My Date With a Hammered Yakuza Dude

Before sunrise, a foot of freshly fallen snow in Hokkaido, Japan, and a scheme to liberate day-old donuts. Maybe inviting a drunken Yakuza dude wasn't a great idea, yet we ended up lifelong friends.

They say one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.  A cliche that absolutely applies to those living poor in Japan. Nobody imagines themself dumpster diving.  Certainly not when you are representing your ultra-conservative Christian Church.  However people may view Missionaries, with their short haircuts, white shirts and black name tags, they are still 19 year old dudes.  Some with legit hooligan backgrounds.  I was blown away when I saw what was considered trash in Japan.  Boomboxes and electronics, more high-tech than anything in America.  Only 2-3 years old.  Furniture, appliances, you name it.  At the curb, with all the other garbage.  The Japanese looked at us as if we were f*****g nuts.  But, when you don’t have enough $ to even buy meat most weeks, and 10% real juice drinks is the only O.J. you can afford, all manner of free s**t cannot be turned down. 

It was always an upgrade for our humble abode.  The missionary apartment.  An utterly disgusting place, often with more pubes than carpet.  I always insisted on a vigorous vacuuming whenever I moved to a new apartment.  Scrubbed the years of piss splash stains off the floor and walls around the toilet. We just didn’t care much at the time, and, they aren’t all like that. Just don’t look too closely.  With threadbare or non-existent furniture.  Or, so old and stanky it was no longer tolerable.  Even for teenaged bachelor dudes.  Anything we could score off the garbage pile made a nice addition. 

Hokkaido Japan, Japan’s Alaska.  Home to the 1972 Winter Olympics.  The beautiful northernmost island in the Japanese archipelago.  Home to a very hearty and self-reliant people.  A live and let live people. Quite  different in all regards from the main islands of Japan.  I spent two years there.  Volunteer, we even paid our own way.  We were either studying or working our butts off from 6:30am to 9:30pm.  After a few months, I was so exhausted, I could fall asleep standing.  Physically, emotionally, mentally exhausted.  99.99% rejection rate is exhausting.  Even in two feet of snow, we averaged 15-18 miles per day on our mountain bikes.  In vicious weather conditions.  Our cheap apartments were so old and badly insulated, we had to store our shampoo, toothpaste etc. in the refrigerator. So it didn’t freeze solid.  We could only afford to heat one room at a time, and were only home when we ate or slept.  It sounds like a “20 miles uphill both ways” old-timer BS, but it’s completely true. 

Fast food and luxury food items (pastries, sweets, meat etc.) were daydreamed about, almost daily.  McDonald’s, KFC, Shakey’s Pizza, Mr. Donuts, all existed.  Taunting us with what we couldn’t afford.  Once in 2 years, we splurged on the Shakey’s all-you-can-eat Pizza bar. I remember the panic on that managers face when he saw 8 missionaries headed his way.  “Guys, c’mon, go easy, you kill 2 weeks worth of profit every time your group shows up,” obviously having seen our ilk before. 

Sometime in the 1970’s the Garbage-Donuts tradition was born.  Two missionaries were inside a Mr. Donuts, probably taking brief refuge from the -5F degree cold, 90% humidity, with 25mph wind, weather conditions. The wind blowing straight from Siberia sliced right through all manner of warm clothing.  It was physically painful.  I suffered from bronchitis 5 separate times in two years.  With a one hour break for dinner, we were out in the elements from 9:30am to 9:30pm.  Approaching people on the street, or knocking doors in neighborhoods. Who usually offered the polite Japanese version of “f**k off.”  Nothing but rejection.  So, an active sense of humor was the only method for maintaining sanity. 

They witnessed a Mr. Donuts employee, clad head to toe in his brown polyester uniform, take all the donuts from the display case.  Collecting them in two large garbage sacks, then disappeared out the back door.  

“Dude, he just chucked several million tasty donuts.  Perfectly righteous donuts.”  There would have been some debate about the morality of liberating those Garbage Donuts.  The ethics.  Inappropriate for a Missionary.  Appearances,  and all that.  And then, they said “Fug it.”  So it began.  Nocturnal, or early morning diving for Garbage Donuts, “Gomi Donuts” in Japanese.  It became a proud tradition for those with a little wild streak.  A rite of passage.  The dorked-out, square types absolutely thought it equal with grand larceny.  Armed robbery.  Their righteous indignation angrily objected to such shenanigans.  Common in other pockets of LDS culture, and  any tight-knit religious community, there are those who get a major boner looking down their nose at anything and everything.  It’s their calling, to judge others, call them to repentance. “Little saviors,” I call them. 

Always judging the other side of the street, and never possessing a mirror that can view their own side of the street and self.  Always Tattling. Gossiping.  It’s a righteousness contest and nothing is too petty.  No rule violation too small.  There is a bitterness, a smallness that’s obvious to all but themselves.  Hypocrisy is a human trait we all carry, it’s just that some have more than others.  I have plenty of my own s**t to worry about. Always have.  Demons of all shapes and sizes. Bad habits that have habits, but, religious self-righteousness, nosy, and gossipy is a trio that has always driven me crazy. 

