Some years ago when I visited
Japan on business, I met an Englishman who worked at an import company as
an interpreter. At first glance, he impressed me as someone who could have
procured a very lucrative income in Hollywood playing the part of a henchman or
mad scientist. But in spite of his somewhat intimidating
countenance, he was actually a likeable and charming fellow whose personality
was uncannily like that of John Steed from the Avengers, a television show
that was popular in the 60s.
In the traditional sense he was what one might call a 'gentleman', with his Savile Row sense of fashion and an impeccable command of the English language. But there was one problem. He didn't have the kind of money that a gentleman normally has, which is to say, a pot full (at least as far as I could tell). If he did, he most likely would not have been working in a cramped and dingy office, unless he is the sort of person who somehow finds virtue or merit in testing his resolve to do so. In any case, while sipping suds at an ex-pat watering hole one evening with the interpreter, some interesting things were revealed. The gentleman, whom I will now refer to as the fashion fascist, due to his fondness for expensive designer suits and shoes, as alluded to previously, mentioned that before he came to Japan, he had been experiencing a so-called "re-occurring dream". In the dream, he said that he was a Japanese soldier on a South Pacific island during the Second World War. He described how U.S. soldiers had landed on the island and were successfully advancing. The fashion fascist continued to say that the American G.I.s eventually overtook the Japanese positions and that a G.I. bayoneted him and he died or rather the dream ended at that point (that's not a pun). That's when I interrupted his story and mentioned that perhaps he had too much of an interest in war movies. He assured me that he did not. Still, there was some doubt. He said that for many years the disturbing chimera would visit him while he slept, but when he came to Japan he no longer experienced the re-occurring nightmare. I asked him if he was able to get a good look at the G.I. who had stuck him with the bayonet and he said, no. Then I said that maybe the soldier who had bayoneted him was perhaps myself and that by some act of karma, if you will, we had to meet each other to completely expunge any residual details, possibly still lurking, of that horrific nightmare that he had repeatedly experienced.
In the traditional sense he was what one might call a 'gentleman', with his Savile Row sense of fashion and an impeccable command of the English language. But there was one problem. He didn't have the kind of money that a gentleman normally has, which is to say, a pot full (at least as far as I could tell). If he did, he most likely would not have been working in a cramped and dingy office, unless he is the sort of person who somehow finds virtue or merit in testing his resolve to do so. In any case, while sipping suds at an ex-pat watering hole one evening with the interpreter, some interesting things were revealed. The gentleman, whom I will now refer to as the fashion fascist, due to his fondness for expensive designer suits and shoes, as alluded to previously, mentioned that before he came to Japan, he had been experiencing a so-called "re-occurring dream". In the dream, he said that he was a Japanese soldier on a South Pacific island during the Second World War. He described how U.S. soldiers had landed on the island and were successfully advancing. The fashion fascist continued to say that the American G.I.s eventually overtook the Japanese positions and that a G.I. bayoneted him and he died or rather the dream ended at that point (that's not a pun). That's when I interrupted his story and mentioned that perhaps he had too much of an interest in war movies. He assured me that he did not. Still, there was some doubt. He said that for many years the disturbing chimera would visit him while he slept, but when he came to Japan he no longer experienced the re-occurring nightmare. I asked him if he was able to get a good look at the G.I. who had stuck him with the bayonet and he said, no. Then I said that maybe the soldier who had bayoneted him was perhaps myself and that by some act of karma, if you will, we had to meet each other to completely expunge any residual details, possibly still lurking, of that horrific nightmare that he had repeatedly experienced.
At that moment it suddenly occurred to me that I
had missed my true calling and then I wondered how on Earth I could not have noticed
how perceptive I was about these sorts of things before. As I stood at the bar,
I imagined myself sitting in a burnished saddle leather chair in a richly
paneled office with certificates and degrees dangling on the walls. But alas,
the pleasant daydream turned to regret as I saw myself jumping out the window
to escape the endless stream of disturbing dreams and schemes as related to me
by my patients who seemed to have little self control with their apparent need
to reveal their innermost secrets and distorted fantasies, even
though it was my job to lend a supportive ear and to be paid handsomely to do
so.
As for the fashion fascist, the last I heard, he had quit
his job and joined the Foreign Legion.
