Some say Japan is a safe, quiet country…But they have never seen the deep, dark, forbidding horror of…Route 16
By Lawrence I. Charters (writing as Dave E. Jones)
Photos by Lawrence I. Charters
Seahawk, November 2, 1984, pp. 8-9.
Editor’s note: the following – whatever – deserves an introduction. Too bad; we can’t think of one.
I’ve been through the seven tunnels, taken the 49 wrong turns, suffered 172 nervous breakdowns, and made an unknown number of Christian, Buddhist, and Shinto prayers. I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I confess – it isn’t as easy as I thought it would be. And to think it started out so simple …
Two hours after leaving SRF, the front gate was almost in sight.
I’d been on base for eight months, without a day off, as a Ship’s Supervisor at SRF. Working round the clock on the unlimited limited available unavailability for the USS Honibuket (LCM-8273), I hadn’t had a chance to get out and see Japan. But after we got the Certified Removal Under Deployment catapults onboard, and installed the Hydrogen Monoxide Projectors, and done a final on the new Digital Dumpster, I felt a sense of accomplishment. As far as I know, no other chief in the Navy had ever supervised a $120 million job on a garbage scow before.
Even though it was in Japanese I could tell this was an advertisement for Ghostbusters.
Going in to see Lt. Led Botom that afternoon, I told him I thought I’d go up to Yokota and buy a video system I’d seen advertised in Stars & Stripes. I was starting two weeks leave, and thought I’d do some taping. Lt. Botom looked at me kind of funny and said, “Do you have a license?” “Of course,” I said, “Got it yesterday during lunch.” “Ah, have you ever driven off base before?”
I thought he was acting kind of strange, asking me all these personal questions, but I decided to humor him. “Nah. I’ve been busy with the
ship. But don’t worry; I got some maps from OEC.
There was something different about this drawbridge, but I just couldn’t quite place it …
“Aren’t you supposed to bowl tonight?” he asked.
“Yea, but that’s not until 2000. It’s only 1630 now – I’ve got plenty of time.
I knew some Japanese cars had small engines, but I didn’t know they went down to one horsepower.
“Chief,” he said, in that low, patronizing tone, “I don’t think you know what you’re getting into. I don’t think you can get up to Yokota and back before bowling.”
Officers! They think they know everything. I decided to let him off easy, and said, “Don’t worry about it. I looked at a map. It’s only about 30 miles. I’ll be back in an hour for dinner. Remember, I’m from Brooklyn. I’ve got an uncle who’s a cabbie.” He gave me a strange look, but I shrugged it off and left.
I tried and tried, but couldn’t figure out this sign. Eventually I said to myself, “What’s the difference?”
Two hours later I’d only traveled three blocks from SRF. Pulling up to the main gate, I was a little embarrassed; I didn’t realize rush-hour traffic on base was so bad. I wasn’t worried, though; my time would improve once I was out on the highway. After all, it couldn’t possibly be as bad as traffic in Brooklyn.
As best I could figure out, it meant “Watch out for crumbling pyramids.” I knew the pyramids were getting old, but didn’t know they were in Japan.
By 2000, I knew I’d made a mistake. I was going to miss bowling. I’d already missed several other things. People told me Route 16 was “right outside the main gate,” but I’d been driving for hours and still hadn’t found anything that looked like a highway. There were some signs that said “16,” but they disappeared after a few hours.
I was pulled over by the meanest looking cop car I’d ever seen. When the officer got out, he said, “Go ahead, make my day.” I fainted.
To make matters worse, the kids in the back seat were acting up. “Quiet down!” I screamed. Things were quiet for a while. Then it dawned on me: I don’t have any kids. I’m not even married.
I decided to keep on heading to Yokota. If I came back to the barracks without a video system, the other chiefs would make fun of me. But first, dinner.
Parking outside “Pepito’s Fine Dine,” (traffic hadn’t moved for an hour anyway) I went in and ordered a taco. “Tako?” asked the waiter.
