Summer–Fall 1996: Holding Pattern

I graduated from Hamilton College in June ’96 and with it the clean identity of being a student and living on campus. I went back to Spokane right after and my plan was to join the Peace Corps which seemed cool, but I’d missed the application window and wasn’t prepared to wait a year.

By August of that year I was coaching cross‑country at Saint George’s School in Spokane, taking over for my father while my parents and younger brother were on sabbatical in Scotland. My middle brother Mike was away at St. Michael’s College in Vermont. I stayed alone in my parents’ house—rural, exposed, already marked by a break‑in a few years earlier and the occasional drunk driver knocking to use the phone. Nights mattered. Sounds carried. I was alert, but not dramatic about it.

I started coaching started as soon as it was allowed, about three weeks before the season. I coached both girls and boys and ran with the team; except for a brief varsity stint sophomore year at Hamilton, I was in the best shape of my life. The teams were legitimately good. The girls made state—no podium finish, but it mattered. One runner, Ben Robinson, stands out. I drove him home after practice and we talked. It was quiet mentorship without ceremony.

The coaching paid about $2,500 for the season and ran only in the afternoons, so I needed another job. I found work at a downtown photo studio that processed school yearbook photos. I parked up on the South Hill to save money and walked fifteen minutes into town. One morning around 7:15 I walked by a police sting at a house—a. drug bust, by the look of it. An officer asked if I was with the house; I said no, just heading to work, and he told me to move along.

My first assignment was the big printer. An older full‑time guy—let’s call him Mark—trained me. You had to load the machine in the dark. I took a coffee break at 10:30 when he said I could, and when I came back Mark told me I’d messed up the setup. Paper was all over the place, and he laughed and told me to be more careful. Mark liked Americana music; I played CDs on the boombox. Later I was moved to developing—another machine, pitch black, learned entirely by feel. I didn’t think I could do it, but the learning curve clicked the way WHCL the radio station had at Hamilton. Sometimes I worked again with Mark; it was the better gig.

My routine was simple and tiring. Up around six, nearly an hour’s drive across town, work until early afternoon, then straight back to Saint George’s to coach from about 3:45 to six. I’d drive Ben home, go back to the house, have one or two beers and some food, and sleep by eight. I wasn’t smoking and only once I got a little weed and smoked behind the house. It felt weird and lonely. I was lonely in general, but the long days made it manageable.

Weekends softened rather than broke the pattern. I drove to coffee shops, bookstores, and CD stores—Annie’s Bookstore downtown, new and used. I read, though not as much as a few years earlier: mostly Anthony Powell and Le Carré—nothing academic at this point.

By November both jobs had end dates, and I knew this wasn’t a life—just a holding pattern.

Late Fall 1996: Before Boston

Japan entered through practicality rather than some kind of master plan. My mom had been talking with the mother of a younger Saint George’s student and she had been teaching English conversation at a company called NOVA in Japan. At the time NOVA was enormous and hired broadly. The interview would be in Boston. I called Ian, who was living with his parents, and asked if I could crash. He said yes, so I took my little money and left Spokane mid‑November, just after state cross‑country.

Before Boston I went to Pullman to see Mason Anderson, who was still at Washington State University. I picked him up and we drove to Seattle to see a concert. We got stoned in the car and I drove stoned through rush‑hour Seattle traffic—bad judgment that somehow didn’t end badly. We made the show and the hotel. It was a good time.

From there it was time for Boston.

Late Fall 1996: Boston and New York City

I arrived in Boston knowing the NOVA interview was still weeks away. I stayed at Ian’s parents’ house. Baran Tekkora from Hamilton was also there for part of the time, and Elena—Ian’s on‑and‑off girlfriend and my crush from Hamilton—was around for about a week or ten days, but not the whole stretch. In total I stayed roughly three weeks, with the interview at the end.

Ian’s dad was kind and mostly kept to his study, which was filled with classical music—his obsession. I asked him if he knew Arvo Pärt, whom I liked, and he did; he put something on for me and that was enough for mutual understanding.

My daily routine was simple. I’d get up, eat English muffins, drink coffee, and then head out alone to explore Boston by bus, train, and on foot. I walked the parks, wandered neighborhoods, and spent a lot of time in record stores—especially Newbury Comics. I spent what little money I had on CDs and experience without much restraint.
I was deep into Ron Sexsmith’s first record then. I carried a Discman and listened to it constantly while moving through the city, sometimes to the point of tears. I also bought a record connected somehow to This Mortal Coil—female‑voiced, adjacent rather than the band itself—but the exact artist has slipped away. At the time I was excited, wide open to it.

