Tim Anderson - Tune in Tokio

I ask Rachel to please come up with a nice way to tell Yasuko that, OK, yes, I did look at her tits a few times, but I also often look at lit candles and sparkling electrical sockets-that doesn’t mean I want to touch them with my tongue. Also that I can’t give her what she requires. And that she really needs to quit showing up at every single one of my classes.

Rachel promises to come up with something, and I’m able to relax and get back to my daydreams about Takeshi.

A few days later, I am walking to my class and I see Yasuko standing outside my classroom, wearing that familiar tight pink sweater. I shudder, fearing the worst: that Rachel was unable to convince her of my disinterest and that I will be forever stuck on this tight pink treadmill until I manage to convince some male student to come into my classroom and stick his tongue down my throat in front of all of my students. (Note to self: something to think about.)

The time for action is now. I’ve got to come clean with her face to face. Sure, in a way I’m kind of loving the attention. Yes, I’m quite keen on the idea of someone planning out their wardrobe in the morning based on what they think I’ll like. Indeed, if someone wants to have endless dreams of rolling around on a sandy beach with me, kissing me all over and telling me how beautiful I am and how they could never imagine living without me, that’s totally fine. And of course, if a young lady wants to take me to expensive restaurants and keep me supplied with a steady stream of French novels, bonbons, and hot Euro porn and yet expects nothing in return, I’m her man. But all of that is too complicated to explain to a student of English, and I don’t know how to say it in Japanese. Despair begins to set in.

I pick up my roster of students before class and sigh deeply as I read through it; sure enough, Yasuko’s name is first on the list of seven students. I look at the topic of my lesson: expressing disappointment. This might not go well.

I enter the classroom and put my name and lesson number on the board as the students file in. I say hello to folks and try to remain calm as I await Yasuko’s entrance. We all chat for a few minutes after the bell rings, and there is still no sign of my tormentor. After a few more minutes, I feel sure I’m in the clear and start writing some opening questions on the board for students to discuss with their partners:

When did you last feel disappointed about something?

What did you do to cheer yourself up?

I would not have wanted Yasuko to answer these questions, so I’m relieved that she hasn’t shown up. The students have paired up and are discussing the questions among themselves. I can relax now and go with the flow of the lesson without having to worry about-

“I’m sorry for late!” Yasuko says as she hurries into the classroom and slides into the first available chair.

Struggling to mask my utter disappointment, I say, “Hi, Yasuko, the questions are on the board; please discuss with your partner.”

Because she’s the odd one out, Yasuko joins another pair of students for a few minutes before I call them all back to report what they learned about their partners during their discussions.

We go around the room and each student tells the class about their partner’s answers to the questions. When we get to Yasuko’s group, one of her partners, a travel agent named Yuki, says in a loud theatrical voice, complete with hand gestures, “Yasuko was disappointed recently because her boyfriend broke up with her and also because she lost her job. To cheer herself up she decide to come to English school, but she think it’s not working. Also, a boy she likes is not liking her.”

“Thank you, Yuki,” I say with an uncomfortable smile.

Some of the young girls in the class whisper to Yasuko in Japanese, asking her who she likes. She demurs and instead directs her gaze at me.

“Tim-sensei, when did you last feel disappointed?”

Crap. I can’t say that it was last week when my Internet connection froze right before it started downloading Brad Pitt’s naked holiday photos. What can I say?

“Oh, it was something very similar,” I fib. “I was disappointed that someone I liked didn’t like me the same way.”

“Really?!” Yasuko says, using the opportunity to dig deeper. “What girls you like? Blonde? Or Asian? Or tall?” Each student leans in to hear my answer.

“Oh, you know, I like the classic beauties: Grace Jones, Cher, and, of course, tennis great Billie Jean King.” If she knows any of these ladies, maybe she’ll give me a freaking break?

Yasuko’s face slowly falls as she probably remembers seeing A View to a Kill as a child.

Yuki chimes in with the follow-up, “Tim-sensei, what did you do to cheer yourself up?”

After thinking for a few seconds, I shrug my shoulders and say, “You know, nothing chases the blues away like a few hours of baton twirling!”

Yasuko’s eyelids dim.

The next day, I wait outside my classroom as the students walk in. I see Yasuko in the lobby chatting with some friends, and I assume she’s here once again to get in her daily Tim sighting. She says goodbye to her friends and then spots Brody walking out of the teachers’ room with his roster and some teaching materials. She taps him on the shoulder and waves a cutesie hello.

“Hi, Yasuko-san,” he says, winking. “That’s a very nice sweater.” Yes. Freaking nice. As she follows him into his classroom, Yasuko looks over at me. I want to tell her all the things I really think she needs to consider: that this guy most certainly has an Oedipal relationship with his mother; that his haircut is featured on at least thirty satirical websites; that in high school he was voted Most Likely to Marry a Xena Warrior Princess Avatar at ComicCon. But what am I thinking? This is my chance to make a clean getaway. Whatever Brody has done to charm her into his classroom, it has clearly worked. And though I’m less than happy to learn that I can be so easily traded in for a guy who wears Tasmanian Devil ties, I have to admit it: I owe him one.

Thank you, GaijinMan. You’ve saved the gay.

# of times heard Tokyo movie audience laugh while watching Hollywood comedy: 0

# of times seen man on train looking at porn on his cell phone: 17

The story of a woman unafraid to make her classmates weep in her brave pursuit of smutty English excellence.

I teach twelve to fifteen two-hour classes a week, ranging from the basic-level world of irregular past tense verbs to the mid-level challenges of phrasal verbs and past-perfect tense to the sophisticated and colorful realm of telling jokes and debating. Ever since I started at Lane Language School many months ago, I’ve tried to be a dynamic and inspiring instructor, empowering my students with a more solid grasp of the English language and the confidence to stand tall and release their barbaric yawps to the world, even daring to say controversial things they would never dare to say in their mother tongue, things like “I don’t really like sushi” or “Meg Ryan is totally overrated.” I recently had a long overdue meltdown in the classroom. It was nothing I didn’t see coming.

If I do say so myself, I’ve excelled at this job, at times. When I came to this city, I was a recovering wallflower paralyzed by the idea of standing in front of a group of people, however small, and somehow summoning the confidence to say something interesting and persuade them to repeat it after me.