Gaijin Smash

My high school is a big one, and a wealthy one, and it's in a busy area. Oftentimes, outside the school gates, there are well-dressed, good-looking young Japanese people handing out fliers to the children walking to school. I have no idea what they're advertising, obviously (I have suspicions of sex-trafficking, but I'll never rightly know), but they're usually bright yellow, usually plastic-wrapped, and they've usually got some kind of inducement accompanying them, a free eraser, or a pencil, or a clear file. The way to a student's heart is through free stationary.

Anyway, it's always the same people, though they hand out different things for different companies each time.

And when they see me coming, they withdraw their hands and turn slightly away. I am not helpful. I am not a student. I am not Japanese. I am not their target market. No free eraser for you, non-voter.

Two days ago there was a new guy doing the job, and he fucked up. I arrived with a big trainload of fifteen year olds, and he accidentally proffered a plastic-wrapped leaflet to me, together with the free eraser. Hurrah! All my dreams come true! But just before I managed to take it, he looked at me properly, and saw the thing that gives me away definitively, undeniably, unarguably as un-Japanese: my face.

He started. I can't blame him, really. What a shock. Like expecting to see a kitten and coming face-to-face with bear. Anyway, he jerked back his hand and took a step backwards. Into his parked bike. Which fell over. On to the road. Forcing the driver of a passing car to jerk the wheel to avoid collision with the fallen bike, which he fortunately managed to do, but not without squealing his tyres and blaring his horn, which is in Japan the shock-equivalent of running the length of a subway carriage naked, slathered in yoghurt.

Gaijin smash, indeed. Next time, just give me the damn flier.