Downtown Oct 21, 1992 "World of Cover Bands"

 WORD... A visit to coverband city
     by Mykel Board

More recent writings at: https://mykelsblog.blogspot.com

BLISTER Mag, #2 1982 Mykel's Interview

 Here's an interview I did for BLISTER FANZINE in 1982... Seems it was still ART times. Photos by (RIP) David Svilken of the YOUNG AND THE USELESS

ZAP -- Spring 2021 HORROR PORN

 

HORROR PORN
by Mykel Board
2021

 

If you want to take a look at my more recent writing, check out the blog at: https://mykelsblog.blogspot.com

MYKEL'S APRIL 2021 BLOG or Side Effects

 

Clichés

 (Mykel Board's March 2021 Blog)

 YOU'RE STILL WRONG.. 

MYKEL'S APRIL 2021 BLOG

OR

Side Effects

by Mykel Board

You’re STILL Wrong

or
Mykel's

April 2021 Blog/Column

Side Effects

With some things we are trying to solve some of the problems that are caused by some of the things with which we are trying to solve some of the problems that are caused by some things. -- Mokokoma Mokhonoana

April is when the world slowly opens up and I have to compromise. People will only come out of their cubby holes, masked, vaxxed, and rubber gloved. Really? I find it hard to believe that image of the typical New York wimp is a “tough New Yorker.” Like other images, I guess, it’s only an image. Few people match the image. Out of a hundred, maybe one. Or fewer. Lot’s of other places have people with balls-- here, you can’t even say that word without some feminist saying Yo! I have more balls than you’ll ever have... and being right about that.

I give up. New York is one of the most diverse cities in the world… yet it’s one of the most conformist. I’ve been to every US state, and 70 other countries. The MOST conformist city in the world is San Francisco. Next may be Stockholm, but Stockholm isn’t nearly as cowardly as New York.

The only way you can actually meet people here... have non-virtual social intercourse... go out to eat… to a bar… to a hotel lobby with Dorothy Parker to talk about the state of the world… is to show your Covid test results or your vaccine certificate… otherwise ewwwww cooties!

Bullied into getting shot, I’m on my way to Duane Reade by Walgreens to get the second poke of the government Pfizer-subsidy program. The first shot was free of side effects, but there are all kinds of reports about nasty reactions to the second. 

I’m inside a little white room next to the drugstore pharmacy section. (You’re too young to remember when drugstores WERE pharmacies.) There’s a chair, a tiny table, a sink, and a garbage pail that has a hand-written sign taped to the top of it.

NO FOOD IN GARBAGE. THANKS.

This is clearly to discourage patients from rummaging for lunch. A slightly chubby woman, glasses, stern, smile-less... looking more like a security guard than a nurse... asks me to roll up my sleeve. I take my shirt off.

“I need to see your vaccine card to indicate your second dose,” she tells me. I pull it out of my wallet where it lies right next to my new food stamp card. The unfriendly needle-sticker writes some stuff on it. Then...

She wipes an alcohol swab on my arm and BLAM! ...jabs my shoulder with the pre-loaded needle.

“Have a seat outside for fifteen minutes,” she tells me. “If there are no side effects you can go home.” 

“What if there are side effects AFTER fifteen minutes?” I ask her.

“Then stay, home,” she says… in a serious cop voice, “take Tylenol and drink some tea with lemon.”

“You’re shittin’ me,” I don’t say as I put my shirt back on and go outside to wait for the rest of my hair to fall out. It never occurs to me that there could be side effects other than something horrible.

The outside room brightens suddenly, as if someone turned a knob that had been only halfway up.

About 10 minutes into sitting out my 15 minutes, the nurse passes me to talk to another patient. It’s then that I notice her ankles… like a dancer’s… a sheet of muscle pounding between bone and skin… and her calves… like tight black eggplants… begging to be skinned and boiled. And the way they disappear under her white lab coat… begging to be followed… explored… lifted. Those legs will be the most beautiful thing in the world. I knew then that the smile missing from her face could be found between her legs. I feel a stirring between my own legs.

