Tim Anderson - Tune in Tokio

Stunned, I say hello and welcome him in. He limps inside, dragging his left foot along the floor as he walks, and I help him with his stuff. After we deposit his things-a bookbag, a rucksack with what looks like a rolled-up one-person tent attached at the top, and four plastic grocery bags-on the floor of his room, he stumbles back to the door and spends a good ten minutes making sure he’s able to use the key properly, repeatedly sticking it in, turning it round until the lock clicks out, turning it back until the lock clicks in, and pulling it out again until he feels he’s mastered the drill.

“Just wanna make sure,” he grumbles, sounding not unlike car wheels on a gravel road.

Afterwards, he comes into the kitchen where Ewan and I are sitting and takes a load off. Ewan and I sit looking at him and each other nervously, unsure what to say to break the ice. (I’m thinking, “Wow, you’re totally fucking wasted!” would be appropriate.) Ron sits slumped in his chair, breathing heavily like he’d just killed a person with his bare hands. He pulls a tall can of beer out of his jacket pocket and cracks it open, sucking up the rising fizz and foam. I guess he stopped by the 7-Eleven first?

Now, God knows I hate to judge, but this man does not appear to be in any shape to instruct Japanese people in the finer points of English idioms or irregular past verb forms (especially not irregular past verb forms). He looks like he’d been scraped off the streets of Philadelphia and shipped to Japan while still viciously intoxicated-without being told why. My guess: a Philadelphia MOBA headhunter had been desperate to meet his quota, went out onto the street, found Ron drinking from a brown bag and talking to his imaginary friend Crabcake, and thought, “Now there’s a MOBA English teacher!”

Visibly freaked out, Ewan soon retires to his room with a book he’d just bought about the history of furniture.

“Good night, guys,” he says in his affable way. “Nice to see you, Ron.”

“Yeah, ghghsshgrighsfheigls,” Ron replies, one eye looking toward Ewan, the other at the floor.

I am now left alone with our new tenant. I sit and try not to stare at him as he finishes the tall beer he’d opened only a few minutes before. He lifts the can above his gaping mouth and shakes the last precious drops in, his lips slurping against the mouth of the can, his tongue reaching out and over to catch any stray dribbles. He smacks his lips, puts the can down on the table, and proceeds to inhale and exhale so loudly he sounds like he’s got a mic on him. Satisfied that there is absolutely nothing else in that can, he hightails it to his room, rifles through one of his bags, grumbling to himself all the while, and once again emerges, limping into the kitchen with a bottle of Jack Daniels.

When he sits back down, he does something I totally don’t see coming: he takes off his left leg. Or rather, he takes off the prosthetic lower leg part and drops it on the floor. So that’s why he was limping. I decide not to ask him about it; he might not be finished taking off body parts yet, and I don’t want things to get awkward. Plus, he’s busy biting off the cap of the JD bottle.

I kind of want to throw up.

After taking his first swig, he makes a brief and barely understandable reference to being a Vietnam War veteran. It speaks volumes. Then he tries to engage me in a conversation about his girlfriend Debbie, whose husband is a real prick and he really wants to do the right thing by her so he is going to support the baby if it’s his and he told this to the husband himself, yeah he did, but he’s a prick and he wouldn’t listen and he just tried to pick a fight, so what can he do and the husband’s the one with the money so it wouldn’t be any good for her to leave him because where would they get the money for that cruise they were planning?

“Exactly,” I say, wondering if I have enough money to hire a security guard to stand outside my bedroom door while I’m sleeping.

For some reason, I am very hesitant to ask Ron any questions. Maybe it’s because I don’t see him offering any answer that can be understood by someone who hasn’t been drinking highballs for the past two and a half weeks.

My curiosity gets the better of me, though, and almost without realizing it, I ask him, “So why are you here?”

“To get away from Mom,” he replies without hesitation.

He’s joking, right? This is a joke. I’m being punk’d. OK, guys, I get it, where’s the camera? Come on, OK, you got me, ha ha, very funny, didn’t see it coming. Ashton, get your ass out here, you nut! You are awful, but I love you! Ashton? Guys? Guys??

“And her retarded fucking husband.”

I decide then and there that this Ron gentleman is the most fucked-up person I have ever met. Sure, I had some problems before coming here. I was a pothead. I was directionless. I was bored and uninspired. I was a part-time waiter. But this guy? He is like an amalgam of horror movie villains. Does his mother live in his attic? What’s wrong with her husband? Where does Debbie fit into this melodrama? A feeling of helpless dread takes me over. It’s fight-or-flight time, and since I’m a little fairy at heart, I decide to flee, back over to Julia’s, to unload my worries about being beaten to death with a prosthetic leg in my sleep-and to take solace in her well-stocked cabinets of English biscuits.

“It turns out,” I tell her as I make myself a cup of tea and arrange some McVities Digestives on a small plate, “that you were not far off with that fugitive comment. And it’s also possible, Ruth, that he’s a necromancer.”

Julia doesn’t blink. “Did you happen to see if he has any tattoos, like maybe a series of numbers or a gang symbol?”

I tell her that no, I hadn’t seen any tattoos, but that was probably because I’d been preoccupied with the prosthetic leg on the floor, the containers of booze that kept appearing from nowhere, and the fact that he only has one earlobe.

By the time I return a few hours later, Ron is well into his fourth or fifth tall beer and has downed about half of his bottle of Jack. He has somehow managed to pry Ewan away from the cocoon of his bedroom and is talking to him about his girlfriend and his mother and the prick and the baby, and Ewan looks as if he is questioning his very concept of reality. I retire to my room to read and try to get some sleep.

I fall asleep enumerating the various ways one might lose an earlobe. I wake up about an hour later to the sound of Mr. Faust banging around the apartment, cursing, throwing things around, and generally grumbling like Grendel. I get up and peek out my bedroom door. All I can see is his shadow moving along the hallway floor and the shadows of the things he is throwing (the TV remote, a magazine, some Tupperware).

I fall back asleep and awake later to an eerie silence. I get up and clamber out the door and down the hall to the kitchen. It’s strewn with beer cans, dirty dishes, cigarette butts, crumpled-up pieces of paper, and small puddles of Jack Daniels.

Among all the crap on the table I find a small letter that he’s scribbled to an unfortunate soul by the name of Debbie. It is written in the penmanship of a three-year-old, but I am able to make out its contents. He talks about his new roommates, saying about us that we’re “good guys, but I won’t be surprised if one of them has to kiss the sidewalk soon.” Cue maniacal laughter.

Hmm. Evil’s afoot. What is Ron Faust’s plan? Is he concocting a plot to get rid of us? Perhaps he’s considering making our rooms into fitness/meditation rooms. Ewan’s would work better for that, I think.

Since I’m now wide awake, I decide to sit down, have a piece of damn toast, and read the Entertainment Weekly a friend has sent me from home. I’m settling nicely into an article about Michael Jackson, who always makes me feel better about my life, when Ron comes back in and sits down with several more beers and a fifth of vodka. He asks what I’m reading, and I show him. When I stand up to put my dish in the sink, he picks up the magazine, scoffs, and says, “Do you really get off on this stuff?”