Suicide Forest Read Online Free PDF Page A

they know each other?”
    John Scott said something to Mel. She
punched him playfully on the shoulder.
    “They went to high school together.”
    “You don’t like him, do you?”
    It was a good question. Did I like John
Scott? I had a bad habit of judging people quickly and sticking by
those judgments even when they were proven to be completely wrong.
In the case of John Scott, however, I didn’t think my initial
impression was off. He was a mouthy jock.
    “What does it matter?” I shrugged. “I don’t
know him.”
    Neil nodded, as if I’d made a salient point,
and began to whistle once more. I couldn’t be bothered to tell him
to stop.
     
     
     
    Three Japanese
hikers were coming down the trail toward us. Two men, one woman,
all attired in hiking clothes and armed with clear plastic
umbrellas.
    “ Konichiwa! ” Ben called amicably.
“ Konichiwa! ”
    His pronunciation was worse than mine. The
Japanese returned the greeting, smiling and bowing.
    “How is your hike?” Ben asked.
    They appeared confused.
    “Walk?” I intervened. “Good?”
    Several hesitant nods.
    “Hey— sumimasen ?” John Scott said. He
struggled expressing what he wanted to say in Japanese, gave it up,
and switched to English. “We’re looking for some other trails. Not
the main ones. You understand?”
    They did not. In fact, they seemed eager to
move on.
    John Scott held them at bay with: “Yo, whoa,
wait, wait, wait.” He turned to Tomo. “Translate for me.”
    “Translate what?”
    “What I just said. Secondary trails, off
this main one?”
    Tomo seemed reluctant.
    “Dude,” John Scott said. “Just ask.”
    Tomo asked.
    The eldest of the three Japanese—full head
of white hair, matching mustache, gold-rimmed glasses—frowned. He
shot something back. Tomo replied, holding up his hands, but was
promptly cut off. The man began shouting. I saw spittle fly from
his mouth. Every time Tomo tried to appease him, he shook his head
and his arms and raised his voice louder. I watched, dumbstruck.
I’ve rarely seen Japanese people lose their temper. They had a
saying: the nail that stands out gets hammered down—hard. This
could mean anything during a typical day. Don’t leave work before
your coworkers. Don’t make business decisions on your own. Don’t
ever, ever be late.
    Don’t show your emotions.
    So what was going on here? White Hair had
totally lost it. Tomo realized the futility of arguing and gave up.
I put my hand on his back and led him away. The others
followed.
    John Scott said, “What the hell’s his
problem?”
    Tomo shook his head. “He says we don’t be
here.”
    “Why’s he here?”
    “He go lava caves, ice caves.”
    “What’s the big deal?”
    “He thinks we look body.”
    White Hair continued to yell at us.
    “What’s he saying now?” I asked.
    “He report us.”
    “Is it illegal to go off the path?”
    “Don’t think. He’s fucking crazy guy. Who
cares?”
    “Fuck you, kemo sabe!” John Scott yelled
back, flicking the finger.
    “Hey,” I told him, “cool it.”
    “What’s your problem?”
    “You’re being a prick.”
    “Listen to the spaz.”
    “He has a point,” I said. “Maybe we
shouldn’t be camping out here.”
    “Don’t give me that shit. This is all about
us not being Japanese. Being gaijin . If we weren’t
foreigners, he wouldn’t have gone off on us like that. They’ve got
to get over their racism.”
    “You’re just feeding into their stereotype
of the loud, obnoxious American.”
    “Yeah? And he’s feeding mine. Xenophobic
asshole.”
    “This isn’t your country,” I said.
    “That gives him a right to spaz out?”
    “You know ‘kemo sabe’ isn’t Japanese,
right?”
    “What is it?”
    Shaking my head, I walked on in silence.
     
     
     
    Not long after I’d
first arrived in Japan I was at a restaurant with a bunch of
friends. The deal of the day was all-you-can-drink shōchū, beer,
cocktails, and high balls at a self-serve counter for three