The RN loudly clears her throat, and looks at her watch. “Your fifteen minutes are up,” she says. “You can leave now.”

“Did anyone every tell you,” I don’t say… but think… “that you’re the most beautiful woman in the world?”

Somehow I manage to get myself to the door. I glance back, but the goddess in white is gone. As I leave the store, I can still feel the blood pulsating between my legs.

Outside, a Mexican delivery boy dismounts his bicycle. On his back is a square backpack with the word CAVIAR in white against a red background. He wears a heavy jacket that does not conceal his Alfred Hitchcock profile. He also wears a black mask with more ridges than a Ruffles potato chip. Above his mask I can see his eyes. Deep brown… the kind that draw you in… the kind that hook your own eyes and pull you closer. The kind that you just want to look at for the rest of your life.

I stare into those wide brown eyes. The guy looks at me, clucks his tongue, then looks back at me. Then he looks skyward, heads to an old apartment building and rings the bell. I watch him move… sexy as a ballet dancer… one leg kicking out… then the next. I’ve never seen anything like it…I’m in love... more stirring between my legs. 

I look at the sky. It is blue… a few wispy clouds form the ass of the Venus de Milo... callipygian… right there above my head. I imagine those cloud cheeks… settling themselves on either side of my face. A gluteal COVID mask… right overhead. I turn around to get a different perspective. I turn again… and again. Before long, I’m just spinning on the sidewalk... whirling... arms flung out… a manic ballet… a Dervish on Spring Street… images of those cheeks resting on my face.

I’m getting dizzy. I stop. The spinning doesn’t. The streets twist around me like chopsticks on a turntable. I feel something under my elbow… a hand… pressing to support me. 

“Are you all right, sir?” comes a voice whose source I can’t quite locate. “Here, let me help you to someplace where you can sit down.”

We move to a stone porch. I sit on one of the lower steps. Slowly the spinning stops.

“Is that better, sir?” comes the same voice. I look up into his face… scruffy beard… impossible to tell where the nose hairs end and the mustache-beard begins. Bushy gray eyebrows… shooting off in all directions. A double… no triple,,, chin, pushed out by the downward look of the mysterious stranger. He’s one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever seen.

“You… you…” I start… “Thank you, you saved me,” I say.

“No problem sir,” says that melodious voice. “You think you can make it home by yourself? Should I call an ambulance?”

“I’m okay,” I answer. “Did anyone ever tell you how dazzling you are?”

A smile with a few missing teeth answers my question… I fear I’ve made the smiler uncomfortable.

“No problem, sir,” comes that voice. “Have a nice day.”

I watch as he walks away… what an ass on that guy!

Holy shit! You never think of side effects as anything but BAD side effects… but this must be a vaccine side affect. Shoot me again... and again. I’ve got to get home to take care of the pressure between my legs. I won’t need youngperps.com today. Just my memories and a glance out the window at a passing stranger. So much love… so much beauty!

See you in hell,

Mykel Board

ENDNOTES: [You can contact me on facebook or by email at mykelboard@gmail.com. Through the post office: send those... er... private DVDs..or music or zines... or anything else (legal only!) to: Mykel Board, POB 137, New York, NY 10012-0003. If you like my writing, you can be notified when anything new is available. Send me an email with SUBSCRIBE in the subject line. Back blogs and columns are at https://mykelsblog.blogspot.com]

--> Speaking of Cop-like dept: WDJT reports that a Wisconsin security guard wound up handcuffed and had to call the cops. Police were dispatched to a local Bath and Body Works around 2 a.m. after receiving a call from the shackled guard.

When asked what happened, the guard told them he was bored and put the handcuffs on himself to pass the time. He hadn’t realized, though, he left his keys at home. He added that it wasn’t the first time it had happened either.

One of the officers used a police handcuff key to free the victim.

Reports are that the guard has since put the cuffs where he can’t easily get to them. I wonder what he looks like.

--> A bird in the Wuhan dept: [This was taken from the CRACKED website.]
Even at-least-now-I-have-time-to-catch-up-on-Netflix thinking can become a curse as you enter the ninth day since you felt sunlight. When you're isolated you crave novelty, and over 40 million people found it in the form of Chinese construction vehicles.

