Tim Anderson - Tune in Tokio

I call the accommodations department at the head office and talk to Kevin, the man in charge, who thankfully has already spoken to Ewan, so I don’t have to start from the beginning. He apologizes and says that there must have been a mistake.

“We’ll try to get him out of the apartment as soon as possible, but since it’s the weekend, you know, it’s a little difficult to arrange these things.”

“Oh, please ,” I say. “Please please please get him out of there.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

He calls me later and says that they won’t be able to move him until Monday night-three days hence!-but that they will definitely be moving him then. He offers me a pearl of advice.

“You and Ron should just attempt to stay out of each other’s way until then, if at all possible.”

Well, that sure ruins my dinner plans. Thankfully, Kevin has spoken to Ron and assures me that he is very sorry and has agreed not to come near us.

When work is over, I prepare myself to return home, with anxiety in my heart and, thanks to my friend and colleague Donna who has a boyfriend at Yokosuka base, a mild sedative in my belly.

Mamta, a teacher from Australia who lives directly below me, says she’ll go home with me.

“I know you don’t want to be alone with the one-legged man,” she says.

When we arrive, Ewan is there, alive and well, but Ron isn’t. We all sit down and have some tea and watch a Discovery Channel program called Travelers that sends young, wide-eyed Americans to exotic places so they can say things like, “I just love shopping in another culture!” We all agree that Ron is a better roommate than any of the retards on the show would be.

To prove our point, a skinny white girl from Ohio named Kim tries on an African head wrap at a street market and says, “Oh, this is totally me!” I start desperately wishing Ron would come back and put us all out of our misery. Right on cue, Mamta looks down the hall at the door and says, “Um, Tim? Yeah, the police are here.”

I stand up and walk to the edge of the hallway leading to the door. Just outside it stand two policemen, leaning in and saying to me, “Your friend? Your friend?” while pointing to-you guessed it-Ron. Not surprisingly, he is drunk as a wombat. I speak to the policemen in my rough Japanese, and they explain, with the help of hand signals and mimicry, that they’d found him on the bridge down the road stumbling and generally looking like a scary foreigner. I thank the officers and apologize, going against my gut instinct to fall to my knees and offer them money if they will just stay the night. They leave Ron propped up against the wall just inside the door, and I go back to the kitchen.

Ron stands in the hallway for some time, leaning against the wall so as to remain more or less vertical. I slump down into a chair at the table and exchange unsure looks with Mamta and Ewan.

“I suppose it’s good he didn’t accidentally fall into the river,” Mamta offers, and we all nod in agreement before changing our minds and sheepishly shaking our heads in embarrassed disappointment.

A growling sound comes from the hallway, followed by the words “Can’t we talk about this?”

I hear him take a few steps toward the kitchen and say, in a more menacing tone, “Where’s that guy who thinks he’s better than everyone else?”

“Who’s that ?” I wonder aloud before realizing he’s talking about me. I think this evaluation of my character is completely unfair. Sure, I am most definitely better than certain people, like most of the people I went to middle school with, all the gorgeous guys who have ever ignored me, and anyone who has ever told me I look like Bert from Sesame Street . But I don’t argue. Nor do I raise my hand and say, “Over here!”

I stand and walk over to the kitchen drawers. “There you are,” he says. Meanwhile, I start pulling all the cutlery out of the drawers to hide in my room.

Finally he makes it to the kitchen, launching into a litany of good deeds that he’s performed today.

“I did all the dishes.” I look at the drying rack. He’s washed two soupspoons and a rice bowl.

“See how I washed all the dishtowels and hung ’em up?” he adds, pointing to the balcony. I go out to the balcony and find hanging two formerly white towels covered with big brown blotches and smelling like Ron’s breath had the night before. He must have wiped up the Jack Daniels puddles with them, I figure.

“And I took out that big trash bag.”

“Where did you take it?” I ask him.

He looks uncomfortable and says nothing.

On a hunch I look down to the street and see the bag slumped against some shrubbery, a milk carton sticking out and leaking droplets onto the greenery.

“Great,” I say, coming back inside and taking a seat at the table. “Thanks.”

He twitches and tilts his head, detecting a lack of authentic appreciation. Then he looks at me the way a person looks when he’s about to snap another person’s neck, gets in my face, and says, doing a spot-on imitation of Jack Nicholson in The Shining , “You wanna live here? I just bought this building. And I ain’t leaving.”

He steps back and lifts his arms and shoulders into a shrug.

“Guess you’ll have to.”

“You, um, bought the AF Building, Ron?” I ask.

“Yes sir,” he spits. “It’s just gonna take a few days for the money transfer to go through.” Then he turns and plods off to the bathroom.

I look at Mamta and Ewan, utterly speechless.

“Look!” Mamta says, pointing to the television in the corner of the room. “He didn’t break the TV!” Bless her, she’s grasping.

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. It’s beginning to look like I’ve traveled all the way around the world to the safest country on earth only to be drawn and quartered by an unhinged Phil-adelphian. Monday night seems so very far away.

“Listen,” Mamta whispers, “why don’t you and Ewan just bring some of your important stuff down to my place. You know, just to be safe.”

We agree this is probably a good idea, since there’s no telling when the Beast will decide to start throwing things over the balcony railing again. So I pick up my laptop and a stack of CDs. Ewan collects all his books.

We go downstairs and drop off our stuff. Ewan stays with Mamta, and I go up to Julia’s to see if I can stay the night if things become life-threatening. As I’m filling her in on the recent developments in the saga, the doorbell rings. Julia answers and it’s Mike, who lives in the apartment between Julia’s and mine.

“Hey, do you know what’s going on in Tim’s flat?” I hear him ask.

I run out of the apartment and look towards mine. The door is wide open, the police alarm from the kitchen is sounding, and Ron is inside screaming. I go down to Mamta’s and get Ewan. We decide to go up and get everything of importance out of the place, in case Ron has started a fire or something. I grab the rest of my CDs, and some work clothes and shoes. Ewan gets more books. Mamta offers to help, and Ewan quickly makes use of her, handing over his encyclopedia of arthropods and his giant collection of historical maps of the world.

But our mass exodus is halted when we can’t get the front door open. The handle won’t turn. Ron is on the other side, blocking us in. We can hear him outside shouting at Mamta’s roommates, who had come to make sure we were alright.

“Oh my God, we’re trapped!” I say, clearly kind of starting to enjoy the drama. I look at Mamta and Ewan with their arms full of useless books, and we all laugh. Then we look worriedly toward the door, because we really are trapped.

I could force the door open, but I am really afraid to do anything that will result in Ron being thrown off balance, for there’s a second balcony and he’s standing directly between it and the door. So we put everything down, go into my room, open the window, and watch as Ron wields a fire extinguisher to keep at bay the group of MOBA teachers from nearby apartments who have gathered around him, some people looking scared, others covering their laughing mouths.