My time in Tokyo had come to an end. My buddy was helping me bring my luggage to the airport, going through various train stations along the way. At one point, we were near the top floor of a station and needed to get to the ground level, so we headed to the elevator.

The elevator had just let a group of people off and we could clearly see the interior. It had an extra set of buttons in the back corner and was otherwise empty save for an old lady on the opposite side. As she saw us approaching this woman promptly lunged toward the buttons in the back and mashed the “door close” button.

She was long gone from our sight after we had to wait for the elevator to make an extra round. I feel like I should’ve been offended by her action, but honestly, seeing how rapidly she moved to close the door on us was a sight to behold.

I’ve submitted several stories about my friends, family, and neighbors, and I’m thankful they’ve been published, but I’m hoping y’all won’t mind one more from my paternal grandmother. It’s my favorite of the many anecdotes she shared.

Dad’s family was an Air Force family, and they once got stationed in Tokyo and Okinawa in the 1950s for about four years. (They actually returned to the States right before the very first Godzilla film was released in theaters, but I digress.)

One day while in Tokyo, my grandfather had to speak with his commanding officer before some errands, so he left Grandma with their three kids in the car to wait.  

While they waited, the car started shaking. Grandma was afraid that meant an earthquake was building up and panicked since it was the first time she’d experienced one. But just as she was wondering if it was going to get worse, how to keep the children safe and calm, and if her husband would be all right…

…about forty sumo wrestlers went jogging by as part of their training.

Of all the things Grandma had thought might happen in Japan, that certainly wasn’t one of them.

Content Warning: Domestic Abuse

One night, I hopped on Facebook Messenger and left my sister a brief pick-me-up message.

Me: “Just wanted to check in with you. Know that I love you, and any time you need someone to listen to you, I’m right here!”

I then noticed I’d hit the wrong contact who had the same first name as her and sent the message to her. I corrected myself.

Me: “Oh, snap! Wrong [Name]!”

I sent the message to the intended recipient and went on about my day.

A few days later, I casually open my Facebook to see a message from someone I didn’t recognize. The letter was in all caps and laced with copious amounts of profanity. Thinking it was some moron who didn’t like a comment I’d made on a political video, I deleted it without reading it, blocked him, and moved along.

The following day, I got a message from the person I’d mistakenly sent the message to.

Friend: “Hi, I know that message was intended for your sister after she lost her job. I need you to do me a favor, though. Tell my soon-to-be ex-husband that (as well as the nature of our relationship) so that he knows what he backhanded me onto the floor over, subsequently ending a total of eight years together with three kids, since I’m not going to stay with any man who puts his hands on me. He’s actually the guy who sent you that message.”

It was one of those “I’m going to h*** for laughing at this” moments. Unblocking him, I simply wrote:

Me: “Bro, I have no idea what’s going on, but that message you saw was a misfire. I meant to send it to my sister. I don’t know your wife personally at all; I met her on a programming forum about six months ago. If you’d taken the time to read our chat history, our topics have included coding, cats, anime, ‘Final Fantasy’, and cleaning skunk odor off my dog. This is aside from the fact that I live abroad as an independent contractor (currently in Tokyo) and haven’t even been back in the US for going on fourteen years. Good luck with your divorce, though. Maybe some anger management courses might be in your best interest?”

He didn’t answer, but true to her word, his wife took the kids and divorced him. I really hope he feels like a genius.

I see a sign inside a Tokyo restaurant:

Sign: “Do not touch our waitresses, ask for their contact information, or wait for them outside. This restaurant will not be responsible for any injuries happening to anyone who ignores this warning.”

Duly noted, yikes!

This was in the early 2000s when arcade games were still popular. I was touring in Japan and decided to stop into a large arcade. With this arcade, you had the option of paying money up front and having the credits added to a card as opposed to the old-fashioned method of stacking coins on the machine as you played. With each play, you simply swiped the card over a reader and it would add another credit for you to play.

I came upon the wildly popular Street Fighter game and noticed there were two of the same arcade cabinets positioned back to back, facing away from each other. A Japanese girl who looked to be between six and eight years old was kneeling on a chair and playing away at one of them. I took the game opposite from her, swiped my card, cracked my knuckles, and got ready to throw down.

I got practically MASSACRED to a point where it was nearly humiliating, considering the fact that I was usually untouchable at this game. I wondered out loud:

Me: “Do the Japanese put the difficulty level at nightmare level for their games? God Almighty!”

Ego got the better of me, and I swiped that card for game after game, determined that I wasn’t walking away until I could beat that thing. And game after game, I got absolutely demolished. My sister who was touring with me strolled past.

Sister: “Why do you look so pissed?”

Me: “The AI in this game is insane! Nothing like the version in America! It’s like it’s practically predicting my every move and has a counterattack for it. I can’t touch it!”

Finally, I ended up running out of money on my card, and I slammed my fist on the game cabinet, yelled a string of profanity, and began the loser’s walk of shame to the exit. As I was walking away, the little Japanese girl I mentioned stuck her tongue out at me. A small group of children who had since congregated around her began laughing.

That was when it occurred to me: all this time, I wasn’t playing against the arcade CPU. IT WAS HER! It was the first time in my life I’d ever had the urge to smack a kid!

I went back about two other times, and each time, when I was playing some other game, I would feel someone tap me on the waist and I would turn to see that little girl smiling sweetly at me, waggling her little fingers, and then pulling up a chair and swiping her card over the credit reader, ready to completely decimate me at whatever I was playing. And that she did without fail, while always gesturing for me to swipe my card so she could murder me again. And again. And again…