Chinese state broadcasters hosted livestreams of two hospitals being built, and very bored people developed a fandom around the equipment. Cement mixers were dubbed Big White Rabbit and The Cement King. A flatbed truck was declared Brother Red Bull, and the biggest stars of the show were Folkchan, "the cutest and most hard working little forklifts." Fan art was created. Viewers could vote on their favorite vehicles, and little mythologies sprung up in live chats as the construction efforts were cheered on. So please enjoy this lighter side of the corona saga before someone inevitably makes hardcore forklift porn.

–> Howdy Partner Dept: The Washington Post tells us that more than 2,000 police and fire departments across the U.S. have “cooperative agreements” with the Amazon doorbell camera Ring system. This is up from 60 in 2018. The pace of new sign-ups is now two new “partnerships” a day.

Those partnerships allow officers to ask all camera owners within half a square mile of a crime scene to share video that could help with the case, and agencies have been seeking out video at a striking rate. Police in Milwaukee, for example, now send Ring video requests for every homicide and nonfatal shooting in the city. Last year officers there requested video more than 800 times.
Credit where it’s due though. This scary report was published in a newspaper owned by… (drumroll here) AMAZON!

–> More side-effects dept: The Week Magazine reports that there have been unintended side effect from the Zoom Culture that developed over the Covid year. Here’s what they said:

–> Something fishy Dept: CNN reports Taiwan’s government has pleaded with citizens to stop changing their names to “salmon” in order to get free sushi. Restaurant chain Sushiro launched a promotion that people whose names include the Chinese characters for salmon could get a free all-you-can-eat meal with five friends. Taiwan’s interior minister complained that the rush for official name changes created “unnecessary paperwork.” But one college student now named Explosive Good Looking Salmon said it was worth it because he’d already eaten 245 dollars worth of free sushi.

See you in hell… again,

MB

LINK TRADE DEPARTMENT:

I read that the search engines like lots of links... and it's also nice to support my friends and enemies in their blogs. So facebook me or email me if you have a blog, webpage or something else to connect to. I add you. You add me.

Here's a start:

Here’s Richard Goldberg: goldberg.wordpress.com

Poetry and humor fans will like Justin Martin in The Latency

And my friend Mike R has a nice site with recipe hits from the past! (He cooked for me once... great stuff.) Check out Yesterday's Recipes.

Rock-writer and historian extraordinaire, Jim Testa, has continued his great zine online. Jersey Beat is still going!

And here's one by a member of ANTI-SEEN... a tour diary of sorts.

Andy Shelton has an interesting blog here.

Savage Hippie is a guy who has been YouTubing for a long time. Our opinions largely overlap... but he complains that I'm a Communist. I'm not! I'm a communist.

Chris Stecher publishes a zine called PRECIS. You can see the back issue links there... and he promises a new issue soon.

George Fertakis has a very nice graphics-heavy blog... with music and books featured prominently. If there’s no link here (I can’t find it temporarily), then Google… er… Duckduckgo him for information.

And my long-term pal Sid Yiddish contributes with his Mishegas Master Blog.

And connect to TRUST Zine, a long-running German punk zine… that STILL PRINTS!!! Yeah, they have a website too… of course! It’s here.

Here are a couple video links.

This from Jon Cox https://squelchchamber1.bandcamp.com/album/down-so-low

And this one from my very long-time friend Roger Armstrong.

Jim Testa moved his long running zine, Jersey Beat, to the blogosphere awhile back. You can read it here. Jim also recommended a kind of unique album… in a style you don’t see to much of these days… or any days. Neo-Hassidic Rock Opera. You can stream the album here.

Kyle Nonneman is in prison in Portland. At least he can’t be kidnapped by the secret police… I think. I post his blog for him, he can’t do it from the klink. Lots of stuff about noise metal… and some very weird politics that will either fascinate or repulse you… or both.

Oh yeah, then there’s me. I have a blog of stuff I’ve written mostly from last century. You might enjoy it. Then again, you might not. It’s here.

I have a very occasional blog about how rich people are just like us… same needs, same desires, you know. You can read it here.

