It’s funny to consider how important things like that felt to me then. Proving people wrong. Fighting stupidity. Wanting formal recognition. It took me a long time to learn that proving people wrong is purposeless, fighting stupidity is futile, and formal recognition prevents people from underestimating you — and thereby from ceding to you surprise and other tactical advantages.
I turned left under the elevated tracks just as a JR train went by overhead, its roar rattling shop windows and obliterating the din of the crowd. Seconds later, it was gone. The crowd was thinner here, pachinko parlors and ramen shops and other such indoor attractions more prevalent than stalls. I passed a cutlery shop and slowed to examine the offerings displayed in its window.
Someone slammed into my shoulder hard enough to spill what was left of my watermelon juice. I looked up. A chinpira, low-level yakuza punk or wannabe, was glaring at me, the rolled-up sleeves of his black tee shirt showing off a weightlifter’s muscles. “Oi,” he growled, “koryaa, doko mite aruitonen, kono bokega!” Hey asshole, watch where you’re going!
If the same thing were to happen today, I would apologize regardless of who was at fault, while taking a step back, blading my body slightly to offer a reduced target profile, and raising my hands palms-forward in a gesture ostensibly placating, but in fact tactically sound. I would convey with my tone, my posture, and my attitude that the aggressor was in fact fortunate I was being reasonable, while at the same time offering him no challenge, no insult, and no hostility, nothing but apparent respect and an opportunity to move on with no loss of face. I would do all this while simultaneously being intensely aware of what was happening at the periphery of the action, and never assuming the aggressor was alone. If he turned out to be too stupid to take the hint, I would act suddenly and decisively — no warnings, no posturing, no gradual escalation. And I would leave the scene the moment the threat was neutralized, keeping my head down and avoiding the eyes of potential witnesses.
But that would be today. Back then, I was fresh from combat, poisoned by testosterone, and filled with inchoate resentment at the world. After what I’d seen and done and survived, I didn’t have to take shit from anyone, least of all some street punk who thought he could woof me into submission.
So rather than doing anything sensible, I took a step toward him and said, “Urusei na, omae koso kiotsukero yo!” Loosely translated, Go fuck yourself, asshole!
The chinpira’s eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. “Oi!” he bellowed. I thought he was yelling at me, but then I saw movement beyond him at the entrance to the pachinko parlor — two buddies, similarly attired, similarly bulky, and now looking at me with malevolent intent.
Three against one, and each of them bigger than I was. The first guy raised his right arm and began to jab a finger in my chest. Apparently thinking this was going to be just a fight, or better yet, a simple beat-down. But I had already clicked into combat mode.
My muscle memory was built on wrestling then, not yet judo. I parried the incoming right arm with my left, caught him under the triceps with my right hand, swept his arm through and past, and simultaneously scooted behind him — a circle drag, a setup I had favored on the mat in high school. He tried to spin, but I trapped his right arm against his side, my hands circling his waist, following his movement so that we were facing his buddies, who were now moving in from only a few meters away.
What I did next was all stupid reflex. I dropped my hips, got my weight under him, and exploded up and arched back in a suplay, another wrestling move that had served me well in teenage competition. The chinpira’s body rocketed over me like the last car on an off-the-tracks roller coaster, one arm still secured to his side, the other flailing crazily. I saw the world sail past in my peripheral vision, the ground looming, and then there was a shock up my arms as the back of the chinpira’s head smashed into the pavement. I heard his skull split from the impact, followed an instant later by another crack—his knees hitting the ground as his legs continued to accelerate over and past his ruined cranium.
I rolled to my side and scrambled to my feet just as the other two reached me. I might have been able to escape, but stun-and-run wasn’t yet part of my close-combat toolkit. My default was continuous offense. So I closed with the guy to my right, a tough-looking punk as ugly as a gargoyle, absorbing a punch to the cheek on the way in and going for his eyes. The other guy grabbed at me, got ahold of the shoulder bag, and hauled me back with it. I turned toward him, slipped an arm between the strap and my body, and bent forward. The bag came free and he stumbled away. The gargoyle jumped on my back. I tried to roll him but lost my balance. We both went down, but I twisted en route and managed to plant an elbow in his side so he took most of the impact. I scrambled on top of him, not yet experienced enough to know the importance of getting clear when there are or could be multiple attackers, grabbed his head, and sank my thumbs into his eye sockets. He screamed and thrashed and I bellowed back, an engine of destruction, gripping tighter, trying to force my thumbs through his eyes and into his brain. Then his buddy was back, throwing punches — I was lucky he didn’t have a knife, or even a pipe — and I released the gargoyle and trained my attention on the more immediate problem. Whatever he saw in my expression, he decided he wanted no part of it. He turned and sprinted away. I almost went after him, the combat switch much easier to flick on than off, but somehow got hold of myself. I glanced around. A cluster of people had gathered in a circle around us, ominously quiet amid the background noise of Ueno. The first chinpira was lying still; the second was writhing on the ground, clutching his face and screaming. Shit. Instinctively I looked down and shouldered through the onlookers.
I circled back to the crowds of Ameyoko, drifted along for a few minutes while discreetly checking my back, then made my way to Okachimachi Station, where I caught a JR train. My heart was racing and my hands were shaking and I felt like I must look guilty of something. But none of the afternoon train riders, mostly uniformed schoolchildren and a few pensioners sweating in their shirtsleeves, seemed to take any particular notice of me.
I got off at Tokyo Station and made my way to the street. It didn’t even occur to me that someone might be trying to follow me and I was lucky no one was; I was just putting distance between myself and the incident. Once outside, I started to think.
How badly had I screwed up? I wasn’t sure. I realized I hadn’t handled the whole thing well. I wasn’t a civilian; I couldn’t afford to take civilian risks or indulge civilian impulses. I’d already done the exchange when the whole thing happened, yes, but I was still part of something covert, and I had to accept the discipline that came with that. I couldn’t be discreet “when it counted.” I had to remember, I had to know, that it always counted.