The front wheel of my bike had deflated again, so I figured it had a hole in it. I left school a bit early, wishing I could go straight home to hook up my internet, but I had to deal with my bike problem first. It was mid-October and I only then received my modem in the mail—a package that granted me connection to the world outside of Takuma. In pursuit of a quick fix, I went to the local bike shop that I had been to once before. The last time I was there the shopkeeper was friendly and helped me pick out a light considering that my previous one was broken. He attached it to my bike, ensuring that I would be able to ride safely after 6:30, just around the time that darkness settles over my town.
I parked my rusty and worn-out bike out front alongside the new ones asking to be sold. Gripping the script explaining that my tire had deflated, as if an explanation was necessary in such a case, I approached the shop keeper hoping for an easy interaction. He looked up from his magazine, and in a playful tone, muttered the English words: “may I help you?” I found his smile endearing, and in an effort to take the pressure off of him, answered in Japanese.
Minutes later the man was lying on the ground beside my bike, as if he were a mechanic working on a car. I commented that the light he previously picked out for me has been working well, and then he explained to me that earlier that morning as I crossed the street on my ride to school, he had stopped me to turn it on. I was confused because I was aware that I had such an interaction with the crossing guard, but I had no idea that the bike shop owner was the same person. Every morning I smile and greet that crossing guard hidden behind his hat and face mask; unknowingly greeting the man who so kindly ensures that my battered bike lasts the duration of yet another JET participant’s stay in Japan. I laughed and told him I was surprised and apologized for not recognizing him.
As he patched the hole on my front wheel, his wife came downstairs and chatted with me in Japanese about their honeymoon, thirty years ago, when they went to Disney Land. She then asked where I lived, said that she had indeed heard of Pennsylvania, and guessed that it was about two hours by plane to California. I explained that America is a lot wider than Japan. She seemed surprised.
After the man fixed my bike he chatted with me a little bit more and then ran to the back of the store and brought me a bag of oranges, grown right here in Takuma. I then asked him how much I owed because it seemed that he had no intention of charging me. He was pleased that I paid him, as if I expected him to fix my bike for free. He returned to the back of the shop in pursuit of further gifts for me. He emerged with a small sculpture of a tiger that he had purchased at a local festival the previous weekend. He handed it to me as a token of Japanese culture; a gift welcoming me to my new life in his town.
He stopped the cars as I crossed the street on my ride to work the following morning, and I stopped to show him that my wheel was holding up well. He smiled, as did I, and I continued on my way.
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