Tomi Cox

Nobody warned my wife's cousin Tsuchiya that Americans mean it. In Japan, polite sentences are decoration. "Please drop by anytime" means please don't. "If there's anything I can do" means there isn't. So when his company sent him to Alabama for a year, Tsuchiya made a decision. To be safe, he would treat every polite thing an American said to him as an official instruction. This was a mistake. A beautiful one. WEEK 1. "Did you find everything okay?" The cashier at the grocery store asked him this. Tsuchiya answered honestly. He had not. He could not find mirin, a rice paddle, or aisle 7. The cashier picked up the phone. "Need some help up front." A stock boy came. Then the manager. Then Miss Loretta, the 79-year-old greeter. Then a man in a camo hat who had just been standing in line. For twenty minutes, five Alabamians and one Japanese man moved through that store like a search party. They found the mirin. They did not find a rice paddle. The manager went into the back, came out with a wooden spoon, and said, "Keep it, buddy." The line behind him applauded. To this day, Tsuchiya answers "Yes, thank you" to that question even if he has found nothing. He cannot risk another search party. WEEK 3. "Holler if you need anything." His neighbor Royce said this on move-in day. Tsuchiya did not know the word "holler." He looked it up. To shout. Loudly. That night at 11 p.m., the pipe under his kitchen sink burst. In Japan, you do not shout at night. You do not really shout at all. But he had been instructed. So he opened his window and, in his clearest English, shouted: "ROYCE. I AM HOLLERING." Royce came across the yard in forty seconds. Boxer shorts. Headlamp. Wrench. His wife right behind him with a flashlight and, for reasons nobody has ever explained, a whole pecan pie. He fixed the pipe in ten minutes. Then he clapped Tsuchiya on the back so hard his glasses moved and said: "Now THAT'S how you holler." WEEK 6. "Make yourself at home." A coworker invited him to Sunday supper. At the door, his mother, Darlene, said, "Come on in, sweetie. Make yourself at home." So he did. He took off his shoes. He bowed to the house. He washed every dish in the sink, including several from Friday. He folded a basket of laundry. He found the vacuum. About forty minutes in, Darlene walked into her living room and found a Japanese man she had met less than an hour earlier, fluffing her couch cushions. She stood there for a long time. Then she went into the kitchen, called her sister, and said: "Faye. I think I got a new son." WEEK 10. "Come by anytime." He came by at 7 a.m. on a Saturday. They made pancakes. They were thrilled. He came by the next Saturday. And the next. By the time he left Alabama, Tsuchiya had eaten pancakes at that house 38 Saturdays in a row. Nobody ever once asked him to call first. There was a stool at the counter with his name on it. Spelled wrong. He never told them. Somewhere around Week 20, he figured it out. He explained it to me like a scientist. "In Japan, polite words are a wall. A very beautiful wall. You admire it from outside." "In Alabama, polite words are a door. And it is already open. They just say it so casually, you don't notice you're allowed to walk in." He came home in March. In April, an elderly woman moved into the apartment under his. Mrs. Yoshino. 83. She lives alone. On moving day, Tsuchiya stood at her door, bowed, and said in Japanese: "If you ever need anything, please holler." She looked at him like he had lost his mind. Last month, at 11 p.m., her power went out. She opened her window. And very quietly, the way only an 83-year-old Japanese woman can, she hollered. He was down the stairs in forty seconds. Headlamp on. Holding, for reasons he still cannot explain, a pie.