As a Missionary, I relentlessly pushed the buttons of such self-righteous t**d missionaries.  I couldn’t help myself.  The “Mission Presidents” aren’t stupid. They are usually ultra-successful millionaires with the shekels to retire early and accept the job running the entire Mission.  In my case, Sapporo, Japan.  With over 100 missionaries on the island.  They don’t choose the dorked-out tattle tale types for leadership positions.  They choose the the smoothest, smooth-talkin’ salesman types for the gig.  It didn’t help that I quickly rose to leadership positions, driving the power-hungry types I describe straight nutty.  Some of the most outrageously funny stories of my life occurred during these two years.  And stories are meant to be shared.  Back to the donuts. 

I was in a town called Hakodate, on the southernmost tip of the island. Where the undersea train tunnel emerges after crossing from Honshu.  Our apartment was one block away from Goryokaku Koen, a 5 pointed military fortress with mote, and location for the last battle of the Boshin War.  The last gasp of the Samurai vs new Meiji government forces.  The conflict depicted in the movie “The Last Samurai,” as the Tokugawa Shogunate fell after hundreds of years of successful rule.  The Samurai did have naval forces and some modern weaponry, though rarely shown in the historical retelling of the battle of Goryokaku Fortress and Hakodate. 

In April/May, when the Sakura (cherry blossoms) bloomed around the fortress it was beauty one remembers forever.  I would sit silently for hours on our half day off.  I enjoyed riding through daily as we began our day.  No matter the season.  You could feel the spirits active.  Not light or dark, neutral, but definitely a feeling of the weight of history.  Kyoto and the many historical locations therein also conveys this feeling. Gosho, the old Imperial Castle, the Tokugawa Shogun-built Nijo Castle, and others, you can feel the presence of souls.  Sounds bizarre, but it’s the only way I can articulate it.  Kyoto, my favorite city on planet Erf.  One could spend a month there and not come close to seeing all the incredible sights and history.  I’ve been around the world, Paris, London, Amsterdam, NYC, Tokyo, Beijing, Seoul, and on and on, and nothing can touch Kyoto. 

Hakodate was my first area, I was a rookie.  My “companion” was a native Japanese dude and spoke no English.  Only two of us in our 50’s era built apartment.  It did wonders for my Japanese.  Elder Endo was his name. He was old for a missionary at 26 years old.  I would later learn he suffered from mental illness issues and never would be allowed by current standards.  Having experienced a complete break with reality only months earlier, they kept him anyway.  A troubled dude, who struggled mightily with the positive reception I enjoyed with the congregation.  Triffs.  Some would later claim this implied “s**t” and the word would be banned. It meant nothing negative per se.  Single young women that join the Church and seem to worship the handsome American missionaries.  It would be easy to get in trouble.  But, I didn’t go to Japan to release the pink porpoise on the young ladies.  In Hakodate, the “Zone Leaders” lived 2 miles from us and attended the same congregation we did.  Zone Leaders were in charge of several dozen missionaries across a large region.  Most Zone Leaders were in leadership due to meritocracy.  That wasn’t always the case. 

Elder Graham, Zone Leader 1, was the son of an LA Billionaire.  His old man owned skyscrapers, commercial, and residential real estate all over the west and Hawaii.  ZL2, Elder Thomas, was one of those puritanical square types, from small town Idaho.  He looked a lot Napoleon Dynamite, especially when he wore his glasses.  Of course, this was before Napoleon’s introduction to the world.  The rare square I actually liked. Endlessly wallowing in his guilt and self-loathing.  Scared of everything, convinced Lucifer was everywhere he looked.  No matter how committed and obedient, the Mormon guilt mechanism had him by the short and curlies.  I’ve since come to recognize that’s a large part of organized religion.  Control and dominance maintained via the guilt-trip.  No matter how obedient, subservient, some people possess the ability to make themselves miserable no matter how perfectly they follow the rules.  Anything bad that happens, is your own damn fault.  Anything good that happens, well, it’s because you’re righteously obedient to what they say. 

Graham was the polar opposite.  A genuine piece of work.  Funny as hell, he didn’t care much what anyone thought of him, and his disobedient manner, or his missionary skills.  It was something else to hear a Missionary openly say “F**k em’.”   It always cracked me up.  The reason I liked Graham, he had a genuine self-deprecating nature.  He admitted his cluelessness.  He put on no airs, displayed no real ego.  Unlike 95% of spoiled rich kids I’ve ever interacted with. 

Graham used 1/3 of a bottle per day of some kind of fancy hair oil.  Slicked and cemented into place.  I guess he dug that look.  It was kind of disgusting in actuality.  In the heat, it would run and ruin his white shirts.  It looked like a can of Crisco had melted.  So he had a new white shirt for every day of the week in summer.  Brooks Brothers or better.  He removed the shirt and launched it straight in the garbage.  Sometimes at lunch.  On a real hot summer day, he might burn through 3 shirts. 

Whenever two former wildlings met as Missionaries, we would immediately take a liking to each other.  Like two dogs sniffing each others bunghole, you could immediately sense the wildling scent emanating from the other.  We could always spot each other and would gravitate immediately.  So it was with Graham.  His wildling HS years in wealthy San Diego made for some great swerve storytelling.  Not entirely different from my own.  However, his stories always involved BMW M5’s, Porsche 911’s and even Ferraris, instead of Honda Accords and Toyota trucks. 

