It’s raining children and their lifeless bodies pile up on the side of the road. That’s the horrifying vision I see as I walk home along the tree-lined, majestic boulevard of Omotesando in Tokyo.

Last year, I contributed to raising millions for the Asian Children’s Fund, but they choose not to spend any of it on helping starving children. Guilt plagues my soul, infiltrates my psyche. It wasn’t my crime, yet I was helpless to prevent it.

I approach the humble apartment building within which I live. The Okabe family eyes me suspiciously from their ground-floor windows. They own the building. The father feels it his civic duty to cast a stern gaze on me each time I enter. They have valid reasons to doubt me, so I simply look away.

This is my second year in Japan. It feels things can’t possibly get any worse. Three months ago it became clear the Asian Children’s Fund, which brought me to Japan and gave me a work visa, was a sham, so I quit.

Busy work days changed into endless, empty hours. One hobby of mine fills me with hope. On a backstreet of Harajuku, hidden behind the shops selling brand name goods, down a back alley past the lane packed with students buying accessories, lies a library. The modest library has two floors, not many chairs, nor many books. It’s visited only by students with textbooks, and old men seeking refuge. The book ends of adult society.

A library should accept everyone with open arms. But not me. I receive icy stares from the reception staff. I do my best to ignore them as I walk in wearing my heavy backpack.

A foreigner in a library of Japanese books, that’s why I don’t belong. To prove myself, I sit for hours reading a Murakami Haruki’s A Wild Sheep Chase, page by page in Japanese, meticulously translating each character with a very thick kanji dictionary.

In the novel, the main character is having a meeting with a mysterious man of infinite wealth. The rich man wants to locate a star marked sheep last seen in Hokkaido. He hints at the reason for his interest in his sheep, but I can’t make out the meaning.

Japanese has a fondness for long sentences. Vignettes told backwards through a chain of passive clauses with—following the rules of Japanese grammar—the verb at the end.

“As the sun sank below the horizon, at the park we had visited the year before, in a scene that would move the heart of most people, with the woman I was introduced to through my sister, we kissed.”

 I digress.

At the library, I can’t unjumble the words spoken by the character. Next to me, a high school girl in a student uniform sits solving equations in a math textbook. It’s firmly against social etiquette to talk to strangers in Japan, but the excitement of Murakami’s novel causes my tongue to slip away from me.

“This sentence,” I ask in broken Japanese, pointing my finger at a long paragraph. “Can you help me?”

“Me?” she asks, shaking her head as if a fly is buzzing in front of her face.

“Japanese grammar is much tedious,” I plead.

“Sorry. Sorry.” She bows her head at her textbook. She sweeps up textbooks, stands up, and moves to another table on the far side of the library.

I resign myself to missing out on the complicated plot point. Simple statements of fact, like what food the main character eats, who he meets, and so on, are, however, crystal clear. It’s often that way when learning a new language. A jumble of facts lacking a structure.

On the way back to my apartment, I pass the eternally empty Harajuku Imperial Train Station. In the past, the emperor would arrive by private train here to visit the nearby Meiji Shrine. The cedar lined lane is still well maintained and white fences project a feeling of Imperial greatness. 

It’s free entertainment and I’m living on 500 yen a day (about $5), to stretch out my remaining funds.

A crow, perched on the tall white fence, follows my movements. There’s an intelligence in his eyes, as if he’s seen me before. He will attack me next month, but I don’t know that yet.

The Emperor next comes here to pray for his country’s greatness. His story is empty. There’s a sadness at the heart of every defeated nation.

The next morning, I awake early and can’t return to sleep. The sun rises at 5am in Tokyo. I go out and wander the empty streets of Omotesando. A crew of workers in yellow uniforms blast the pavement clean with a high-pressure hose. They are invisible people. For each person in nice clothes out in the rat race during the daytime, there’s another person leading an invisible life toiling to keep the city running.

My last friend left in the city, Peter, has taken to a lifestyle of drugs. Arrest and deportation don’t align with my long-term goals, so we have drifted apart.

My only commitment that day is A Wild Sheep Chase. After stuffing myself at an all-you-can-eat buffet for lunch, I walk the path to the library.

Public spaces in Japan are filled with signs. In America, they are normally a long list of prohibited activities that read like lawyer’s documents. In Japan, signs are terse and to the point. 

Even foreigners can understand:

Don’t get hit by a car.

Don’t throw out garbage.

Smoking prohibited.

Don’t feed the animals.

Behind the last sign, standing in the bushes, an older woman is laying out a tray of pet food. Stray cats surround her, watching expectantly. The woman spots me watching and jolts in embarrassment. I smile, indicating that I’m simply curious. She smiles back and bows. It’s the first gesture of approval I’ve received in weeks.

