An American Branch - Sample Chapter
An American Branch
Kenneth Wayne (author)
“Why do you want to enter this university?”
“Oh, I thought I could get into business or something.”
“What kind of business?”
“Something make a lot of money, ya know?”
“Like working for a trading company?”
“Yeah.”
Fucking typical, I thought. Most of the young Japanese who wanted to enter this American university branch said the same thing. In reality, most would end up with jobs far less attractive. This kid I was interviewing, with his spiky punk-rock hairdo and a circular earring, hadn’t even graduated from high school.
I glanced up at the clock on the wall and noticed it was time to finish the interview. “Well, Mr. Takeuchi, it’s your turn to ask me a question or two.”
“So, uh, do we learn the same way as high school?”
“What do you mean?”
“Ya know, study hall and stuff like that?”
“Well, initially you’ll have to take twenty hours a week of language classes. Connected to these are some tutorials. I guess those are a kind of study hall. So, how long did you go to high school in the States?”
“Ah ... about two years, but didn’t graduate.”
“Why didn’t you return to Osaka and graduate here?”
“I don’t like Japanese high school.” He looked directly into my green eyes. “So, can I go university without graduating?”
That was the ten-thousand-dollar question (the cost of a year’s tuition). Usually, at least a general equivalency diploma (GED) is necessary, but our Academic Director is convinced that Judd University Japan (JUJ) can accept any adult with the “potential” to learn. I guess this kid qualified; at least, he was somewhat proficient in English. His time in the States gave him an advantage over most of the other applicants.
The next interviewee was far below the average in English, but I found it hard to focus on her linguistic ability once I noticed that her denim blouse barely restrained an ample bosom.
“Why did you choose Judd?”
“I America go want.”
“Why do you want to go to the United States?”
“I America like,” she said, looking as though she thought her answers were stated with the utmost clarity.
“Sorry about another ‘why’ question, but, why do you like America?” My face was trying to project benevolence, while my brain was rubbing massage oil over her jugs.
“American very friendly,” she said through a pretty smile.
If the thirty applicants taking the placement test today were to enter, it would give us over 300 students; definitely, a good start. Having worked at two other branch campuses prior to Judd, I knew the typical American branch in Japan had humbler beginnings. JUJ was fortunate to be backed by a large electronics company, which let it be known through the promotional literature that job opportunities in the company may exist upon graduation.
Of course the vast majority were years away from graduation since, before taking university classes, they had to study in the intensive English program (IEP) of which I was the director. Before JUJ, I had run an even smaller program for another American branch. In the three years that I had been there, we had experienced modest but steady growth. Unfortunately, the Japanese backers had expected more, so rumors were circulating that it would soon close. When I learned that a company with deep pockets was planning to finance the opening of JUJ, I sent my resume; luckily, the new position began just after my contract at the other school came up for renewal.
I found it was easy to adjust the curriculum from my old program to fit JUJ. I persuaded one of the best teachers from that school to become my assistant director. Within two months, we had the language program running: books, faculty, learning resources, and other facilities. By the opening of JUJ in early May, we were ready.
The opening ceremony was held in a banquet hall at a famous hotel since this gave it a rather prestigious appearance, and since JUJ did not have a room big enough to hold several hundred people.
At the ceremony were the usual suspects: company presidents (potential employers of our graduates); American consulate attaches (one of which read a letter from the governor of the state at which the home campus was situated); the owner of the main campus and his wife (having arrived the day before); the CEO of Nakamura Electronics (the owner of our branch); the faculty; our dean of academic affairs; my assistant director; and me.
The national anthems of both Japan and the United States were played by a quintet and were sung by a professional choral group. The words of both anthems were printed on the back of the programs (if case anyone felt moved to sing along), the usual boring speeches that guaranteed a dull ceremony, and the whole affair culminated with parents taking pictures of their darlings in the lobby of the hotel while standing in front of a signboard that advertised the ceremony. Unfortunately, several groups of parents coaxed me into posing with their darlings. The climax to these festivities was that classes started the following day.
Since the opening, I faced an onslaught of student, faculty, academic and administrative problems, in addition to seemingly endless meetings. In such an environment, I could accomplish little at school; therefore, I usually took my work home like any typical Japanese workaholic on the path to “karoshi,” a Japanese term meaning “death from overwork.”