I have no idea why he was a Zone Leader or even a Missionary.  Later I would learn his old man promised him a house and a BMW M5 when he returned home.  With title in his own name, so no bad behavior could result in the items being repo’d.  The leash that had so effectively maintained control by his old man during HS would no longer force Graham back on the straight and narrow.  Most former wildlings were the most effective, obedient, and hardest working missionaries of all.  Graham, despite his entertainment value, was neither of these things.  Didn’t pretend to be.  A big surprise would be revealed 6 weeks after Graham returned home.  He had knocked up a fine young Sister from the congregation he was in near the end of his 2 years.  A Sister all Missionaries took notice of, because of how torturous it was being around her.  One of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen.  Swimsuit model dimensions and the way she looked at you, dayam.  I have no idea how and when he arranged for the alone time with this fine young Sister.  Knowing Graham, the broom closet wasn’t a stretch.  I have no doubt, it certainly was not a nice long romantic dinner, followed by gentle kisses and gradual foreplay escalation.  Graham used to repeat, and uncomfortable decibel levels, “D****t, I’m sick of walking around with a raging boner all the time.  

Dude, some of these housewives are starting to give me massive blue-vein throbbing boners that don’t go away until Church is over.”   “Dude, okay, keep yer boner talk to yourself.  Frequency, severity, vein count and appearance, all of it, I don’t need to hear it. We’re 19 year old dudes, I take a different viewpoint than the guilt-trip crowd.  Is it better to walk around with a raging boner so fierce, a hole in the ground gives you that “come hither” look and you gotta stick it somewhere. Every thought of every minute of every day ruled by your pulsating boner. Or, rub one out, and get in with business. Business that doesn’t involve every 62 y.o. grandma looking so good your boner is back in business and refuses take down the “Come In, We’re Open” sign.  I don’t care what anybody says, it ain’t healthy.  It ain’t right.  I mean, I try and refrain as long as humanly possible.  But when chicks on billboards start talking, “Ahh, ahh, f**k me Matty,”  it’s time to clean the pipes, man.  Release the hounds, the minnows, man.  It’s every man for himself, but I don’t feel the slightest guilt doing what’s right for me.  I already the tried the absolute abstinence thing,  and dog’s tight little buttholes starting looking real good.”    “Dude, no way?” Graham thought I was serious.  I just smiled and shook my head. He didn’t say a word, just began deep pondering.  I didn’t believe for a second he wasn’t relieving the pressure at all.  I was done hearing about it though.  

He faced embarrassingly few consequences for getting the Church Member pregnant.  Billionaire status goes a long way.  I was going to say “even in the Church.”  But, the truth is, “especially in the Church.”   I shouldn’t have been shocked at Graham’s behavior, but I was.  I wouldn’t even talk with females one-on-one in a crowded room.  I was fully aware the power of the 19 year olds, celibate libido.  If I wanted to ball, I would’ve stayed home.  The pink-porpoise was garaged. 

A few weeks in-country, Graham approached me Sunday at Church. “Matty, Operation Garbage Donuts is green-lit.  Bam Broseph Smith. Tomorrow morning, 5 am.  You are coming, that’s an order Bro MoFo. You’re a virgin and we are gonna blast your cherry tomorrow bruva.”  The Missionary overhearing turned red with embarrassment and slinked away. I think Grammy liked freaking people out.  He openly spoke in such a manner, and some watched in discomfort, as if lightning was about to take him out, and anyone standing nearby.     

Monday was “P-Day.”  Preparation Day, where it was a half day off.  For laundry, shopping, chores and errands.  Only until 5pm.  The only time off each week.  I remember thinking how cruel it was.  Only giving us until 5pm on P Day.  It wasn’t barely enough time to do real chores.  “Grammy, no way Endo lets me.  Dude is wound so tight, I dunno if he’s gonna murder me in my sleep, or the entire congregation some Sunday.”   “Matty, I’m the boss-man.  I say Hola-Bitchola and people jump.  Ummkay, tiny prancer.  Don’t worry your pretty little head Matty.”   He loved calling me tiny prancer, despite being shorter than me.   

“Alright, but he’s gonna narc, and feel doomed to hell.”   “Don’t care. I will have those donuts.  We shall partake until it breaks out into a puke-fest scene.  Like on that movie ‘Stand By Me.’  Just as we always planned, gather the men, we ride at dawn, bwaahaahaaaa,” imitating some Bond villain.  “We can’t afford them otherwise.”  He added, with a straight face. 

“Haha, yeah Grammy, you can’t afford them.  You can buy the whole chain in cash.”  He just smirked, offering no denials. 

On the way home from Church, Endo had to make a phone call.  While Endo was in the payphone booth, I realized somebody was waiting for the phone.  Staring a hole through me, though it was Endo using the phone.  I looked and made eye contact.  I couldn’t prevent the smirk that crossed my face.  This guy mad-dogging me looked absolutely ridiculous.  His evil-eye ramped to 11 when he saw me laughing at him.  He wore a double breasted purple suit with shiny polished brass buttons.  Purple shirt, and polkadot necktie, tied as if a 7 year old had tied it for the first time.  A clown costume, essentially.  The kicker?  Yakuza at this time wore their hair in these amazingly goofy tight perms.  How any macho dude or wannabe badass thinks a perm looks kick-a*s is a universal mystery. 

His clown suit and efforts to intimidate did a good job irritating me.  Low blood sugar probably.  I should have looked away or turned around, but it was too late.  He marched up right up on me, attempting to step into me. However, he was maybe 5’3” and I’m 6’1”.  I’m a lover not a fighter, but at that age, I’m not a punk who accepts being punked without putting up a decent show of attitude or fearlessness.  In his slurry, rolling r’s Yakuza style Japanese he began screaming at me.  A match would have ignited his whiskey breath.  He was hammered.  