Let me know if you have a blog… or a print zine… or a YouTube and want to be added to the list. You show me yours… you’ve already seen mine. god@mykelboard.com

ZINE WARS! The story of warring fanzines in the 80s

Here's a frontpage story I wrote about the Zinewars that took place in the 1980s

If you'd like to see something more recent. Check out my current blog at: https://mykelsblog.blogspot.com

Criminal Class Review Vol. 6 Ed. by George Tabb

I turned a MRR column written in Japan into a contribution for this Tabb-edited book, published in 2013. You may still be able to get the whole book on Amazon, last I looked $5.99.

My Life In Crime,
A True Story
by Mykel Board

[Note: Words in italics were originally spoken in Japanese. I've
translated for mono-lingual readers. Also all names and places
have been changed... to protect my ass.]

     I'm on the lamb from Singapore. Skipped out on a gum-chewing
charge. My second rap. Already caught leaving the men's without
flushing. They'd throw the book at me this time. Off to Tokyo,
first time in eight years. Trying to lay low.

     Monday Morning 9:00 AM
     I'm crashing with my pal Toshi. We know each other from the old days. Working the Nova beat, getting a little flash in
Roppongi, small time stuff. He's hole up in Nakano now. Tiny pad, with his Canuk girlfriend. He's got a necktie, golf and manga
gig. Straight stuff, 14 hour days, typical front. But beneath
that black suit, is the same ole Toshi.
     He's laying' low... or trying' to. He's got half a dozen
offenses and the rap sheet grows. Putting garbage out the wrong
day, not paying NHK. The guy just can't keep clean.
     Me, I got time to kill. Just hang out, wait till Singapore
blows over like the next typhoon.
     "Yo Mykel," says Toshi, "while I'm gone the house is yours.
I gotta play Salaryman. That means I'll be home at ten tonight.
Probably drunk as a frog. There's an extra bike outside, if you
want it. I got it from the trash."
     Ah Japan, best garbage in the world. Last time I lived here
I furnished my crib from it. Stereo, TV, washing machine. I knew
when big garbage day was.

     10:00 AM
     The trash bike, leaning against a wall in front of Toshi's
house, needs a bell and a lock. I borrow a screwdriver from
Toshi's stash. A 22 caliber Phillips head. Small, but it packs a
wallop. I put it in my shoulder bag and head to the bike store.
Costs me a cool grand (in yen). But I got that bike spiffed to
the max.
     It ain't easy going, though. After a short ride, a sinking
feeling crawls up between my legs. No air in the tires.
     OK, I figure. I'm cool. The worst I can do is play guilty. I
got nothing to hide, right? I'm just an ordinary gaijin out for a
ride, right?
     So, I peddle up to the lion's den. Local copbox. I put on my
humble face and ask the grey-haired fuzzer hanging outside the
door.
     "Excuse me Mr. Policeman," I say, "Could you tell me where I
can find a bicycle store? I need some air in my tires."
     The old tin badger smiles, like I'm the most innocent guy in
the world.
     "You don't need a bicycle shop," he says, "I'll get you
something."
     He goes into the copbox and comes out with a handpump... and
another cop. This one's mean. About forty five, head shaped like
a piece of toast. Officious, looks like he's itching' for a boost
to detective. Maybe on the soapland beat. Now he's got me.
     He's looking me over real careful. His hands behind his
back, he rises to the balls of his feet then slowly lowers
himself.
     "You speak Japanese?" he asks.
     "Some," I answer. My first mistake.
     "This your bike?" he asks.
     "No," I answer, "I borrowed it from a friend."
     "What's your friend's name?" he asks.
     "Toshio Watanabe." I answer. My second mistake.
     The cop kneels, squats like he's doing number two in a
Yamanote john. He examines some faded white kanji painted on the
front fender.
     "There's a name here," he says, "and it ain't Watanabe."
     "Watanabe's my friend," I tell him, "I think he found the
bicycle in the garbage."
     "This is Japan," he says. "It is forbidden to take bicycles
from the garbage. You will come with me, right?"
     By this time, the copbox is empty. There are four of 'em.
Standing on the street. I'm circled. To my left is a young cop. A
rookie, about 20, baby-faced with a hint of acne on both cheeks.
To his left, is the old man who tried to help me in the first
place. In front of me is Toasthead. Behind me is the bike, now
the evidence. The only way out is to blast through. I wouldn't
make it to the next Doutor.
     The mean cop speaks into his shoulder. There's a strap there
with a small walkie-talkie. I don't understand what he's saying,
except for a whole lot of numbers.
     Suddenly, a fuzzmobile pulls up, lights flashing. I feel a
pain in my right arm. Toasthead has me, his right hand gripping
me tightly around the upper arm. He opens the car door and pushes
me.
     "Get in." he says.
     I slide in, across the seat. The young cop sits next to me
and closes the door. Toasthead gets in next to the driver. He
turns around to the rookie.
     "Watch him." says Toasthead.
     "Yessir!" answers the rookie, looking at me, trying to
squint seriously.
     We're off. Blazing around corners, siren blaring. Locals
looking through the window, spotting my gaijin whiskers, and
scurrying away in fear.

