A few weeks ago I had a pretty unnerving experience with a door-to-door newspaper seller. I was getting ready to go to a BBQ in the mountains when I got a knock at the door. When I opened it, the guy standing there gave himself an involuntary shake (“Who’s this white girl?!”) before giving me a sorta-kinda professional smile.
“Japanese, Japanese, Japanese, shimbun, Japanese, Japanese, Japanese,” he said. He was maybe in his early 30s, wearing regular street clothes and no nametag. He didn’t offer me a business card. His white van was parked in front of my apartment building.
“Shimbun?” I asked dumbly. “Newspaper?”
“Yes!” he said in English. “Nu-su-pei-pa!”
“Daijoubu desu, nihongo wo yomemasen,” I told him, and made to shut the door, thinking that was it. (That’s OK, I can’t read Japanese.)
“Japanese Japanese Japanese ikagetsu dake Japanese,” he told me, not letting me shut him out just yet. (….just for a month….)
“Honto ni, nihongo wo yomemasen. Shimbun ga irimasen. Arigatou.” (No, really, I can’t read Japanese. I don’t need a newspaper. Thank you.)
“Japanesejapanesejapanesejapanesejapanesericejapanesejapanese! Chotto matte kudasai.” (….rice…wait just a second.)
He bounded down the stairs and I shut the door, immediately grabbing my cell phone to call my Japanese friend who was on his way to my house to pick me up for the party. Unfortunately, his English isn’t all that good over the phone.
“Hey! Where are you?” I asked. “There’s some guy at my house. Will you please ask him what he wants, and tell him to leave?”
“Nani? Nani?” (What? What?)
I repeated myself slower, but by this time, Newspaper Man was back, carrying a 5- or 10-kilo bag of rice with him.
“Nevermind,” I told my friend. “Just hurry up and get here.”
Newspaper Man stepped into my entryway where I take my shoes off, and shut the door behind him. Oh no. Luckily he stayed there, and didn’t try to come all the way into my house. (Sure, the entryway is considered public property in Japan, but you’re not supposed to shut the door!)
“Nanika u . . . ura . . . ure . . urimasuka?” I stumbled over the Japanese word. (Are you selling something?)
“Sou desu!” (Yes!) He started chattering away in Japanese again, and I interrupted him in English.
“I’m sorry, I don’t want a newspaper subscription, even if it is just for one month, I don’t need one, I can’t read Japanese, and what’s that rice all about? Will you please leave?”
“Dou imi, dou imi? Wakarimasen.” (What’s that mean? I don’t understand.)
“Irimasen! Sayonara!” (I don’t need it. Goodbye!)
He put the bag of rice at his feet and switched registers from polite to casual, putting the bag of rice at his feet. “Hitori de sundeiruno? Kare ga iruka?”(Do you live by yourself? Do you have a boyfriend?)
“Kare ga inai, hoshikunai!” I matched his register. (I don’t have a boyfriend; I don’t want one!)
“Nande?!” (Why not?!)
“Iranai. Shimbun mo iranai. Sayonara.” (I don’t need one. I don’t need a newspaper either. Goodbye.)
I wish I knew how to say, “Please go away,” or “Please leave,” in Japanese. He was crouched down in the entryway like he was going to stay for a while, the bag of rice (whose purpose I still didn’t understand) lying like a well-trained dog between his feet. I was hoping if I just said “goodbye” often enough he’d get the picture. Obviously he didn’t.
I tried in English anyway. “Please go away. My friends are coming in a few minutes to pick me up. Please go away. I don’t want anything.”
Of course he didn’t understand, and I was getting frustrated with this failing conversation that I didn’t even want to be having in the first place. It’s not like I had invited him in. He smiled sleezily and pointed at his face.
“Ore ga? Iranai?” (What about me? You don’t need me?)
“Iranai yo!” I lost my temper. “NANIMO kaitakunai, NANIMO hoshikunai, SAYONARA!” (NO! I don’t want to buy anything, I don’t want anything, goodbye!”)
I pointed at the door, pointed at him, and pointed at the door again. “Sayonara!”
I think he got the picture that time. He picked up his bag of rice, and with a half-hearted “sumimasen,” walked out the door. I double locked it and waited for my friends to come.
The next day was Saturday. I was hanging my laundry out on my balcony around noon when I saw that familiar white van pull up. Newspaper Man got out, glanced up at me, and hurriedly walked to my neighbor’s door with his head down. When she didn’t answer, he scuttled back to his van, slammed the door, and drove away in a hurry. I haven’t seen him since.
Whatever happened to the polite Japanese not wanting to intrude on anyone? Why push the issue of selling a newspaper to a girl who can’t even read it, even if she does get a free bag of rice with a one-month subscription? Why not just say, “Oh, excuse me,” and walk away as soon as she says, “No thanks”? Why try to force the issue? And why get all personal?!
***
By the way, the polite version of “Please go away” is “Kaitte kudasai.” Or you want to be a bit stronger, “Kaere!” Things I wish I had known . . .
