(Section 1)
"Get my glasses back!" I yelled at the guy with a receding hairline on the forehead, who seemed to be in his 40s. An older-looking guy, maybe his brother, and a 40-ish woman, were standing next to and behind him, respectively. I was standing just inside the doors to this house, facing them across that part where the raised inside and the outside of a typical Japanese house is divided. Shoes were clattered on the floor, with a small shoebox right next to me against the wall. A male colleague of mine, who was one year senior to me at the same university, was standing to my left. We were live-in newspaper delivery boys at a newspaper delivery ... whatdoyoucallit, office? outlet? nearby, responsible for delivering morning and evening papers every day in this neighborhood. This house was one of about 150 households I had been assigned to since I entered college in the spring of 1988, just several months earlier. It was in the middle of summer now, and the day, hot with a clear blue sky during the day, was turning to an increasingly more humid evening. The streets were rather busy with people: housewives going to or from shopping for the evening, children still playing around, elderly men and women walking, some with sticks, carts, strollers or whatever.
(Section 1 revised by ChatGPT)
"Give me back my glasses!" I shouted at the man with a receding hairline, who looked to be in his forties. Beside him stood an older-looking man—maybe his brother—and a woman around the same age, standing just behind them.
I was standing just inside the entrance to the house, facing them across the threshold that divides the raised interior from the outer entryway, typical of Japanese homes. Shoes were scattered across the floor, and a small shoe cabinet sat next to me against the wall.
To my left stood a male colleague from the same university, one year my senior. We were both live-in newspaper delivery boys at a nearby delivery office—outlet? depot?—responsible for delivering the morning and evening editions every day in this neighborhood. This house was one of about 150 households I had been assigned since entering college just a few months earlier, in the spring of 1988.
It was now midsummer. The day had been hot, with a cloudless blue sky, and was giving way to a heavy, humid evening. The streets were still bustling: housewives heading to or from the stores, kids running around playing, and elderly men and women strolling—some with walking sticks, some pushing carts or strollers, or whatever else they needed to get by.
(Section 2)
"Would you please pay the money for the past two months? And please get my glasses back, will you?" I said to the balding guy again, who was holding my glasses in his hand that he had taken off my face a minute or so earlier. We were there to demand that they pay the monthly subscription fees due for the past couple of months. It was our responsibility not just to deliver papers but to also collect the fees every month. Around one in 50 households was like this one, routinely failing to pay up, requiring us to visit them and ask for the payment of long overdue money. In this case, the talk between us and them had been going on for maybe 15 minutes, and was beginning to heat up a little when the man extended his right arm in an unexpectedly swift motion and grabbed my glasses rather skillfully; I tried to duck but it was too late (I'm not very good at quick reaction: I once had my belly, of all the parts of your body, bitten by a friend of mine's small chihuahua-like dog when I was 10 or so). The guy and his family were running a small business related to domestic tours or something. Apparently, the business wasn't booming. "Will you please return his glasses?" said my senior buddy. After a few more minutes, we gave up and went to the police box, explained the situation, and came back to the house with a police officer. The guy finally relented and gave me my glasses back.
That was a day in the summer of 1988 for me. Thinking back now, I think I heard "Plastic Love" by Takeuchi Maria playing from the PA system along the shopping street on our tired and leasury, bicycle-way back to our delivery office.
(Section 2 revised by ChatGPT)
"Would you please pay the money for the past two months? And give me back my glasses, will you?" I repeated to the balding man, who was holding my glasses—the same pair he’d snatched off my face just a minute earlier.
We were there to collect the unpaid newspaper subscription fees for the past couple of months. Delivering the papers wasn’t our only job; it was also our duty to collect payments each month. About one in every fifty households was like this one—habitually behind on payments and requiring a visit to remind them.
The conversation had been dragging on for about fifteen minutes and was beginning to heat up when, all of a sudden, the man lunged forward and grabbed my glasses in one swift motion. I tried to dodge, but it was too late. (Quick reflexes have never been my strong suit. I once got bitten on the belly—of all places—by a friend’s small, Chihuahua-like dog when I was around ten.)
The man and his family ran a small business related to domestic tours or something along those lines. Judging by the situation, it didn’t seem to be doing too well.
"Will you please return his glasses?" my senior colleague said firmly.
After a few more minutes of fruitless arguing, we gave up and went to the neighborhood police box. We explained what had happened and returned to the house with a police officer in tow. Only then did the man finally give in and hand my glasses back.
That was a summer day in 1988. Looking back now, I’m pretty sure I heard Plastic Love by Takeuchi Mariya playing over the PA system along the shopping street as we pedaled our bikes wearily but leisurely back to the delivery office.