After supper, I often stayed in my study until 10:30, and then came out to witness my wife Reiko either sitting at the dining table reading the evening edition of her Japanese newspaper or watching TV. If she were reading, I’d pick up a novel and read while enjoying a nightcap or two. If not, I’d watch TV with her. Invariably, we would say little to each other.
This behavior I could blame on my work, but we knew there was another reason. Rather, we had grown a little distant, a feeling which may have been attributed to our being married for seven years but failing to produce an offspring. The past year or two we appeared to accept our fate. We had never bothered to consult a doctor, nor had we discussed doing so. Perhaps we were frightened that such knowledge would drive the fertile one to abandon the other.
Things were better before I got into administration. As a teacher, I had more vacation time so we did a lot of traveling. Since I became a director, however, it just seemed there was never time to get away. The same was true with going out on the weekends or socializing in the evenings. Whatever the cause, our life had taken on a sterility of its own.
“I don’t wanna go to school,” I whined as I put on my shoes. I said the same thing practically every morning. There was a grain of truth in the whine, however. Actually, I never liked school, which made it difficult to understand why I chose a career in education.
Reiko hugged me and gave me a quick kiss. “You poor baby,” she said as she let go of me. She stood dressed in her light-green bathrobe and gave me a little wave as I opened the front door of our tiny rabbit-hutch of an apartment. The sunny spring morning reconfirmed my suspicion that it's a mistake to choose a job that traps you indoors for most of the day.
Luckily we lived on a quiet, side street, lined with many trees under which it was nice to stroll. This pleasure was short lived, however, since once I turned the corner, I entered a maelstrom of commuters that sucked me toward the nearest train station. On either side of the narrow street were many shops that catered to the thousands of people who lived in this suburb of Osaka. As I walked, I joined a fast-paced procession of lemmings drawn to the station. Bicycles, buses, cars, and pedestrians rushed down the side-walk-less street by the hundreds and thousands in this daily migration. By the time I walked the ten minutes to the station, almost being clipped by several cars and bicycles, I was in the same brisk mode of the multitude: periodically checking my watch to see if I could connect with the train I usually took.
As I arrived at the station, I jockeyed my way past the slower commuters, pulled my wallet out and had my magnetic train pass ready to insert into the automatic turnstile with a flick of the wrist. The pass quickly reappeared on the other side as the doors opened. I deftly retrieved it, walked through and slipped my pass back into my wallet, while hundreds of people were either going my direction or coming down the stairs to exit the station. I took the stairs, two at a time, and stood on the platform just as the orange-colored train arrived.
Once the doors opened my fellow commuters and I squeezed into an already packed car. As usual, I hoped to be smashed up against a young secretary or office girl with large breasts and short skirt who would be delighted to feel the length of my cock stiffen as it pressed against her belly. Unfortunately, I was crushed in a corner by the door with businessmen in similar-looking suits, all acting as though they were not packed together; idly looking at the advertisements lining the walls or hanging from the ceiling; each with his briefcase defending his lower torso.
My cattle-train commute would last about fifteen minutes until I was deposited onto the platform of the station closest to our campus. As the doors opened, I popped out and proceeded to walk in the direction of JUJ. Within ten minutes, I was walking into my office where my secretary, as usual, was seated at her desk.
“Good morning,” she chirped.
“Well, good morning, Yuka. How are you today?” I responded in turn. As I approached my cluttered desk, I wondered what crisis awaited me.
“Morning Charles,” my assistant director greeted as he poked his smiling, bespectacled face through the door that separated our offices.
“Morning Frank,” I replied, nodded my head and sat down in the leather-backed chair at my desk, “anything brewing?”
“Well, there’s a fresh pot.” He waved the coffee mug in his hand. I grabbed mine from my desk, stood up and headed toward the community coffee maker, hoping to get some before it was pilfered by our caffeine-deficient staff. Not surprisingly, I found I had to stand behind two teachers as they greedily poured energy into their mugs.
They looked up and grunted in unison, “Morning Charles.”