At night I mostly stayed in. Ian and I watched TV and talked. He was dealing with some personal issues at the time, but we had a chance to go to Newbury Comics together a few times and I recall we went out drinking once. One glorious evening we went to see the band The Red House Painters play at Mama Kin downtown. They played a nine minute version of “The Little Drummer Boy” and I melted into the furniture. It was transcendent.

During the wait I realized I liked Boston enough to consider staying. I thought about looking for a job and even called a Zen center to ask about renting a room for a month or two. But the man I spoke to on the phone was super rude and unfriendly. Even though he eventually said I could stay, I didn’t want to deal with him if he was a central figure there, so I dropped the idea. I had no job lined up anyway so it was probably a good call.

By Thanksgiving Baran and Elena were gone. I went to New York City to visit Miche—the Swiss‑Cambodian friend who is featured in my Hamilton series—and his mother at her apartment. I stayed the night and we had a nice Thanksgiving. Afterward I returned to Boston.

The NOVA interview itself was anticlimactic. It was a group interview—about six of us—with a recruiter who had previously taught for NOVA in Japan. He was heavyset and talked about how great Japan was because of the free food samples at department stores and supermarkets. I wore my only suit and showed up early, but it was clear that didn’t matter much. I had a degree. I was in.

I left Boston around the first week of December.

Winter 1996–Spring 1997: Warehouse, Money, Departure

When I got back to Spokane my parents and younger brother were home from Scotland, and the house filled back up. I had the NOVA job, but it didn’t start until April, so I needed work to bridge the gap.

I went back to Gonzaga University and checked the job board. I found a job at a food bank warehouse on the eastern outskirts of downtown. I drove out there every day and worked for about two and a half months, stocking shelves and moving food around on small motorized carts.

The warehouse ran on strict time. Breaks were enforced: two fifteen-minute breaks and a one-hour lunch. No lateness. The clock mattered.

The people were the education.

The first person I remember was a high school student there on a court-ordered work study after bringing a knife to school. He talked about it openly, even boasted, and said once, “I’m a Jewish Santa Claus; I don’t exist.” He was only there a week or so and then disappeared.

There were full-time workers and temps like me. One full-time guy had once been a top counselor in Spokane, burned out completely, and now worked in the freezer. He seemed genuinely happy there. Several others were former truck drivers who talked casually about carrying guns while driving.

I became friends with a fellow temp named Jeff. He was in AA, NA, and Sex Addicts Anonymous and showed off the bracelets he’d earned for staying clean. He was a chain smoker. His sponsor had told him that if you’re trying to quit booze, coke, and women all at once, the last thing you should do is quit smoking. We drove around after work and talked and talked. He was in his early to mid-thirties, a sweet guy, and I related to him—maybe because of, not despite, his problems. I saw him a few times after I quit and later wrote him a letter from Japan that spring, but we eventually lost touch.

Some of the temps desperately wanted full-time jobs. One woman—Clara—was in her forties and needed it badly. When a position opened up, it went instead to Sharlene, the eighteen-year-old daughter of one of the office managers. As a temp, Sharlene had been pleasant; once she became full-time she turned abruptly bossy. Clara didn’t get the job.

That period taught me what real poverty looked like. Clara and her friend were adults with no cushion at all. Lunch was strategy: a four-dollar buffet. Once I took them to a deli where lunch cost about seven dollars, and they thought I was being luxurious. My parents had always lived paycheck to paycheck too, but they had two full-time salaries, a house, and some nice things. This was different. I learned a lot from Jeff, Clara, and her friend about how the world actually worked.

There was also an African American guy who took the bus to work because he didn’t have a car. He lived near the Shadle area by the large public school there. He told me that every male he knew had been in prison or was in prison—except him. I started driving him home. He was deeply thankful and surprised that I would drive into his neighborhood. Another education.

I was able to save about twelve hundred dollars from the food bank gig. About six weeks before leaving for Japan I’d had enough and quit one day. Jeff later told me that all the temps were fired the very next day. Sharlene’s mother thanked me profusely and wished me well, and then they were all let go.