Too young to spend time in parks feeding cats, is what I think of myself. The world beckons me to make my mark, so I return to translating my Japanese novel in the library. I take a seat facing away from the girl I talked to the day before. 

In A Wild Sheep Chase, the protagonist is still holed up in a cabin in Hokkaido, spending his days looking for a magical sheep, and surviving on the canned sardines and beer he finds in storage. Not so different from me.

The next day, I see the first hint of pink emerge from the cherry blossoms. I’m feeling more optimistic. An SMS arrives from Chris, the director of the Asian Children’s Fund. “Do you have time for a beer tomorrow?” He is surely paying, so I agree, staying noncommittal in case anything else comes up. It doesn’t.

I never tell Chris the charity he runs is a scam. He must know already and have found a way to live with it. Also, he appears to hold an uncle-like affection. Never look a gift horse in the mouth.

To be honest, it wasn’t the charity being a sham that was the problem. It was giving speeches: Before public speaking, my hands would turn white, and my forehead break out in a cold sweat. On one Thursday, when I was to give a one-hour talk at the International Children’s Conference, I called in sick. Not knowing how to explain it, I emailed in my resignation the next day.

The director gave the speech in my place. It was always easy for him to jump on stage and talk about helping children for an hour, and all the amazing people he’s worked, and receive a standing ovation. Yet, he rarely left the office.

Chris is waiting at the expensive yakitori bar with a drink in his hand, Rolex on. He removed it on duty. When he talks about helping impoverished children, especially those in Communist countries. It’s all part of the narrative, he says, expanding US influence in the region.

After a few beers, Chris tells stories as usual of his days at the US embassy, doing back door deals and cultivating favors with the ruling party. 

After a few more beers, Chris has exhausted his repertoire of good stories and I need to return home before the trains stop. I see the light on behind the curtains of the Okabe family, but no one peers out. 

Last month, my washing machine overflowed and flooded their entire apartment below me.

I wake feeling depressed. Chris has done big things, I never will. There is no possible way to get from where I am to working at the Embassy, or even working for another international NGO again.

Looking at the green color of the Yamanote train flashing past, I recall reading how many people jump in front of the train, at least one every week.

I see a vision of each with i. their student uniform or carrying their briefcase. Some don’t even have a reason, just an impulse to jump.

Something is wrong with me. I need to snap myself out of this.

When I first arrived in Japan, I visited Meiji shrine and prayed for good luck. Something you do as a tourist. It’s irrational, but I will go back there. I’m out of options.

On the wide gravel path to the shrine, the sky is heavy with cloud, and very few people walk to the shrine, buried deep within the forest of tall cedars.

In front of the altar, I close my eyes and seek guidance, a direction to be sent on, a path to where I belong.

Thunder cracks, followed by a downpour of heavy rain outside. The pattering of rain on the wood roof above is memorizing. Lacking an umbrella, I wait for the rain to subside. It intensifies. My attention shifts to a movement on the ground — frogs. Their numbers grow. Out of nowhere, frogs are falling out of the sky.

I watch with fascination until there is a break in the downpour. I close and reopen my eyes.

The multitude of green frogs hop towards the bushes. I watch them scatter.

Soon, they are gone.

With nothing else to do, I decide its time to go for lunch.

“Scotto-san,” the manager of the local ramen shop says. “Welcome back.”

I’m surprised as his friendly greeting, but I recall mentioning my name to him a few weeks ago. 

“Thank you very much.” I bow slightly and pull out a chair at the counter.

“How are you today?” he asks, using the standard Japanese greeting.

“Job. I’m seeking one.”  

“Is that so?” 

“Yes. It is so.”

He picks up a mobile phone and makes a call. He laughs loudly, and has a brief conversation, the gist of which I can not follow.

“Kano-san is coming over,” he says with a confident, toothy grin. 

A few minutes later, a middle-aged sturdy looking man arrives.

“I heard you are looking for a job,” he says. “Don’t worry! I will take care of you!”

He doesn’t know me, so I find this a curious offer.

He used to be in the yakuza, he says. The Japanese underworld. Having spent his days threatening to slash people to repay their debts, managing a coffee shop is a breeze. 

On his face, a peaceful smile reveals no inclination towards violence. 

I feel nothing is strange in this world any longer. I accept his offer. If he still is in the yakuza, at least I’ll be protected.

A week later, I loudly announce, “Omatase! Cappuccino desu!”

To a couple on a date at the Harajuku Raccoon Cafe, I present two perfect cups of cappuccino.

Victorious, I bow deeply.