“Morning gentlemen, I hope there’s some left,” I said in a feeble attempt to elicit remorse for not allowing their chief to take his share of the hoard before they split what remained. Of course, I had no such luck.
When I returned with the half cup that remained of the once fresh pot, Yuka told me that a student had just been in to make an appointment.
“Yeah, three o’clock is fine; today’s meeting with Nakamura should be over way before then. If not, I’ll just say I have to meet with a student. Frank can cover for me,” I said, sitting down with my coffee.
As 3:00 neared, I whispered to Frank about the appointment, then stood up and made a slight bow to Dean of Academic Affairs Nakamura as he stood at a whiteboard drawing crazy flowcharts and rambling on in a raving frenzy: loving to hear himself speak in a second language.
The student was sitting on a black leather couch to the left of my desk between it and the door to Frank’s office. I noticed he was the boy from the interview, with the spikey hair, who had attended high school in the States. He looked up when I walked through the door and smirked. I returned a smirk and a slight bow of my head. Yuka had vanished, as was her custom when someone had an appointment with me; no doubt, wanting to avoid listening to my rotten Japanese.
“How have your studies been going?” I asked while sitting down on the easy chair across from him.
“That’s why I come. Class too hard for me.”
“What level are you in?”
“Three.”
“You feel that’s too difficult? I thought it would be too easy for you since you spent two years in the States. Most everyone else has never been out of Japan.”
“But they graduate from high school. I didn’t. I feel better in lower level.”
“Why? You scored rather high on the placement test; you’d be wasting your time in a lower level.”
“I speak pretty good, but I can’t read good,” he said, looking at me.
“Let me check your records,” I said, standing up and walking to a row of filing cabinets along the wall opposite from where we were sitting. I opened one drawer and looked for his file. “What’s your last name again?”
“Takeuchi,” he mumbled.
“Oh yeah, here you are.” I pulled his file and headed back to the easy chair. “Well, I gave you a Level Four for the interview, you scored a Level Three for the reading and listening portion of the test, and a Level Two for the writing. Averaging your scores, it's easy to determine you are a solid Level Three.” I looked at him and thought he reminded me of a kid I knew in high school with the same smug attitude and the same dark, gapless eyebrows.
“I Level Three difficult,” he said, obviously trying to sound less proficient than he was.
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
“You’re a little younger than the other students. If you worked hard, you’d be able to graduate at the same age as the typical Japanese university student. You won’t be slowed down like those who have to spend two or more years in the IEP.”
“Level Three too hard. Can’t do it.”
After we stared each other down for a minute or two, I decided it wouldn’t matter what level he was in since he wasn’t here to study.
“Since your writing score was low, I’ll move you to Level Two. Since I teach at that level, I'll probably have you in my class.”
Once I got Takeuchi squared away, I decided to return to the meeting. I grabbed a note pad and headed toward a room down the hall, but saw Frank walking towards me.
“Were there any revelations after I left?” I asked as I sat down on the couch in Frank’s office. He gave me an ironic look and then smiled.
“Dozens heaped upon dozens. The flowcharts on the whiteboard came and went, lives were changed, decisions were made; the fate of this institution was sealed,” he said while collapsing in the office chair at his desk.
“In other words, Nakamura kept rambling.”
“Exactly.”
“Well, that was another afternoon frittered away. I swear, a person comes in here ex-pecting to get something done, but the time is wasted with worthless meetings devoted to discussions about why we can’t get anything done.”
“So, what did that student want?”
“The lazy ass wanted to move to an easier level.”
“At that rate, he won’t be able to graduate in four years.”
“I’d predict ten if ever.”
“Well, what would the recruiters say?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not sure, but Oshima asked a question in Japanese. Nakamura babbled something about if we offered classes in Japanese, students could graduate in four years.”
“I don’t follow,” I said as he took off his frameless glasses and wiped them with a yellow cloth. He looked up from the glasses in his stubby fingers and squinted at me. “I didn’t understand everything, but I’m sure it’ll resurface.”
“Do you think they’re planning to graduate everyone in four years?”
“I don’t know,” he said, looking unfocused and confused without his glasses.
“I think I can guess what my weekly meeting with Nakamura will be about,” I said as I got up to return to my office.
