file under: random saturday.

If you ever get thrown into the back of a police car, Japan is the best place for it to happen.

I was sitting in the police station explaining to them how everything went down, filling out forms, giving fingerprints and what have you.

“We need to go to the scene of the crime.”

“Okay.”

“Did you walk here?”

“Uh, yeah. No bike. Remember?”

“Ahh, yes. Right, then. Let’s go. We’ll drive you.”


This is the second time somebody has stolen my bicycle in Japan. Both times the bike was not locked.

Perhaps I bring these things upon myself.

I came home from work Friday afternoon to find that my bicycle was no longer standing in the bike rack next to my building. I rode it home the night before and walked to work the following morning. Sometime in between returning Thursday night and getting off work Friday afternoon the bike was taken.

So I went to the police on Saturday to report the bike as stolen.

The police took me quite seriously.

They had three men on the case asking serious questions.

“What color was the bike? In centimeters, how tall is it? How many gears? What color was the seat?”

So this is how I ended up in the back of a police car somewhere in semi-rural Japan.

In America, I’ve been in a police car one time. Different story all together. What's important about that is when I was in said police car I took in a few key details.

First, there's a Plexiglas and wire screen dividing the front of the cab with the back. Second, the back seats are plastic and have no seatbelts. And, there are no handles on the doors or any way to manipulate the windows.

Not a luxurious experience.

Quite the opposite in Japan.

Brand new Toyota Prius, with plush cloth seats and seatbelts and automatic doors and windows and all. And there was nothing whatsoever partitioning the cab.

The ride was pleasant.

When we arrived to the scene of the crime they got down to business. Flashlights, digital camera, tape measure, sketch pad.

It was quite an ordeal.

I smoked a cigarette and watched as they measured the distance from the street to the bike lot and from the bike lot to various spots adjacent to the lot. I stretched my mind, trying to answer their questions about which cardinal direction my bike was facing and what type of lock I used.

I can’t help but wonder if I would have gotten the same treatment if I weren’t a foreigner.

If this had happened in America, the situation would have went down like this:

Me: My bike was stolen from outside my apartment.

Police: Was it locked?

Me: No.

Police: You’re a dumbass. Get out of here. Lock it up next time.

Fortunately when I bought the bike in December I paid a few extra yen to register the bike as mine. That bought me an orange seal with a number on it. Right now, somewhere out there, my number is being used illegally by some lawless fiend. And the Japanese police are out to get them. Maybe.

***
The neon streets bustle with the revelry of Saturday night.

Earlier I had made a plan to meet Minsky and two of his Chinese friends for dinner and drinks. I was late because of the ordeal with the police. They didn’t mind.

I found them on the second floor of a nondescript izakaya. The place was warm and small. An old acoustic guitar rested in a corner. The woman in the kitchen was old. When I sat down there was already food on the table and they were not yet done with their first drink.

The girls were a little older. The cute one didn’t know any English. The one who knew a little English was unfortunate looking.

I ordered gin and tonic.

We talked causally and drank at a quick pace. Before sitting down they secured a deal on a two and a half hour all-you-can-drink course.

Gin turned into beer and beer turned into hot sake and the night drifted by like clouds passing in the sky.

We stumbled out of the place and into a clear night.

I tried to get the cute one to come home with me.

Her friend kept her safe.

I walked home alone in the night.

I was pissed.

Pissed off at my bike being stolen, pissed off that the girl didn’t come along. Pissed off of booze.

I was halfway home when I saw the white mountain bike. It was unlocked.

In a moment of drunken brilliance and self loathing, I got on the unlocked bike and started riding. I was hungry and needed to go to 7-11. I rode the bike there and bought a bento. As I was paying for the midnight snack, I was hit with a overwhelming sense of guilt and moral confusion.

Where is the logic in handing over hard-earned money to a massive, faceless corporation, yet stealing from unsuspecting individuals who stupidly leave their bikes unlocked?

I returned the bike to where I found it and walked home with my bento.

When I woke up the next morning my bike was still gone, I was alone and the bento lay on the floor unopened.