“What the f**k are you looking at?  You want trouble?  Why you tying up the phone all f*****g day?  What the f**k are you looking at?”  

His anger and show of macho changed to a surprised shock when he realized I spoke Japanese. 

“You asked that twice, I’m not looking at much, that’s for sure.  Ha, nice suit.  And, I’m not using the phone, you need to ask him.”   He just stared in amazement.  I have no idea why he didn’t realize we Gaijin’s spoke Japanese.  I immediately realized I had made a big mistake.  I wasn’t some HS punk back at home on a Saturday night after some beers.  It was impulsive and stupid behavior on my part.  Unbecoming.  For all I knew, this Yakuza, obviously a lower level street thug type, could’ve stabbed me. Or just kicked my a*s. 

I was very relieved by his reaction.  He began to smile. “Ha, you speak Japanese very well.  I didn’t know that.  Nobody, I mean nobody that is a Japanese person would even dare look at me.  Let alone be a smart-a*s to me.  In Japanese!  I wanted to murder you, but I think I like you. What’s your name?”    

Looking at my name tag he gave it a try.  “Elder Gregory?  What the f**k is an Elder, an old man?  That’s too difficult.” 

“Well, my friends call me Matty.”   “Matty?  Yeah, that’s easy.  It suits you well too.  You like like that Terminator Cop chasing the kid in T2, Matty.  I’m Kazu.  I’m a semi-pro boxer.  I would’ve knocked every tooth out your head before you knew I swung on you.”   Yikes, I thought to myself. Extending his hand, we shook. 

Endo did not like the scene unfolding outside the phone booth. Me bro’ing it out with some wild-man Yakuza dude.  Telling him my first name.  “This is my companion, Elder Endo,” I introduced Kazu and they shook hands. “So, can anyone hear your religion sales pitch?  I love talking about religion,” Kazu asked.  I thought Endo would shut it down.  He did the opposite, freaking me out.  I never could’ve seen the invitation coming. 

“Well, Church is already over today.  Thursday we teach a free English class you’ll love, but, tomorrow we’re going to have a little fun on our day off.  A little secret mission to acquire free donuts.” 

“Steal donuts? You guys?”   “No, we don’t steal anything.  It’s probably too early for you. 5am.”  “Well, I’m going drinking tonight with the crew, so, I dunno.”  I thought this was a terrible idea and tried to wrap it up.  “Kazu, you should come to English.  Thursday.  If you wanna come tomorrow, meet us at 5am by the flower shop on Nakamichi.  If not, see you Thursday.”  He smiled, shaking my hand again.  I’ll definitely see you Thursday, don’t forget me, I want to talk to you man.”  My near scuffle was now a budding bromance.  Endo wasn’t happy at all.  Kazu had zero interest in religion.  Most loved bull-shitting with Americans who could speak Japanese.  He always had a problem when I had any success landing appointments or building relationships.  Even then, I felt kind of bad for his obvious lack of self-esteem. 

“Never interrupt me.  Never brush off someone I’m getting an appointment with.  You’re the Junior companion.  I’m the Senior, sit there, and shut-up. Matty? You are Elder Gregory!”  Nodding was the best I could to, I was irritated by him flipping his lid.  I didn’t want to aggravate him further.  I didn’t want to mention Kazu reeked of booze and wanted to fight me minutes before.  As I got ready for bed later, I was surprised how much I was looking forward to the mission early the next morning.  Time off, let alone trickster, borderline naughty stuff was a rare opportunity.  4:30 am, that alarm came too damn quick. 

I rolled out of my futon, peeked out the window and saw it.  “Endo, we’re screwed.  It snowed at least a foot.”  He jumped up and looked out.  “More than that.  Oh well, nothing new for us.  Even uptight Endo seemed a bit animated this morning.  5 minutes early, we approached the Flower Shop.  It was a ghost town.  Not expecting to see anyone, there was a solitary figure, standing in the still falling snow.  Hopping around, stomping his feet and shaking his limbs, to try and stay warm.  Holy s**t, it was Kazu.  No coat, no hat or gloves, nor boots, wearing the same get-up as the day before.  We wore Sorrel boots everywhere, his feet had to have been frozen.  The only thing Kazu added was 12-14 drinks and probably some form of stimulant.  He swayed and slurred, overflowing with giddy excitement.  “Matty. I’m so hungry.  I love donuts.  This is going to be great.  I don’t have a bike, I’ll have to ride b***h on yours.”   His terminology meant standing on the rear wheel axle bolts and hanging on to my shoulders. 

 Grammy and his partner rolled up on their bikes.  “Thomas and his comp are staying home.  P*****s.  I almost flipped Thomas over to check him for a slit!  I guarantee they will eat the donuts though.  You dudes ready?” Dressed for the job, and every bit as pumped as we were.  Looking oddly at Kazu.  Yakuza don’t really hang with missionaries.  “Your friend?  Is he gonna be okay?” Grammy asked.  “Kazu, this is Grammy.  He’s the General of this mission.  He’ll be giving the orders.”  As he opened his mouth, the smell of whiskey rolled over all of us.  “Yes sir, I’m a soldier, here to obey orders General,” slurry and obviously s**t-faced still.  His rolled r’s and curse heavy brand of Japanese was difficult to understand for all the Gaijin’s.  Grammy just laughed in amazement at our special guest.  Kazu was the kinda dude Grammy would love to bring around all those uptight Church folk and fellow Missionaries.  Just to watch them squirm.

