I'm in Japan, in a corporate office along the back wall of the office where there are life size puppets of politicians and Gods. There's one of Marilyn Monroe holding raincoat over a tiny zen monk's head. There's a typewriter with a scroll of paper feeding into it from the wall. This is where Japanese business men write to the suicide gods. They write things like "I am not worthy" and "I'm a disappointment to my father". There is only room for a few words on the scroll and the rest of the words are left to the gods to do something with.
I'm with my coworker. She's Chinese American and leads the e-commerce department. She's all data and numbers. She's a bit masculine in her thinking, her ROI goals. She grabs the typewriter off of the table in the office because she believes it will help her suicidal son. We speed down the highway and pull into a parking lot at mall. She brings the typewriter into an Asian fish market with frozen dumplings and mochi. This is where her son works. He lumbers up to the typewriter and begins to type his fears. They are like everyone else's. He doesn't want to disappoint anyone mainly. He wants to feel free. And he is when he types the word "free." I see his shoulders release under his white coat. Mimi hugs him tenderly like Lucy the Chimp.
We are back in the parking lot. A white cop gives us a ticket for things we've done over the years. It's going to be very expensive.