     11:30 AM
     At the stationhouse, Toasthead opens his door. The rookie
opens his door. I try to open mine. It's locked.
     "Get out the other side." says Toasthead.
     I slide across the seat and leave the car. Toasthead walks
over to me. He walks stiffly now, as if his kneejoints are
locking up on him.
     "It's your job to watch him," he says to the rookie. "If he
gives you any trouble, hold him like this."
     Toasthead grabs my right arm and pulls it behind me. Using
his right hand, he bends my wrist forward. He puts his left hand
on my elbow, forcing it the wrong way, against the joint. I
collapse forward in pain.
     "Yessir." says the rookie, but he doesn't touch me.
     Toasthead has let me go now. We're approaching the station
door. Suddenly, he begins to dance. First he hops on one leg,
shaking the other in the air. Then he hops on the other leg,
shaking the first. As he's doing this, he grimaces. It doesn't
take long to figure out what the problem is. I reach for my
wallet.
     "What are you doing?" he asks.
     From my wallet, next to the condoms, I remove a bubble pack
of Immodium.
     "Here," I offer, "It's for diarrhea. Works in a few
minutes." The cop tries to maintain his composure through his
grimace,
     "I don't take drugs from criminals." he says.
     I'm marched into the Nakano bureau. All heads turn. "Book
him. Bicycle theft-- first degree."
     Toasthead is off. I'm now sitting at a huge table, made up
of several smaller tables. There's half a dozen similar tables in
the room. Next to me is an older desk officer. Somewhat chubby,
he's got greying temples and laughlines around his eyes.
     "Does anyone here speak English?" asks the desk officer.
"You, Suzuki?"
     "Sorry sir," answers Suzuki. "I studied it in junior high
school, but I forgot everything."
     "He speaks Japanese," says the young cop assigned to guard
me, "at least a little bit."
     The desk cop pulls up a chair and sits on the other side of
me. He reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a packet of
Sevens.
     "You want a cigarette?" he asks. "Are you hungry?"
     Jeezus! They're playing good-cop bad cop. Here they are, all
the others watching. Just like TV!
     "So, you teach English," He says, "We need English teachers
here. We learned English in highschool but forgot."
     "I'll be glad to arrange for lessons," I say in English.
"Just let me go home and get my books."
     "No can do." he answers, also in English.
     Leaning back, he lets out a huge belly laugh, slapping the
table.
     "You funny guy." he says to me.
     Bad Cop returns. "What's so funny?" he asks.
     No answer.
     "You frisk him yet?" He looks at me, "Stand up."
     I stand up.
     The rookie pats my back and pants legs. "Nothing sir." he
says.
     "That's no frisk," says Bad Cop, walking over to me.
     "Empty your pockets," he says.
     I pull out my wallet, scraps of paper with phone numbers on
them, a comb, and about 250 in yen coins. The bad cop takes the
yen coins and counts.
     "Two hundred fifty," he says, "You'll get that back."
     Then he pats me down. Starting with my shoulders, downward.
Working each side, he makes sure to get in a hefty pat between
the legs. I gasp.
     "Nothing there, right?" he says.
     "Yeah nothing." I say, in English.
     "What?" he says.
     "Right." I say.
     After the frisk comes the bag check. He opens my shoulder
bag and looks through it, pulling out the small screwdriver.
     "A dangerous weapon." he says, "Why are you carrying a
dangerous weapon?"
     "I needed it to put the lock and bell on." I tell him.
     "On the bike you stole." he says. "You admit putting a new
lock and bell on that bike?"
     "I put both on." I say. "But I didn't steal that bike. It
came from the garbage."
     During this conversation, another cop goes to the phone.
He's checking the bike's ownership. I can't understand much,
except "no owner" and "five years ago."
     My attention returns to the desk as Good Cop starts going
through my wallet. He pulls out the Immodium.
     "Drugs?" he asks, "You carry weapons and drugs?"
     Bad Cop comes to my rescue.
     "It's okay," he says, "he offered it to me. For my stomach."
     The desk sergeant grunts and stuff everything back into my
wallet.
     "Now take off your shoes." says Bad Cop.
     While I unlace, it's time for the guard change. A whole new
cop crew twirls their nightsticks into the office. I'm the Show
and Tell.
     No one looks at me directly, but I hear the mumbling.
"Foreigner" "Looks dangerous," "Bicycle," "Bicycle, that all?"
"Maybe drugs-- and a dangerous weapon."
     There are forms and more forms to fill out.
     "You will write," says Bad Cop, "You must say, `I hope the
police will return this bicycle back to its rightful owner.'"
There's more: Sign here. Put your name there. Your friend's
address there...
     I'm getting writer's cramp. No one talks to me for awhile. I
just sit there, writing.
     Bad Cop speaks to Good Cop. I don't understand but Good Cop
opens a drawer pulls out a Polaroid.
     "We take pictures now," says Bad Cop, in English. "You
stand. Follow."
     Together we go out into the hall. There's the bicycle, tires
still needing air. Bad Cop motions for me to stand in front of
the bike. He snaps a picture of the two of us.
     "Now point to the lock." he says, "and look at the camera."
     I do and he snaps another picture.
     "Now we check out your story." he says.

