Chapter 18: TAKING A SHIT IN JAPAN

I have told this story a few times in mixed company. It is absolutely one hundred percent true. Not a single word is embellished. Most of the stuff I am writing here is riddled with bullshit. But this story is the God's honest truth.

I went to Japan as a documentary photographer for Channel 5 back in 1980. We were supposed to visit the Nissan plant and sample Japanese culture and bring back video of the trip. It was a plumb assignment with a reporter who was a great writer and a close friend. Greg and I had teamed up for a lot of great assignments and some really lame shit as well. We always managed to laugh our asses off and work our asses off at the same time. It was great to get the opportunity to go to Japan for ten days but going there with Greg was the icing on the cake.

When we got to Japan, we were met at the airport by a chauffeur with a little cap and a big sign that said, “Mr. Zerb. Mr. Thompson.” They spelled Greg's name wrong somehow but mine was perfect. We had never been escorted from any airport before so this was a blast. As we grabbed our bags we tried to make a detour to the bathroom but this poor guy spoke no English and we couldn't get him to slow down. So we followed him to the van and settled in with our stuff, hoping it would be a short ride.

Greg and I had opted not to take a shit on the airplane for some ungodly reason.

So as soon as we arrived at Nissan headquarters, we piled out of the van and skipped up the stairs and into the elevators. It was a long elevator ride. Both of us were suffering mightily by the time it stopped. We were greeted at the door and ushered into a large meeting room. They immediately started handing out business cards and I became greatly afraid that everything was coming to a head.

I looked at Greg. He was starting to sweat. I made my way over to him and I decided to take matters into my own hands. I lifted my arms in the air and asked for everyone's attention.

“Please!” I said, “Greg and I have just finished a very long flight and we must visit the bathroom before we can meet with you guys.”

After a brief moment of silence, I wondered if Greg had just shit on the floor. Apparently, it is bad form to make a public announcement like that in Japan. They looked at us as if we had just soiled the carpet. It really didn't matter to me. I knew they thought of us as vulgar Americans and I was gonna give them exactly what they were looking for.

The interpreter finally told the others what we had said and there was some nervous laughter. Finally, a young man took me by the arm and led us to the latrine. I thanked him and we walked through the door.

Finally! Everything was clean as a pin and orderly as hell. I opened one of the stalls and noticed that there was no toilet, just a porceline hole in the floor. Greg opened the next door stall. Same thing. We looked at each other and started to laugh. Then we noticed shitting noises and realized we weren't alone.

I walked into my stall and closed the door. I heard Greg walking down the long row of stalls, opening doors and closing them. I could see that there was a man in the stall next to me. As I took down my pants, I tried to figure out how to aim my ass at the little hole.

It was a really small hole. So I pulled my pants down to the floor, positioned myself as if I were sitting on an air toilet, took careful aim, and let fly...sort of like a bombadier bracketing in on his target.

I missed. Most of the shit hit the little porcelin thingee and some of it landed on the floor. It took a supreme effort, but I managed to stop the shit in mid turd. Now I had to clean up the floor without getting shit all over my hands and clothes. It was hard to do because my pants were still on the floor and the toilet paper was really thin. I thought I heard the guy next to me mutter something in Japanese. He seemed to think I was some kind of scum bag. I have no idea what he was saying, but he clearly was talking to me. I ignored him and cleaned up the mess.

Now it was time to give her another go. This time I sighted the hole and then moved forward a few inches. Bulls eye! Only one problem. When the shit hit the water, it splashed up all over my clothes. I had to stop again and reconnoiter.

Suddenly, it hit me. You ain't supposed to act like you are in an imaginary chair. You are supposed to crotch all the way down and put your ass on the little porcelin thing. Wow! What an uncomfortable way to take a shit. But once I got the mechanics down, I was able to finish the job without too much further ado...or should I say doo doo ado?

Anyway, as I came out of the stall, I began to snicker. Greg came out about the same time and he was laughing pretty hard. I thought we were both laughing at the same thing. But Greg was laughing harder. In fact, he was laughing so hard, he couldn't talk. He just grabbed me by the arm and led me down the row of stalls. He opened the last stall and showed me what was so damn funny.

It was regular, American style toilet sitting there in the last stall, still warm from Greg's enormously relaxing dump. We both pealed with laughter as the suit clad Japanese gentleman came out of his stall. He did not share our bemusement.

It was the beginning of a great adventure.

In the next few days that followed, Greg and I were treated like royalty...albeit imprisoned royalty. Everything we did was by their schedule. We were television reporters. And working by a schedule was absolutely foreign to both of us. The Japanese wanted to make sure we took back footage of exactly the right kind. That meant we were not to ask for interviews or do anything off schedule. We soon learned that our trip was not meant to be great journalism. It was meant to be a public relations production...propaganda.

Greg and I talked about this. I was hard on poor Greg. I urged him to ask hard questions and be a good journalist. But I was like a kid in a candy store. The Japanese know how to make a good cameraman salivate. In fact, I may have been preaching journalism to Greg, but I was practicing propaganda myself.

It was just so hard to keep a good perspective with these guys. Our interpreters were the nicest people you ever met. They tried their utmost to wine and dine us even though we were uncomfortable being catered to in that way. And every time we asked to jump out of the bus and shoot something that was happening extemporaneously, they looked at their watches and said, “But schedule says...” This became a joke with Greg and me. We would throw out a suggestion and then watch them confer and look at their schedule. Then we would smile at one another when they carefully told us that there was no time to do what we had suggested.

I cannot emphasize how valuable it was for me to be there working with Greg. I knew him as a friend, not just a reporter. So even though the trip was often stressful, I always knew that Greg would have my back. This became necessary when we had to go to a Japanese news station to sort out an equipment problem.

We were in a long line of traffic creeping along, trying to get to the station before our deadline. The traffic finally came to a complete standstill. I got out of the bus to see what was wrong. The Japanese freaked out. We were not supposed to venture out on our own like that. As I walked away from the bus, they all yelled at me to come back. Then they all filed out of the bus like a line of keystone cops with black suits and skinny ties.

I had walked less than a block when I saw the problem. Somebody ahead of us had parked illegally in a spot that was way too small. It was a Volkswagon beetle. There were at least a dozen Japanese gathered around scratching their heads. A large bus was unable to get through and that caused the bottle neck. So I walked over to the car and opened the door. My little entourage began chattering disapproval. They kept saying, “No No No, must ask permission!”

I turned to Mitsunaga, my lead interpreter, and asked him why I should be polite to this unknown Volkswagon owner when he had shown no deference to the rest of us. But Mitsunaga just kept insisting that I ask permission. In fact, all of the Japanese around me were extremely distressed at my actions. I ignored all of them. Greg nodded his approval. So I slipped into the driver seat and pulled the gear shift to neutral. Then I pushed the car out of the way to the approval of everyone watching, and everyone quickly got back into their vehicles and drove through the now clear intersection. It was a lesson in culture I will never forget. The Japanese culture is polite to a fault. This was proof.