Turning Japanese - Part 1

 

The routine of my life was a suffocating blanket. My marriage was a quiet arrangement, a truce more than a partnership, our passion a faint, distant memory. My mind, as it often did, was drifting. I was pushing the lawnmower, its rhythmic drone a sound as monotonous as the rest of my existence. I glanced over to the Kurosawas' yard. Akari was stretching on her yoga mat, her body a perfect hourglass of taut curves, large breasts swaying gently with her movements.

I envied the ease with which she inhabited herself. My own body felt like a rental I couldn't afford. I was prematurely doughy, my back ached from even moderate exertion, my hairline—once the only thing I liked about my appearance—retreated another half-inch every tax season. The mildness of my self-loathing was, I thought, a form of progress. It had been worse, once.

I must have been staring. The mower's engine nearly drowned out my own thoughts. Akari lowered her arms, rotated with deliberate slowness, and caught my gaze. Her mouth twitched, the hint of a smile, and she dipped her head in a way that was both mocking and oddly formal. I looked away, flushing with embarrassment.

But as I bent to clear the grass from the mower's blades, the world seemed to tilt. Time hiccuped. The drone of the mower was replaced by a hush. The sun, moments ago a baking disc, was now filtered through a haze of scented air—eucalyptus, lavender, the faintest thread of something citrusy.

My hands, braced against the metal housing, were gone. In their place were two delicate, almost translucent fingers, tipped with neatly-trimmed nails painted a pale, impossible blue. I recoiled, but my own body did not respond. Instead, I stumbled backwards, landing with a soft thud on what felt like a yoga mat. The shock of this displacement froze me for a long, queasy moment. I stared at my new hands, turning them over, flexing each finger. They were too small, too soft.

Panic built in my throat, but the only sound that emerged was a strangled, breathy gasp: "Iie… yamete…"

Nani? Nande? Dō natta no? (What? Why? What happened?)

What the fuck was that? Japanese? Was I speaking Japanese?

I scrambled upright and was immediately overwhelmed by a rush of alien sensations. I became aware, with horrifying suddenness, of the weight on my chest. I looked down, expecting to see the familiar slope of a beer gut and instead saw two perfect hemispheres, clad in cropped t-shirt, heaving with shallow, anxious breaths.

I remembered the sight of Akari stretching on her mat. The leisure with which she moved. The casual ownership of her space and her body. Was that who I was now?

Was I dreaming? Had I finally, irreparably, lost my mind? I squeezed my new arms with the other hand, pinched the soft flesh of my thigh, pressed my index finger hard into the hollow of my wrist. The pain was real, or at least as real as the world had ever felt before.

My head was lighter; my vision, somehow wider. I could see the neighbor's fence, my own back yard, even the blue flicker of a television through the sliding door of my house. I saw my wife, was it possible, inside, dusting the shelves, her trademark scowl in full bloom as she muttered to herself about my laziness. I wanted to call out to her, but I hesitated. What would she see? An imposter, an interloper, a woman in the neighbor's yard having a nervous breakdown?

I had read stories about these sorts of things, laughed at them—body swaps, spirit possession. I had always chalked them up to the collective wish-fulfillment of the maladjusted. Now, trapped in a body that was not mine, I realized the wish was not, as I had imagined, to become someone else, but to escape oneself entirely.

But I needed to go back. I needed to be myself, as miserable and unremarkable as that self might have been.

I closed my eyes, squeezed them tight, and conjured the memory of my own hands gripping the mower's handle, the sensation of sweat pooling in my armpits, the ache in my lower back. I concentrated, furrowing the borrowed brow, and begged whatever force had done this to undo it.

There was a sensation like falling, or maybe like being thrown from a moving car. The world went black for an instant, then snapped into focus.

Suddenly, I was standing by the rose bushes, talking to my wife.

"...so I was saying," she continued, her voice warm, "we should have the kids' friends over this weekend. Did you hear me?"

I stared at her, my mind blank, a cold dread washing over me. I had been gone for only a few seconds, but my body hadn't paused. It had kept going. It had walked away from the mower, crossed the lawn, and started a conversation without me.

My mind reeled. I had no idea what my body had said or done. But then, as my wife's questions began to feel mundane again, I felt a profound, intoxicating relief. My body had acted seamlessly. She hadn't noticed. The terror began to fade, replaced by a quiet, gnawing wonder.

My life was so routine, so predictable, that even a temporary absence of my consciousness wasn't alarming. My body, my life, was an autopilot vessel, and I had found a way to escape it without anyone knowing.