     1:00 PM
     Back in the police car. This time Bad Cop drives. Next to
him another office, just on duty holds a map. I'm in the back.
Watching that I don't make a run for it, is the rookie who hasn't
said a word to me.
     "Left up ahead," says Map Man to Bad Cop.
     We're in Toshi's neighborhood. Heading right for his house.
We park in front. Bad Cop lets me out of the car. Putting the
vice grip on my left arm, he parades me through the street to the
front of the house.
     Toshi's neighbor, a middle-aged housewife, wearing a
housecoat and straw hat, is on a ladder up against her house.
She's washing the windows as Bad Cop marches me past, to the wall
in front of Toshi's house.
     "Show me where you allegedly removed this bicycle from," he
says.
     I point to where the bike was parked.
     "Watch him," says Bad Cop to the rookie. He returns to the
car and comes back with a leather bag. It's the camera.
     "Now point to the spot where the bicycle was," he says.
     I point to the wall.
     "Keep pointing and look at the camera." he says.
     I do. He snaps a picture.
     By now, the entire neighborhood's peeping through their
blinds. The woman next door has stopped washing. She stares at us
from the ladder. The old man across the street watches wide-eyed
through his open window.
     Bad Cop turns to the woman on the ladder.
     "We're investigating here." he says, "Have you ever seen a
bicycle parked against this wall?"
     "Yes officer," she says. "It was there every day, until
today."
     Then the cop turns to the man across the street.
     "And you sir," he says, "have you seen a bicycle parked
here?"
     "Yes, officer." As he answers his hands shake. "It was there
for a long time. I don't know about it, though. I don't know
anything."
     As each stoolie spills the beans, Bad Cop takes careful
notes in a little leather-covered pad.
     Then it's first hand. Crime work. You need to get your hands
dirty. Kneeling, Bad Cop examines the ground in front of the
wall. He runs his naked hand though the soil, lifting it, letting
it drift through his fingers. He grunts. Then we head for the car
and back to the station.

