maybe just for a recharge, but if that’s the only place I feel comfortable, then something has gone seriously awry.
No matter how much I train, I still spend the majority of my life off the mat. It’s easy to lose sight of that. I’m a little bit of a control freak, so I like the tight parameters that a dojo provides. It’s very clear cut. The sensei is at the head of the line, students know their ranks, and from that, their respective and respectful relationships to everyone else in the dojo. Rules are enforced; there are no loose ends. It’s reassuring. Safe. I like it. Consequently, it feels good to derive my identity from an area of my life where I feel very secure. But taking the lone identity of a martial artist wouldn’t be quite right. It may not be delusional, but it’s not entirely accurate.
I find it suspiciously comforting to mentally block out areas of my life I’m dissatisfied with, especially if there’s something more pleasant to hinge my identity on. “No, I’m not racking my body slinging bags for crappy pay. I’m a martial artist!” That’s not an honest approach, though. Leftover frustration levels, massive energy expenditures, unfair pay scales, everything I experienced in the workday, in any of my jobs, has affected me on the mat. To simply write about a year immersed in martial arts without giving some insight into the flipside, the other half of my life that made the pleasant possible, would be tacitly dishonest.
Of course I’m a martial artist. But I’m also a bag slinger, a retail shipping clerk, and an uchideshi. I’m the world’s worst truck driver and an eager student. I am all of these things; they are not separate. I don’t think this is just owning up to my past. It’s closer to realizing that every person and experience, no matter how painful or bizarre, has shaped me into who I have become. Both the loathed and the loved are never truly out of my life, because as long as I’m around, I’ll continue to serve as the link between them and the person I was, am, and will be.
It’s funny how we separate experiences the way we arbitrarily segment time, when it’s really just a steady stream in the Great Experiment. Of course, what happened once may not still be happening, but the effects of that experience continue to unfold in our attitudes, perceptions, and assessments. Whether it’s work or recreation, training or recuperation, all aspects of this uchideshi experience will continue to linger in my life. Easy endings or simplistic separations don’t ring true because there are no separations. It’s an inescapable, undeniable part of me. I can’t just put it in a shoebox and label it “The Past,” since I know that the past shades the present as the present forms the future. Phases of our life don’t just stop on a dime. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, in all of this weirdness, it’s that nothing just ends.