“Haha, that dude it torqued out of his mind.  Whiskey and Dexedrine, obviously.  Those are the dudes that always give us the bird and tell us to F**k Off.  Nice work Matty!  Jesus hung out with all the dregs,” he commended me.  Grammy took charge, “Alright you Bodaggets, our whole tribe is here.  V formation, down the center of the road.  Let the wild rumpus begin.  Move out.”  I couldn’t believe my ears. With Kazu hanging on for dear life I shouted to Graham.  “Dude, wild rumpus?  Where The Wild Things Are?  I freaking love that book.”   “Duuuudde, totally. Best children’s book ever,” was all he said before refocusing on the mission.  

It was a priceless image.  Soggy, stinky purple suit with a bitchin’ perm. Yakuza dude standing on the rear axle of my bike, giggling like a schoolgirl having the best time of her life.  “Woah,” he said, losing his balance.  “Ha, you are so drunk.”  “Hee hee, I can’t remember the last time I was this  drunk,” he concurred.  “I knew I would never wake up, so I just stayed up and kept right on drinking.  Amphetamines are good for endurance,” he confessed.  “Good strategy Kazu,” I said.  The wildling part of me wanting to inquire, “you don’t happen to have a pill for me, do you?”  

The roads were completely empty.  A few early bird shopkeepers were stirring about.  Hearing the snow crunch under tire of our V formation bicycle gang, they looked up startled.  The complete silence of heavy snowfall, interrupted by crunching snow and 7 dudes giggling in chorus. Suddenly, appearing out of the blizzard, a wild band of Gaijin’s +1 were upon them.  Cruising right down the center of the entire street.  I’ll never forget the expressions on those shopkeepers faces at 5am.  Some looked at us like we were absolutely f*****g nuts, or dangerous.  A couple smiled and nodded, obviously able to recall what the whimsy and freedom of youth once felt like. 

Grammy turned into an alley about 50 yards from the Mr. Donuts. “We gotta hurry, they probably think we’re jewel thieves or bank robbers or something.  “Okay, Matty, you’re up.  Listen, do a little recon before, and do not get caught.  DO NOT come back without the donuts.  If you can’t handle it, tell me now.  Some panic, or puss out, or come  back with nothing but lame excuses.”  He didn’t wait for a response.  Kazu had no idea what was being said, but watched intently. 

“Matty, make your family proud.  Complete the mission at all costs, and all that other s**t.  King and Country.  Democracy, Pearl Harbor, you know, right?  Okay?”  “Copy that General.  Nothing will stop me.”  “Okay, take curly here with you,” to great group laughter.  “Dude, you sure?”  “Yep, nobody will interfere once they see Curly.”  There was a certain logic to it.  I translated the orders.  Kazu lit up.  “Iku be (Let’s do it),” removing a knife from inside his belt line.  “Dude, no weapons.”  He looked sincerely confused.  Grammy confiscated the weaponry.  “I’ll just hold this until you get back,” he told Kazu.  A wise move. 

Kazu and I creeped around the rear.  Surveilling from behind a stack of bottles in crates.  The smell of donuts cooking was oh so sweet.  Kazu felt the same, “ii niyoi naaa (Mmm, smells so nice),” he said.  “Okay Kazu, you stand guard.  If anything goes wrong, we walk away.  Promise?  I’m a missionary Kazu, not a an armed bandito.”  He seemed to reluctantly agree.  I stealthily approached and placed a crate in front of the big-a*s dumpster.  The first couple sacks I checked were garbage.  Not a good sign.  I was told the donuts were always on top.  I was already feeling bummed, quite sure I was going to let the dudes down.  Returning empty handed.  I ripped into two more bags.  No joy.  Feeling for shapes I began pawing at other bags. 

Finally, I scored.  Two bags off to the right and below the bags on top.  I carefully confirmed they were both full of donuts.  The euphoric surge of adrenaline washed over me.  As I turned around to give Kazu the thumbs up, s**t went wrong. 

The back door to Mr. Donuts came flying open.  All decked out in his standard issue brown polyester uniform and baseball cap.  The same uniform for decades now.  A young dude, he was absolutely horrified.  He froze.  I may as well have been a martian with a penis growing out my forehead.  He couldn’t compute what kind of creature he was looking at.  A six foot something gaijin with a big beak, standing on that crate, I probably looked seven foot something.  This poor little feller, you could smell the fear emanating from him.  He couldn’t move.  Forwards or back. He was maybe 5’2” tall, staring at this big hairy foreigner that was obviously up to no damn good.  He slowly scanned me up and down.  I reached in my bag of tricks.  A shtick we did all the time.  I reached inside my coat and removed my black Missionary tag.  Thrusting it towards the visibly shaking Mr. Donuts, and with a confident air of authority, I declared, “Sir, U.S. Secret Service, and this is vital evidence. We’ll be taking it with us.”  

It went downhill from there.  Suddenly, from stage left, “raaaaaahhhhhhh.” Kazu came charging right at Mr. Donuts.  He had seen too many Samurai movies.  Dressed like he’s coming home from Studio 54 in 1977.  It was so unexpected and so amazingly goofy, I started laughing right there. “Raaaaaah?” I asked.  Now Mr. Donuts was fixated on the soggy Yakuza who just bull-rushed him.  Ha, Kazu’s perm had seen better days.  It looked more like a wet, dead muskrat by that point.  He responded to my question. “Yeah, raaah is as good as anything, right?  I was protecting you!”  As Kazu and I both began breaking down with laughter, Mr. Donuts saw his big chance.  He dropped the garbage sack he was carrying and fled back inside.  It only escalated our laughter.  I was so wobbly legged, I struggled to secure the ill-gotten booty.  The treasure.  Eventually, handing one sack to Kazu, loud laughter echoing off the alleyway and the buildings, we made our way to our crew.  Like in a dream where you are stumbling and just can’t run like you need to. 

