Th'Jappy-nese restaurant, "Sushi King" (a name y'wouldn't find in Tokyo) was run by Taiwanese, an' th'waitress was from Malaysia. This was actually th'only note of consistency with a real Tokyo sushi grubshop. Foreign workers. Prolly underpaid, too. My Friend Cindy, th'daring soul, that she is, ordered th'raw cucumber roll, Hammaki. I tried t'convince 'er t'eat some'a th'raw stuff, but, (an' I don't disagree with 'er) th'fishies we'd be eatin' here, in Columbia, MD Land'a th'Free, is prolly outta th'Chessy-peake Bay. whoa, Nellie! Mebbe she ain't so darin', but mebbe she ain't stoopid, neither. I'd imagine those little fishies'd be 80 percent an' about 20 percent other. An, if it ain't outta th' Chessy-peake, it's prolly flown from somewhere--rotten b'fore it gets ennywhere.

Got some Ebi Tempura, too. That's shrimpies. Was almost good enuff t'be mediocre. Almost. Jeez; th'whole thing gave me a taste of nostalgia, but not much other taste. My Friend Cindy liked it. She didn't know better. She ain't stoopid or nothin', but she just ain't been in my shoes t'taste th'real stuff in th'real setting: at a bizzy sushiya in Shinjuku, a bizzy Tokyo restaurant district. The sorta place that's constantly full'a Jappy-nese peoples, Konnichiwa-ing an' Irasshaimasse'ing an' Gozaimasu-ing...Shovin' those fishy rice lumps down their gullets; chuggin' them Kirin beers down their throats till they konnichiwa their foreheads right inta th'plate...Just b'fore they start inta th'hard stuff: battery acid. Th'Jappy-nese call it sake. Smalls like crud; tastes like crud, an' it won't let y'see straight. They love it. So do I. So many times did a few Kirins and a few Sakes lead t'a blind evenin' of Har-har-har'in' anj' Hee-hee-hee'in'' stumblin' home from m'Nihon no nombe tomodachi--Jappy-nese drinkin' buddies--just in time t'see th'futon stop spinnin'.

Poor Cindy. No only did she miss th'taste'a th'food, but she also missed th'flavor'a th'whole experience. Or mebbe she's lucky. Since she's never tasted th'food or th'atmosphere, she just can't miss it th'same as I do. M'heart sank while eatin' this crummy imitation of th'real foodstuff. M'heart sank, knowin' th'real good stuff's just at th'other end'a a plane ride that I'm not on. In a land I know like it's m'home. Heck; it was m'home fer most'a three years. It was hell but I loved it. I miss it. Jeez! Somethin's in m'eye.

Ennyway, th'eel kinda took me back t'Japp-ann. Not th'food itself, 'cause it tasted...nah; it din't even taste. It had th'brown soy-based sauce onnit, but that wasn't even th'same...but th'fishie, Unagichan (Mr. Eel), just...well...let's say I c'd just tell the he din't speak enny Jappy-nese,when he was alive, that is. He must've bin a Baltimore eel. One that doesn't say, "Konnichi wa", but rather, "How's it goin', Hon?" But I c'd get the'feelin' of it; bein' back in Osaka or Tokyo: th'same porcelain soy sauce pot; th'same square box full'a rice fer th'eel slabs. Th'crummy karaoke music piped in was a bit much, but it gave kinda a composite feelin'a a lotta Japp-ann. They even had th'papaer-doored party room, where ten people c'n pass th'beer an' sake 'round, like I used to with m'friends in Osaka: Masutasan, Pasan, Masan, Yukari, Shigemori-san...We used t'spend lotsa evenings t'gether in their restaurant after hours, har-har-harrin' an' Hee-hee-heein' about Lawd Knows What! They never spoke a word'a unnerstandable English--not like you'n me'd talk it--but we c'd communicate. Mebbe it was th'booze.

Gave some'a m'eel to My Friend Cindy. She liked it. Poor girl. Nice t'know Mister eel hadn't died in vain.

Least someone 'preciated 'im. 'Cause I din't. I guess I shoulda. Shoulda 'preciated th'fact that by eatin' Mister Ee., I ain't starvin'. More'n I c'n say fer a lotta peoples I seen in th'world. Skinny, dirty, ragged an' handicapped beggars I've seen in Taiwan, Malaysia, Thailand...even a legless, armless person on th'train in Thailand, scuttlin't on 'is butt t'make a livin'. I've seen people in China with more patches on their clothes'n they've got teeth in their mouths. Not t'mention India, where I din't go 'cause'a th'stories I heard 'bout th'poverty there. People born as beggars are mutilated at infancy so they c'n beg an honest livin' ('cause they'd be legitimately disabled) when they grow older. Story I heard. Mebbe it's not true, but I b'lieve it. Even the people not starvin' 'round there don' know what it's like t'be fat. Nah; y'only find that here. El Blimpo. Good ol' Bigger-is-better Yankeeland. Home'a th'Brave an' th'overweight. People over two hunnert pounds don't d'serve t'talk about bein' hungry, if y'ask me. But I guess y'din't ask me, huh? What's th'opinion'a a ninety-seven pound weakling like me worth versus th'collective opinion'a millions'a tons'a extra weight in th'world. Prolly not worth a calorie an' a half.

