POV Midorima
I arrive in New York; the trip is humbling in many way, revealing among other things that my English is abysmal. It dawns on me in that moment of realization that Takao's talent for this language is even more impressive than my 3-pointers.
There are hundreds of people waiting just past customs. I'm good enough to know what my name looks like in English, that much I can brag, even if the foreign alphabet makes my head hurt as I search for the person who is supposed to be waiting for me.
I walk slowly through the area, reading each sign, while people solicit me for taxi rides. I am thankful that we've appropriated so many foreign words into our daily lexicon that I am able to turn them down and know what I am turning down.
The instructions that came by email are in English, but Takao translated them and that version is in my jacket pocket. I re-read it, making sure I haven't neglected anything. No, it says to wait here. I take a seat as the seventeen hours of constant traveling, including the layover in Toronto, catch up to me.
I pop one earbud in, and use my now defunct and signal-less cellphone as an MP3 player. Takao has loaded all his favorite tunes for me and the first one to come up on random is K-Pop.
A new group of people with signs replaces the first and a tall black man runs into the area panting. He folds over to put his hands on his knees as his chest visibly heaves. Because I am watching him when he looks up, his eyes lock on mine. He points at me and smiles. I know I appear confused and, just in case, I look to both sides to make sure I am the one he's interested in.
He saunters over to me, trying to hide the way he is still breathing hard and I stand to greet him. He is taller than me, perhaps as tall as Murasakibara. When he is within comfortable talking distance he holds out a piece of paper and I take it. It is a photocopy of the passport photo I had been required to submit. My name is written in English below it. He chuckles when I sigh in relief and holds out his hand.
"Konichiwa," he says.
"I am Midorima Shintarō," I say in Japanese. "Please take care of me."
He blinks rapidly, and then a huge grin breaks out on his face.
"Please God, tell me you speak English."
He speaks slowly enough that I can pick out a few words.
"English, a little. I am Midorima Shintarō," I say carefully, like Takao has forced me to practice for the last three weeks.
"Thank God," he laughs, "I'm Xavier Quentin and I'll be your guide/partner in crime while you're here for camp. Anything you need, any help I can give you, let me know, ok?"
I push my glasses up my nose.
"Do you understand?"
"A little," I say.
"Ok," he says, very patiently. "Come with me."
My guide has a small English to Japanese phrase book and he tries out a few things. We have a simple conversation on the way to the dormitory. He continues to search for a specific word as I enter my living space. I don't have to share this room, which makes one stress dissolve. The accommodations are simple; it has a western-style bed that looks long enough so that my feet won't hang off the end. There is a desk by the window and a sink by the closet at the foot of the bed. The bed is made up and there is a small pile of towels. My room is part of a suite of four such rooms that share a common living room and kitchenette. On my door is my name and an attempt at the kanji for what I suspect is supposed to be the world 'welcome' written across the Japanese flag. The doors to the other rooms have flags of their occupant's national origins as well.
After putting down my bags, I see that my guide is still with me, his nose stuck in the phrase book. I tap him on the shoulder and show him the indicator on my cell phone that shows I have no service.
"Where calls can be made?" I asked him.
"To Japan?"
"Hai, yes."
He beckons me to follow him, and he helps me buy a rail pass. We take the subway to another part of town where he negotiates with a vendor to purchase a phone that can make international calls and two hours' worth of minutes.
The phone isn't charged, so he takes me to a restaurant where we sit in the corner. He plugs it in while he introduces me to New York-style pizza. I don't have much experience with western food, only that which Takao has insisted I try; pizza isn't something I've had before. He orders for us, and I study him.
"Pepperoni," he indicates the meat on the slice in front of me. I repeat the word, and then he runs through the words for cheese and soda. Every time I pronounce a word back to him, his smile grows larger.
"Good?" he asks as I take my first bite of pizza.
"Yes," I confirm. It is a bit greasy for my taste, but the trouble he has taken with me is worth a little indigestion.
When the phone is charged enough to turn on, I dial Takao's number from memory. The time difference is fourteen hours so it is almost one in the morning, but I promised Takao I would call as soon as I was able. He picks up on the second ring. I put the speaker phone on.
"Moshi, moshi," Takao slurs.
"It's me; I've arrived."
"Shin-chan," he shouts. "I love you; I miss you."
"I love you," I say, knowing that my guide is waiting, but needing to say the most important things first. "I could use your talented mouth right now."
"Oi, phone sex already?" he chuckles.
I know I am blushing.
"Get your mind out of the gutter, now is not the time for that. I need your translation skills. You are on speaker phone."
"Ok, go for it. Just say what you want to say, as if he understands, and I'll translate."
"Hello, I'm Midorima Shintarō. Please take care of me."
I wait for Takao to finish speaking the simple sentence.
"My name is Xavier Quentin. It's really awesome to meet you."