     1:30 PM
     By now, there's a dossier. Maybe they called Interpol. Found
out about the Singapore rap. There's a manilla folder, with a
dozen sheets of paper. A xerox of my passport. The pages I
signed. My picture pointing toward the bicycle and lock. Another
one of me pointing toward the brick wall. There's more: the
screw-driver, lying on the table, viciously set next to my
shoulder bag.
     "You look worried." says Bad Cop. "Don't worry. You will be
able to leave today..." He leans toward me, his wide flat nose is
no more than a fist-width away from my Jewish one, "Only, you
won't leave alone."
     "But my friend won't be back until ten!" I say.
     "I don't want to wait until ten." he says, "Call someone
else."
     "I don't know anyone else." I say.
     "You do and you will." he says.
     The only other person I know in town is young innocent,
Akiko Tada. She's a former student. A Disney fan, with Mickey
Mouse embroidered on every piece of clothing. She's a lamb. The
kind of girl dad would warn about me.
     My boss at the school would just love it if I called her to
bail me out. I don't.
     "Empty your pockets," says Bad Cop "I want to make sure
you're not hiding anything."
     "But you already checked me," I said, "How could I be hiding
anything?"
     "You don't know anyone else in Tokyo, right?" says the cop.
     I give him Akiko's cellphone number. He dials it. I listen
to his half of the conversation.
     "Miss Tada?....My name is Matsumoto. I'm with the Nakano
branch of the Tokyo police department... Yes, I'm sure I have the
right number. We are holding someone who says he's a friend of
yours, Mykel Board... No, he is not injured. We have him on
criminal charges... not in jail... in order to release him we
need you to fill out some papers.... yes, today... you're in
Chiba?... An hour and a half, that's fine. Please come up to the
fifth floor. We will wait for you.... Good bye."

     5:30 PM
     Akiko shows up. Mickey Mouse peeks out from under her open
sweater. Entering the room, she glances at me then looks at the
floor. Good Cop stands up and motions for her to come over to our
table. He offers her a cup of coffee.
     "No thank you," she says.
     Bad Cop asks her for ID.
     "You really twenty-four?" he asks.
     She nods.
     Then, there's paper work. Three or four sheets. Name,
address, employer, relationship to the accused. The kit and
caboodle. She signs and stamps it all. Her hanko puts her
reputation on the line. I don't have a stamp.
     "You have no hanko" says Bad Cop, "use a fingerprint."
     He takes an inkpad from the desk drawer. I press my finger
into it and then onto the paper.
     "You can go now," says Bad Cop, "but you will return at
eleven o'clock tomorrow, right?"
     "Right." I say.
     "And Miss Tada will also come. You should include Mr.
Watanabe. There are questions I want to ask him."
     The cops give us their names. We need them to be allowed
back into the building. Good Cop is Muramoto. Bad Cop is
Matsumoto.

     10:30 AM Wednesday.
     I show up early. I want to make a good impression. Show 'em
I'm sincere. Not the kind to skip out.
     I walk in the front entrance and show the guard the cops'
names. He sends me up to the fifth floor. There, in the office,
Matsumoto stands looking out the window, his hands behind his
back. I recognize him from the shape of this head. He continues
to look out the window as I enter. He sees my reflection, but
doesn't look at me.
     "Sit down," he says. "You will wait."

     10:50 AM
     "They're late, right?" says Bad Cop.
     "Late?" I say, "They were supposed to be here at eleven.
It's ten fifty!"
     "Nnnnn," says Bad Cop, "Late, right? RIGHT?"
     "Right." I answer.

     10:55 AM
     Akiko shows up.