We both laughed until it hurt, finally arriving back at our bro’s hunkered in a circle.  The snow stopped and the darkness was giving way to light.  The townsfolk were beginning to stir.  “Guys, we gotta get out of here. Success?” Grammy asked.  “Roger that,” I said. “Berry berry good,” Kazu added, with double thumbs up.  Still no cars.  We resumed our V formation and cruised down the center of the road all the way to Grammy’s drafty old apartment.  In the morning light, now many townsfolk stopped to behold the sight cruising on by. Surely wondering what the two stuffed garbage bags contained. A “WTF” expression is best to describe the townsfolk witnessing our getaway.  Some bemusement.  Some fear, but mainly WTF?  

6 Mormon Missionaries and a soaked Yakuza dude riding “b***h.”  Daddy didn’t arrange for living quarters, so Grammy’s apartment was as heinous and old as everyone else’s.  It was huge though.  6 Missionaries lived there, with room for 6 more.  Freezing cold, no matter how long you left the heat on.  You could see your breath all the way to the ceiling.  We pulled in and began locking up our bikes.  “Watch, Thomas won’t let this opportunity pass without proving how righteous and superior he is.  You are about to see some legit puritanical theater.  While he stuffs his pie-hole with donuts.  Wanna bet?”   

We entered, and sure enough.  Thomas was standing at the top of the stairs, fully dressed in suit and tie.  Superior in both demeanor and physical elevation.  On his day off, at 6am.  His companion was rubbing his hands together, waiting at the cracking, crumbling faux-wood kitchen table.  “What you boys got,” he asked.  Doing a double take at Kazu.  “Is that is real hair?” He wondered.  Grammy and I, with great amusement watched Thomas check out Kazu.  His soaked muskrat hairdo now looked like a very bad toupee.  Sensing we were talking about his hair, he began trying to fluff it up, make it a bit more presentable.  In the mirror, he realized it was hopeless and turned his attention back toward the treasure sacks.  

Kazu and I slammed the bags down on the table.  “Well guvna, we got a little bit o’ this, a little bit o’ that, innit mate,” I said in a bad Brit accent.  We opened up the sacks widely, and angelic choirs sang.  Glazed, powdered, chocolate, jelly filled, pudding filled, with sprinkles, without, maple bars, danish, every possible type of donut and pastry a dude could ever imagine.  It was orgasmic.  We all busted out a loud victory dance. Hooping, hollering, peacocking about.  Like a pack of ravenous jackals we began devouring them.  Double-fisting, disgustingly loud chomping filled the apartment.  Then, over the celebration and chompery, an audible  “tut tut” of disapproval from on high. 

We looked up to see self righteousness personified. In a Napoleon Dynamite 3 piece suit borrowed from 1982.  Solemnly shaking his head. Mourning over the willful self-destruction of our very souls he was witnessing.  The utter commitment and joy with which we were dooming ourselves for eternity in Lucifer’s hellfire.  It hurt Thomas’ soul, and he must convey that sorrow for all to see and hear.  It annoyed me.  I knew he had participated in a half dozen donut runs in his time. 

“Okay Thomas, powdered or glazed?” I asked.  No deference for his exalted position whatsoever.  The rummaging and chomping carried on. Photos were taken, to record the glorious spectacle for time and eternity.  Factual evidence of a mission within a mission, accomplished.  Thomas wasn’t done.  He was going to make some point, no matter how irritated the group was.  He continued from his perch.  Shaking his head, and staring everyone down with Motherly disappointed looks.  Nobody cared.  Thomas was scanning his humanoid hard drive, scanning for a speech that would stop us in our tracks.  Trigger a mass wave of guilt and teary repentance. 

He settled on a pitch he thought was sure to achieve the desired effect. “Guys, guys.  Please.  Just give me one minute.  That’s all.  Then I won’t say anymore.”  We looked at each other, then Grammy.  “Okay Thomas, one minute.  Remember, every dude here knows how many damn runs you have participated in, so keep that in mind.”  That didn’t seem to stick at all. Thomas began extending his arms.  As if he was about to be nailed to the cross himself.  “Elders.  We are Missionaries.  Representatives of Jesus Christ on Earth.  The one and only true Church that has ever, or will ever exist on this Earth.  I  KNOW THAT TO BE GOD’S ETERNAL TRUTH.  I just have one question for all of you, brethren.  All I ask is you sincerely consider the following question.  With every fiber of your being.  Promise? Okay.  What would our Savior, our redeemer, our Lord, Jesus Christ do?”  

It was silent.  Kazu had no idea what was going on, but sat silently with the group.  I knew this was Grammy’s pitch to hit.  Part of me wanted to swing, but, instinctively I knew Grammy would not disappoint.  And he didn’t. 

Mouth still stuffed with glazed, lips powdered white, Grammy was very calmly matter of fact in his response.  Sincere.  Without an ounce of smart-a*s, it was a throughly genuine response. 

“Dude, what are you talking about?  They didn’t even have Mr. Donuts when Jesus was alive bro!  Not even McDonalds yet.”  

