Nonfiction, Maybe (Or, Running Errands in Kyoto)

“Shiseido Majolica Majorca Lash Expander, Shiseido Majolica Majorca Lash Expander…” I mutter, thinking that perhaps saying it over and over again in English would help me read it in Japanese.

I squint and stare at labels inside this Kyoto drugstore. I have no idea what I’m doing.

Should’ve Googled it before coming here. I don’t even know what it looks like…

Thanks, Captain Hindsight.

I sigh in anguish.

A recent NYTimes article states that we read fiction as though it was virtual reality—a compelling out-of-body experience which feels real to our brains. As a primarily creative-nonfiction writer, I find it problematic to exclude nonfiction from that line of thinking. So I pose a challenge to you, dear reader. What I’m writing may or may not have actually happened. Think about whether you find it compelling or mundane and, if you want, let me know. The rest of this blog is assuredly nonfiction.

“Can I help you?” a male employee asks. He looks like he’s in his early twenties, and has a less heavy Japanese accent than most people I’ve encountered so far. Generally, the trend I’ve noticed is that the younger a person is, the likelier he or she is to speak English. His bright, white shirt makes his red and off-white apron look dirty. His brown sneakers are actually dirty.

“I’m looking for Shiseido Majolica—”

“—Lash Expander. Yes, I heard you. It is this way.”

We walk further down the aisle and he leans down towards the shelves, his jaw hanging freely and his eyes moving back and forth like he's a typewriter. After searching for a few moments, he points. There it was.

“Thanks,” I say, reaching out and grabbing two cases.

“Where are you from?” he asks. I’m the only one here except the middle-aged woman at the cash register. I wonder if he’s her son.

“United States,” I answer politely.

“You did not learn Japanese before coming? Must be unpleasant.”

“I mean… I’m fine. I use gestures and stuff.” I speak slowly and clearly so that he can understand me easily.

“It does not bother you that you cannot read signs?” and, after a pause, “or find makeup?”

“It’s actually kind of cool that I can’t read anything. I look at something just… just to enjoy it, not to get any information. It shows me how people design. Like… here—” I point, “—why are you using like seven different fonts? Does anyone find this easy to read?”

He laughs.

“And it’s so cluttered! Why are these words all squeezed together? And why is this bigger than this?” I continue speaking and pointing, critiquing a drugstore banner as if I’m in a museum.

“This…” he points to the large font, “means ‘discount’, and these words are smaller because it shows you what items are discounted.”

“And this,” he points to the blue text, “is a completely different section. This is when discount ends, next Saturday.”

“Oh.”

His maybe-mother-but-definitely-boss yells something from the cash register. He says something in Japanese, bows goodbye to me and rushes over to the snack aisle.

“Your English is really good!” I yell, walking towards the cash register to pay.

“Thank you! I watch lots of South Park!”