As I was getting ready to leave, my maternal grandparents visited. My grandfather Bill Kolb was still healthy then, about six years before his death. He gave me seventeen hundred dollars in cash. That brought my total to nearly three thousand. My mother didn’t know about the gift at the time and is still surprised he gave me so much, especially since my grandparents were always financially strapped themselves.

On my last night in Spokane I chose a Mediterranean restaurant and we went as a family. NOVA had asked whether I wanted a big city or a smaller one. I said smaller. I was initially assigned to Osaka, which is a major metropolitan area. Then, one day just before flying, I got an email saying a spot had opened up in Kumamoto on the southern island and asking if I wanted it. I said yes.

I flew out in April 1997. The plane still had a smoking section. By the time the money ran out, I had my first NOVA paycheck.

The rest follows from there.

NOTE: This is the first short story in my upcoming collection. The second is here. This is a work of fiction.

I met Simona in the smoking room of Osaka’s Kansai International Airport (KIX) in very late November. She was 42, Lithuanian, and drop dead gorgeous. I was on my way to New York to see bands and she was going back to Philly where she was living. We smoked a few last cigarettes and boarded the plane.

On the plane I was seated in the first ten rows of coach and she was seated in the back. She asked my neighbor in the middle seat (I had the aisle) to switch and the woman agreed. Simona was next to me.

She immediately ordered two white wines for her and two for me. The stewardess said, well, it’s one at a time, but since this is an international flight… The flight crew would alter its point of view of the two of us in due course.

We talked, and soon we were flirting. Full on. She got up to use the bathroom and left the seat rest up. I took this as a sign. Within ninety seconds of her being back in her seat we were petting, pecking, and then fully making out. It was electric. Automatic.

Soon a man from a few rows up began complaining that we were “making noise.” We weren’t saying a word; our lips were locked. But he said so, and the stewardess came back and said we were cut off. Simona asked for one more, and got it.

Then, in short order, a man—maybe the chief guy—came back. “The pilot is prepared to kick you off the flight if you don’t cool it.” This was Air Canada, and he delivered the bad news in the most Canadian way possible. Polite, a little snooty, and totally assured. I stood up and, somewhat absurdly, tried to shake his hand. “We’ll settle down,” I promised.

Simona, on the other hand, was distraught. “It’s because I’m a second language learner. That’s why. It’s discrimination.”

We survived the flight and landed in Toronto, where we went for a coffee and cake. We started making out like teenagers again in front of the staff, who laughed. We drank our coffee. I had to connect to JFK and she was going to Philly. We exchanged Facebook, and she patted me on the ass as I left.

“My future ex-husband,” she said.

I was staying at an Airbnb somewhere in deep Brooklyn and I couldn’t hack it. The first few nights were OK because the shows I was seeing were in Brooklyn, but the later shows were in the Lower East Side. I had to move to Manhattan, so I took a room at the Roxy downtown. From there I texted Simona.

I told her I was coming to Philly and would be staying at a nice hotel right off Rittenhouse Square. Would she join me? She messaged back that she would like to, but her aunt kept a close eye on her comings and goings and she was living in her house. Simona worked in a bank. Then I said, you are 42 years old. And she said, yeah, OK, I’ll meet you.

Simona drove down to my hotel and picked me up. We drove around and went to the Rocky statue and she took me by the place where they keep the Liberty Bell. I had wanted to go see Jay Som, an up-and-coming musician, but she wanted to see a comedy show. She asked me who should get the tickets. I said I didn’t know the show, and she said, figure it out, you’re the man.

We went to a fish restaurant for dinner and she ordered a bottle of white. Then another half. We drank deeply and ate. When the bill came she offered to split it. I was prepared to pay for the whole night, but she somehow worked out that I had no money. She was smart like that.

We moved to the comedy show. She drank more wine and we left early. We went back to the hotel where I had prepared wine and chocolate. We drank a little and she undressed.

We kissed and I went down on her. I had a condom and put it on, but after the act it had disappeared. I went to shower. When I came out she told me the condom was gone.

“It’s OK. If I get pregnant I will keep the child. You don’t need to worry.”

Uh, OK.

I didn’t want to have a child with Simona; after all, we had just met five days ago. But there it was.

We slept naked and woke the next morning. I entered her from behind and she said, “don’t come in me.” I didn’t. We both showered and went down for breakfast.

After avocado toast and coffee we went to get her car. It was taking forever, so I got a cab as I had to get back to the train station and back to New York. She kissed me goodbye at the door of the cab.

That was the last time I ever saw her.