The joint erupted.  Exploded.  He wasn’t kidding in the slightest.  That made it all the more hilariously comedic.  One dude blew a snot bubble, one spit out his mouthful of donuts lest he choke, another on all fours laughing hysterically. 

Thomas was so sure that question would win the argument for him.  Settle the matter.  Stop the sin of Donut Runs for all eternity.  He had miscalculated badly.  Despite not understanding a word of it, the now drying out Kazu was dancing around, laughing loudly with the rest of the group.  Laughter is contagious, in any language.  Then, I smelled smoke. I looked over and saw Kazu smoking a dooger (cigarette). 

Not only had Thomas speech done nothing but boomerang and bury him with thunderous, mocking laughter, now a Yakuza dude was smoking in his house.  It was too funny for anyone other than Thomas to comment. He sprinted down the stairs.  I tried to intervene, but was too slow. Thomas ripped it away and threw it in the sink, turning the water on. “Kazu, hey, you can’t smoke in here.” I said.  “Oh, okay, why didn’t he just say so.  Donuts make me wanna smoke.  He doesn’t need to flip out,” he said innocently, like a child unfairly scolded, triggering even more laughter. Even from Thomas, it was difficult to reconcile Kazu’s genuine, almost sweet nature with the fact he was a hardened felon who cracked heads for a living.  I don’t mean the boxing career. 

I was actually impressed with Thomas’s reaction to his speech’s failure. Instead of pouting, or whining, or carrying on, or disappearing, he accepted defeat.  There were many more facets to Thomas than your average Molly Mormon type.  “Okay, okay. I tried.  Now, do you got any more powdered?  Besides what’s all over Graham’s face?  Thomas was the most likable of the puritanical types I’ve ever met. He was more introspective.

I began searching for a powdered to oblige him. What a perfect ending to all the action and drama.  If even Thomas could crush a couple powdered donuts and socialize with the lads.  I handed him one.  However, my further search only yielded a nauseous disgust.  Getting closer near the bottom of the sack, we had crushed dozens and dozens of donuts.  Parting the remaining treasure in my search for powdered revealed only nightmare.  In the bottom of the sack, the donuts were not alone.  Seeing my expression, everyone stopped chomping.  “Matty, what?  What’s wrong?”   “No freaking way.  No, please, no.  You guys really do not want to see this.  Trust me.  Ahh, that’s disgusting.” 

Human nature being what it is, they had to look.  Grammy rifled through the remnants and saw what I just had.  Running to the sink to spit out the donuts in his mouth.  Dry heaving several times.  Everyone took their peek. Kazu was the only one who didn’t want to peek.  “No thanks. I get the idea, I’ll pass.”  

Grammy softly said what everyone knew.  “Holy S**t, they emptied the bathrooms. The women’s bathroom garbage, in the same sack.  Why the hell would they do that?  That is disgusting.  Are we all gonna die?”  Nobody said a word.  All watching the same ugly film in their brain.  The visual of the bathroom garbage, and all that means, on a hideous loop playing over and over.  

“Why did I have to look?”  Someone asked.  “I told you not to,” was all I could offer.  We all gathered at the sink, stomachs churning.  Grammy’s companion could be heard in the bathroom trying to get himself to yack up all the donuts he had eaten.  Due to the misfortunes in my family,  salvaging bad situations had become part of who I am.  Early on, this meant trite, cheesy cliches people say to not have to face the terrifying randomness and pain life visits on all who take the ride.  I did my best at a Jedi mind-f**k.  Drama and fear is contagious, and usually worse than the reality of any situation. 

“You know what. I would do it all over again.  100%.  Even with that garbage in there.  All that garbage is contained and absorbed inside of paper, and on the very bottom.  We didn’t eat anything near the bottom layers.  None of that transferred to the donuts.  Relax.  Nobody is getting sick.  For effect, I picked up a glazed donut and brushed it off a bit.  See?” As I took a big bite.  Looking around, people began to relax a bit.  Of course, not dumb enough to start eating them again, but it certainly lightened the mood in there.  Kazu spoke next, “Well, I’m going outside to smoke then.  Damn, I really need to get some sleep.  It was fun guys, see you Thursday,” saying his goodbyes.  I walked outside with him. 

As he smoked his dooger (cig) he declared he was committing to learn English from us.  “It’s free, why not.  And you guys aren’t the dweeb dickhead’s we always thought you were.  I might bring some of my brothers.  I’m gonna put in some real effort, not like school.  My brothers will like some of you.”  Kazu never developed any interest for Church talk. He did show weekly and give real effort learning English.  He even attended Church every few months, in his finest Yakuza threads.  It  was the early 90’s so the non-traditional colored suits were big.  It was great comedy watching the Church members squirm.  Conditioned to be terrified of any dude who looked like Kazu.  He remains a friend I’m in contact with to this very day.  Decades later.  I’ve even visited him after my missionary days were over.  You’ll never find a more loyal, trustworthy friend than Kazu, the soggy Yakuza dude.  As far as I know, he’s remained a free man all these years.  His legit rice delivery gig was perfect cover for his more clandestine money collection role.  Months later he brought his boss to English Class.  Straight out of central casting.  Perm, large scar from his forehead down to his chin.  Gravelly voice in a lingo I usually had to ask him to repeat himself, in order to understand.  Gold-rimmed, designer, tinted glasses.  $3k silk suit and fine, pointy Italian shoes.  He didn’t come to learn.  He pulled me aside. 
“Oi, come here,” he brusquely demanded my presence in the hallway. “Listen, I wanted to  thank you guys.  Kazu, even for my guys, I worry a lot about him.  He’s a wildcard, impulsive, no direction or hobbies.  Death or jail was guaranteed.  He was gonna kill somebody, for no damn good reason.  But, something changed.  Since he met you guys, he reads books.  He studies English daily, talking to himself nonstop, practicing pronunciation.  He’s somehow less f*****g crazy.  He needed associates outside of the life we live.  I just wanted you to know that.  I brought you a gift.”  I tried to refuse the gift.  It was a watch. Nothing expensive, ha, probably hot, but when I saw his expression as I tried to refuse it, I quickly changed my mind.  Made a business decision, as it were.  This wasn’t a man who took no for an answer.  I didn’t feel threatened, I just saw the beginnings of genuine hurt feelings. 