“Taco,” I replied. A few minutes later he came out with a weird bowl of soup. I’ve never been to Mexico, but it sure didn’t look like the tacos they sell in Brooklyn. I tried a few spoonfuls, put a tip on the table, and left. I’ve got a funny feeling Pepito’s couldn’t tell a taco from an octopus.
A half hour and two blocks later I was ready to confess: the traffic was almost as bad as Brooklyn. I was tired, and decided to try again to get something to eat. Mexican food was out, so I said, “When in Rome, do as the Rumanians do.” I’d eat Japanese.
Traffic hadn’t moved for days. Dust was collecting on the windshield. I’d been living out of roadside vending machines. And some jerk at FEN was advertising a Mexican restaurant at Yokota on the radio. If I ever get my hands on that (deleted) …
Walking into a tiny restaurant, I decided to order one of those box lunches everyone has at SRF. Every time I asked for one, though, the waiter showed me the restroom. What kind of joke is this? I ask for an “obenjo” and he sends me to the toilet!
When I got back out to my van I noticed someone had glued some kind of advertising over the front window. I was furious. It’s bad enough trying to drive a van down these little streets without something stuck on your windshield. It was tough glue, too.
Since I was low on gas I pulled into a service station. It was strange. They washed my windows, checked my tires, checked my oil, and bowed me back out onto the street again – they must have thought I was someone else. I was a little unhappy about the gas, though; they swear they put “42” into tank, and I know the tank only holds 15 gallons.
After the accident, the two drivers discussed who at fault.
As the sun rose the next morning I finally found someplace to eat: Denny’s. Pulling into the parking lot, noticed a big, black Cadillac. The driver was dressed in a dark suit, wore dark glasses, and had a crew cut. When he got out of the car I saw his little fingers were missing. I knew in an instant: he was a disabled veteran, probably a chief petty officer! I decided to go over and pat him on the back. Any CPO with a Caddie has my respect.
The next thing I knew I was picking myself up off the pavement. Some people came out of Denny’s and told me the guy was Yamaguchi Gumi. Mr. Gumi sure has a bad temper. Maybe delayed stress syndrome, I thought?
Someone who spoke a little English told me, in a soft voice, that Mr. Gumi was “yakuza.” It fit. I’d watched some sumo on TV, and remembered the top guys were called something like “yakuza.” Maybe Mr. Gumi thought he was in the ring. Sure did deck me fast.
Suddenly in the distance I heard a cheerful tune. At first I thought it was my ears ringing from the pounding I’d got from Mr. Gumi. Then I recognized it: a Good Humor ice cream truck!
Frantically I rushed down one little street after another until I found –
A trash truck. Believe it or not, a large pink garbage truck was playing ice cream music. That’s sick.
I clipped the comer of a building because of the narrow streets.
Eventually I found something to eat in a vending machine. It was a gold mine: soup, noodles, coffee, orange juice, candy, a ballpoint pen, a girlie magazine, and some batteries for my flashlight. There were some other things in the machine next to it that looked interesting, but I was out of change.
Time passes..
It’s been two weeks now. My leave has expired, my JCI has expired, and I need a bath real bad. I did luck out and make it back to base. It was simple: I just followed a car with a “Y” license plate and an “It’s Not a Job – It’s an Adventure” bumper sticker. Could they have been thinking of Route 16 when they wrote that?
Next time, if there is a next time, I’ll take the train. But first – I was wrong. The traffic is worse than Brooklyn. And does anyone want to buy a Nissan Caravan with slightly expired JCI?
Coming soon: bigger than A Streetcar named Desire, more thrilling than Murder On The Orient Express, more terrifying than Revenge Of The Mutant Ninja Turtles, it’s — The Green Kanji Limited. Playing at a train station near you!
Article as it appeared in the Seahawk, reconstructed from several scans.