Canned Coffee

It was six in the morning, having a ride in no time. Still wiping the sleep from his eyes, a driver who resembled a cross between my good friend Elmer and his brother Ray, picked me up, telling me he couldn't take me more than an hour up the road.

As I opened the door to my first Japanese delivery truck, a pile of shoes and canned coffee fell out. Takayuki-san grabbed my pack and threw it in the middle of the truck. The odd amount of shoes in the tuck and general garbage, made it difficult to get comfortable. It was obvious he didn't have many passengers. He skipped all the formalities and was interested in my image of Japan before coming and now. I described how, as a kid, I thought the Japanese always wore samurai or geisha attire and played video games for a living. He laughed and launched into baseball, the national sport. He enjoyed hearing about the San Francisco Giants, Oakland Athletics, and Seattle Mariners. As he told me about his family, how he should have been a famous soccer star, and that if he weren't married, he'd retire in Okinawa, I was convinced he was the Japanese version of Ray Arana. He seemed very proud of his son, who was the budding star at a university in Kumamoto.

Just before 7 we arrived at a rest area and I nearly down from the truck. He quickly shot off toward the toilet, so I decided to forgo the photo and headed toward the exit to set up.

As I was getting my pack propped up in a shady spot, the honk of his truck startled me. Passing by, he tossed me a canned coffee out the window and waved. I snapped a photo, cracked open the coffee, and felt my spirit begin to lift.