His words had nothing to do with me.  Before I start sounding all self-congratulatory.  It was a combination of missionaries in general, and the lifestyles of his fellow Japanese he witnessed in the Hakodate Mormon congregation.  Clean, healthy living with a commitment to human progress.  Being ones best self possible.  It wasn’t a concept Mormons invented or owned exclusive access to.  It was simply a concept he hadn’t witnessed up-close or considered the possible benefits of.  Moderation, and friendships outside of the violent criminal syndicate that was his entire life heretofore.  His only association and relationships, until he got a sample of something different. 

He became friends with most of the missionaries during our donut run. And continued to do so for the next 20+ years.  Missionaries transferring in and out of Hakodate.  He didn’t miss English class.  That made me happy for what it meant.  No prison, and still on the right side of the grass.  I glimpsed his world 2 years later.  I returned to Japan and went to dinner with him.  He picked me up at the member’s home I was staying.  His tits’d out Mazda RX-7 was gorgeous.  I’ll never forget the look on the Church  family’s faces when he picked me up.  They wouldn’t have been more freaked out if Ozzy Osbourne himself picked me up.  It actually caused quite a scandal in the congregation.  As if it meant I had joined the Yakuza.  Or sold my very soul to Lucifer.  I’ve never understood how so many miss the most important principles and messages.  Who Jesus spent his time with, and the importance of embracing all.  Something that really bothered me by the time I was twelve years old.  Especially engaging those on the rougher side of life.  Too often, members of organized religion become entirely obsessed with appearances.  With what others are, and should be doing,  based on nothing but appearances and snap judgments.      Attending Church that Sunday, many suddenly avoided me and  wouldn’t even speak with me.  I made a tactical decision.  Choosing the biggest gossip in  the congregation,  I  planted a little nugget, sure to be repeated.  

“I went to dinner with Kazu.  It’s incredible the transformation he’s made  since first meeting us 4 years ago.  Like any of us, he’s not perfect, and I can’t share, but the changes he has made are quite incredible.  Jesus taught us, it’s people like Kazu who need our attention more than anyone.  If I hadn’t befriended Kazu based on appearances, he says he would be dead or in jail by now.  But, it’s sad so many members  suddenly won’t even talk to me, simply because I went to dinner with him.  Assuming I somehow did something wrong, it’s the opposite of what I understand the teachings to be.”   

It may have been a little heavy-handed, but the reaction, gossip and large numbers of people involved, really pissed me off.   Rather than adding such commentary to the talk I gave in Church that Sunday, I opted for the more subtle approach.  By the time I reached America two weeks later, there were a dozen letters from Church members who obviously received the message loud and clear.  As a missionary, it was always weird to me how they perceived 19 year old kids as some already deified celestial beings already having  achieved perfection.  If they only knew.  Those perfect beings were farting in their cupped hand and butter-cupping it over the nose of their companion during Church meetings.  And launching eggs at the motorcycle gangs doing donuts in the intersection outside the apartment at 3 am every night.  Well, the eggs were a rare occurrence, too expensive, but those damn “bosuzoku” kids on bikes did that stunt many nights in a row.  If the cops showed up, they menacingly circled the cop cars, like sharks with blood in the water, kicking and spitting at the hapless and terrified traffic cops.  Traffic cops are a little different over there.  There was a deck around the  entire building, so we could launch eggs from the opposite side.  The side facing the hellions in the intersection.  Then run back to our apartment on the opposite side with the bosuzoku never realizing the egg-chuckers didn’t live on the side facing the intersection.  It was well worth going without eggs for 3 weeks.  We assumed they would ratchet up their hooliganism, haha, they never returned.  Not once, in the remaining 3 months I lived in that apartment.  It wasn’t their stunts we objected to.  It was interfering with our precious, badly needed sleep.  

Kazu loved to tell us stories about his bosuzoku days.  A love of motorcycles, another area which we shared commonality.  His promises to visit America haven’t happened yet, but he cherishes the dream it may happen someday.  I hope it does.

My Garbage Donuts career was over as quick as it began.  Not nearly as exciting, but we discovered a simple fact.  If you asked the right manager, they would save them for us.  Most said no, but the occasional dude would do it.  The story of the real garbage in the donuts likely limited the tradition among future generations of Missionary.  How could it not.  It’s a shame.  All our interesting traditions are being replaced with staring at screens and maybe reading about, or watching a video of someone else doing it. 

I have no doubt, even if  Mr. Donuts existed in Jesus’ time, he would’ve been fine with the practice.  I guess we will never know.  One thing I do know, that was only the beginning of many gloriously outrageous tales that occurred during my missionary career.  So standby, there is plenty more where that came from.  Until next time, Stay Frosty, Stay Aerodynamic.