     10:59 AM
     Toshi shows up

     11:00 AM
     "I'm glad you could all come here," says Matsumoto, "We have
a serious situation here. This man has been found with someone
else's property. He was also carrying a dangerous weapon."
     He points to Akiko.
     "You," he says, "have sacrificed your job and your personal
integrity for this man. I hope you know what you're doing."
     Akiko nods, smiles and swallows.
     He turns to Toshi.
     "And you," he says, "you have befriended this man, and acted
in a way that could also cause you criminal trouble."
     Toshio nods, trying his best to look serious.
     "Why did you have that bicycle?" Matsumoto asks Toshi.
     "I just moved into the house," he says. "It was there when I
arrived."
     Matsumoto nods, apparently satisfied.
     "Could I have the papers please?" he asks Muramoto.
     Muramoto takes the now thicker file from his desk. Matsumoto
pulls out the papers with the Polaroids pasted on them. He passes
them to Toshio.
     "You see," he says, "We have evidence."
     Next comes more paper signing. A half-dozen sheets. Each
signed by the arresting officer and cosigned by Akiko, with her
hanko stamped in the appropriate places.
     "Now you sign," says Matsumoto, "you have no hanko, right?"
     "Right," I say,
     He takes an inkpad from the drawer and makes a pointing
sign. "You will use your finger as a hanko."
     I press my finger onto the stamp pad and then in the right
places on the forms.
     Now, Matsumoto has a long conversation with Akiko. I don't
understand most of it. There's something about a "Jyoushinsho,"
the paper I just signed.
     "You studied English," Matsumoto says to Akiko. "He was your
teacher. Explain to him-- in English."
     "Mykel," she says, "this policeman want me to say you that
you sign a apology letter. You say you sorry for the thing you
did. You promise to not do it again, and know if you get in
trouble next time, the police will not be so good. And you thanks
them for being so nice and not take you to court. You
understand?"
     "I understand," I say.
     "He understand!" says Matsumoto.
     "He understand!" says Muramoto.
     There are smiles all around.

     12:30PM
     "You come with me now." says Matsumoto.
     This is it. The jig is up. Brass knuckles or a sap, maybe
the rubber hose. They're going to have to show me who's boss.
     We go down a narrow back staircase. One floor. Two floors.
Three floors. We pass the first floor and enter a winding
corridor into the basement.
     "Wait here." says Matsumoto.
     Leaving me alone he walks into another room. I hear voices.
Then I hear. "Come in now."
     There's a camera on a tripod. A young man with a crewcut
stands behind it. Across the room me is large screen. Near the
screen is an easel with a sliding set of numbers on it. Guiding
me, with his Vulcan death grip around my arm, Matsumoto pushes
toward the screen. Then, he lowers the numbers so they're under
my chin. Mug shots.
     "Look at the camera," says Matsumoto. The crewcut guy snaps
a photo. Then he speaks.
     "Now look at number one." he says, pointing to a spot on the
wall where someone wrote a '1' on a small piece of paper. He
snaps another picture: 3/4 face.
     "Now look at number two." he says. Profile.
     After the mugshots come the fingerprints, three sets, plus
two palm prints. As my digits are pressed one by one in the ink
and on paper, the portly fingerprint officer asks for my name and
other vitals.
     "Profession?" he asks.
     "English teacher." says Matsumoto.
     "English teacher? We don't see many of them in here." he
says.
     "Anyone can commit a crime, right?" says Matsumoto.
     "Right." says the fingerprint man.
     After the prints, I wash up in the sink and head back out
into the hall with Matsumoto.
     There: the two of us alone. He stands me up against the
wall. Looking at the bulge in my pants (my wallet, I was NOT
happy to see him), he asks, "What's in your pants?"
     "My wallet," I answer.
     "Let me see," he says.
     I'm furious. Here I am, being fingerprinted and mugshot for
taking a bicycle out of the garbage. I've already been frisked
twice. That's it! I lose control.
     I pull my pocket inside out. I empty the other one. A piece
of gum and some lint. Throw them on the floor. I empty my coat
pocket, my shirt pocket. Throwing the contents helter skelter
over the floor. My hands shake in anger as I start to untie my
shoes.
     "Stop!" he says, "That's enough... You know, you're lucky."
     I say nothing.
     "In America, the cops are bad. They kill you." he makes a
gun motion with his thumb and index finger. "But Japanese cops
are nice, right?"
     I say nothing.
     "RIGHT????" he says.
     "Right." I answer.

-end-