2009-01-25 - 2:15 p.m.
Minor Disasters 2009
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Shuhei and I (and 240,000 other residents of Hachinohe) spent the first few days of this year with no running water thanks to a broken water main. (Actually though, it would be more accurate to blame the cess-pool-sink-hole that the damaged water main created, as this is what delayed efforts to replace the broken pipe.) Everybody had to bring plastic bottles, buckets and pots with them to local elementary schools, where tankers had gathered, to get water.
As Shuhei and I made our first trip to Chouja Elementary School, I wondered if we were going to encounter angry dads and grandpas there. Actually, I might have been looking forward to angry dads and grandpas, as they would have also expressed my sentiments at going out in sub-zero weather to get water. But, when we got there, the atmosphere at the improvised watering hole was surprisingly jovial. Really, what could anyone do? The fake drought was an enormous hassle for everybody, repair teams were supposedly working around the clock, and there was nothing that could be gained by complaining. Most everyone seemed to be approaching the stupid situation with a good-natured sense of humor.
Waiting in line with my buckets, bottles and pots felt a bit like an out-of-body experience. It was like I was watching myself from a distance and wondering what in fiery hell I was doing there, greasy and cold, waiting for water, surrounded by all those tiny, smiling people?
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On my way home from work, I drove over what I later discovered to be a bumper. Actually though, it would be more accurate to say that I drove halfway over it, as the bumper became stuck under my car and, although dragging it was surely creating a lot of friction, it didn't come loose. Dragging the bumper sounded like this: CHKKKKKKKKKK-CHKKKKK-CHKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!
It occurred to me that dragging a bumper at 50 kilometers an hour was likely to cause damage to my car but - as I was crossing a bridge - there was nowhere to pull over and no way that I could stop where I was. I wondered whether the bumper was made of plastic or metal. A plastic bumper, I thought, wouldn't be as bad as a metal one, and I felt pretty sure that most bumpers are made of plastic. I checked the mirrors and assured myself that I wasn't leaving a trail of sparks.
About halfway across the bridge, I passed a bunch of guys who were on their way to a hockey practice or game, or perhaps just very well-equipped for these activities. They laughed and cheered as I drove by. It sounded like this: CHKKKKKKKKK-Yay!-Hahaha!-CHKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!
As soon as I'd crossed the bridge, I pulled over at a bus stop to pull out the bumper. This wasn't as easy as I'd thought it might be. The bumper was wedged against something and very little of it was sticking out for me to get a hold of. On top of that, the road was icy and it was impossible for me to put all my weight into pulling on the bumper without falling over. I tugged at the bumper for a while, got back into the car, moved it backwards a little (my hope being that this would create some slack between the bumper and whatever it was stuck on), tugged at the bumper for a while, took a mat out of the car and put it down on the road (my hope being that this would give me some more grip on the ice, which it didn't), and tugged at the bumper some more.
At this point I was out of ideas and the bumper hadn't so much as even budged. I was becoming frustrated and angry. It felt like a temper tantrum. My chest was tightening and I was breathing noisily. My face had contorted itself into a childish and very unladylike scowl. I wanted to kick the bumper, but I knew that that would only hurt my foot. Not being able to kick the bumper made me feel a little angrier.
I thought about dragging the bumper to somewhere it wasn't icy, where I would have a better chance of removing it. At this point, however, the struggle between the bumper and myself had somehow become personal and I felt like driving away with it still stick there would be tantamount to admitting defeat. Also, it's embarrassing to drive around in a car that goes CHKKKKKKKKKKKK!!
Then I remembered the hockey team. The hockey team! If the bumper was still stuck when they caught up, surely they could get it out for me.
I tugged at the bumper again. It wasn't a very sincere tug - I only wanted to look busy in case the hockey team could see me - and yet, the bumper shifted. I tugged again and pulled bumper halfway out. One more tug and the bumper was free. I threw it into a snow bank and drove away feeling quite pleased with myself and wondering what strange and oddly-humored forces had loosened the bumper as soon as I'd decided that I didn't really care whether or not it came out.
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My first thought when I noticed the blood on my pants was not how long it had been there, but who it had come from. I was inclined blame one of my students. It worried me a little that somebody had bled and that I'd failed both to notice and to do anything about it.
Then I saw the blood on my cuff and my arm. For a moment, I was really worried. Someone had bled all over me and I hadn't even noticed! I wondered what else they had bled on, and also if they were OK.
Then I noticed the cut on my hand. I inspected it a little. The blood had already formed a pretty solid preliminary scab, suggesting that the wound was at least twenty minutes old. It didn't hurt at all. My hands had been cold all day long, and I had almost no feeling in them.
I wondered what I had cut myself on and also worried about what it might mean to not realize one's own injuries.