Munchin' on th'yellow sliced pickly things which I always save fer dessert when I eat Jappy-nese foodstuffs, I noticed some sorta scratchin' in m'throat when I swallowed. Was like some sorta syringe or somethin' pokin' at the'back'a m'throat. Like a lil' porcupine was tryin' t'have intimate relations with m'ee-soph-ogus. Yeh; that's it. A porcupine. Wasn't so nice a feelin'. Told My Friend Cindy 'bout it, an' she said it's prolly an eel bone. I said, "Yer prolly right." So I took some leftover rice an' tried t'push th'alleged eel bone down m'throat by swallowin' lotsa rice at once. Lucky I din't get th'hiccups or nothin'. Hiccups with an eelbone in m'throat don't sound like a fun aftyer-dinner activity. Knowin' My Friend Cindy, whe prolly woulda har-har-harred up a storm with me hiccupin' and grabbin' m'throat, writhin'' on th'floor nearin' m'final dee-mize, cuzza a eelbone stuck in m'throat. She generally does th'gigglies when a bit'o tragedy strikes on my person. Like th'time she axe-identally kicked m'nose with her 9-inch spikified high heels. But that's a whole nother story. She says it's funny th'way m'eyes popped ou; So she laughs. Kinda Pavlovian if y'ask me. Lucky I din't get th'hiccups, so I din't get t'test m'theory.

She drove me home t'th'little ol' suburban house'a m'parents (where I've been stayin' since comin' back t'good ol' Unca Sam Land) har-har-harrin' an' hee-hee-heein' durin' th'twenny minnit drive. Actually, she was doin' more'a th' hee-hee (etc.)in' and har-har (etc.)in' 'cause, well, I was pretty damn sure that eel bone was there. You try t'laugh with an eel bone stuck in yer throat. Din't even really hurt or nothin', but I felt it there -- it made me afraid I'd push it in with m'tongue so hard that it'd get stuck in there ferever. It won't 'zactly put y'in a wheelchair, but it'll cripple yuh in ways y'couldn't imagine. I mean, if yer afraid t'laugh, that'd cripple y'worse'n any polio or spinal injury or stuff. An' I was afraid t'laugh. Tragic. Woulda cried, but sobbin' woulda aggrivated th'bone. Next time I get cheap Jappy-nese food, it's gonna be in Jappy-an. Never got a eel bone stuck in 3 years there.

So ... got outta th'car, said "See'ya later" an' stuff t'My Friend Cinday an' tippy-tippy toed t'th'front door'a m'parents' house 'cause it was so late. After I came inside, I fixed m'self a cup'a tea. Never did that -- makin' m'self tea -- much in Japan, but now that I'm outta there, it's a bit nostalgic, I guess. Really enjoy it now. Wish I'd enjoyed it more when I was there. Wish I'd spent more time lovin' it when I was there 'stead'a gettin' annoyed by th'same things I miss now. Like t'mindless greeting y'get when y'walk in a shop: Irasshaimasse! Or th'sardinelike way y'd get shoved at rush hour on any train in th'country. An' th'smell'a Tokyo. Every city had its own smell, which y'notice most when steppin' offa th'plane fer th'first time. Closin' m'eyes, I c'n almost imagine th'smell'a Tokyo, th'roastin' chestnuts on th'street; th'evenin' rush hour ramen carts; th'squid-oona-stick...even th'late night smell'a th'puke on th'streets--a mix'a th'Jappy-nese beer an' th'rice an'noodle diet was somethin' I've never smelled since. Can't believe I'm sentimental 'bout th'smella Jappy-nese puke! Somethin's in m'eye again.

While th'tea was steepin', I tried t'see where th'bone was, usin' th'big mirror we have in th'bathroom. Figgered no matter how small th'thing is, it'd show up in this mirror, sure as sushi. Couldn't see it 'cause there wasn't enough light. Got a flashlight. Could't see it still; m'tongue was in th'way. So I had t'find somethin' t'get m'tongue outta th'way. We din't have any tongue depressors in th'house, so I looked 'round th'kitchen fer somethin' I c'd use. Half seriously, I eyed th'various things in the kitchen: butter knives, spatulas, scissors, the pizza cutter. I fingered each one carefully, considering ... Fortunately b'fore I c'd make up a possibly lethal decision, I noticed something theat made sense t'use: chopsticks we had left over from eatin' take-out food. Two reasons fer that. One: t'get m'tongue outta th'way, and Two: t'try an'grab the'bone and get it outta there. I mean, if th'Karate Kid c'd catch a fly with chopsticks, I c'd prolly catch an eel bone. B'sides, I got the bone in there with chopsticks; I'll be durned if I don't get it out with chopsticks. Well, I did finally see th'durned thing: it wasn't wedged in; no; that woulda been too easy. As my luck holds true, th'crummy thing was poked inta m'right tonsil. Just stickin' out halfway, as if t'be playin' a bad game'a hide-an'-seek. Looiked like a bit'a fishin' line stickin' outta m'tonsil. Tried t'get it with th'chopsticks, but couldn't. Guess that' 'cause they were Chinese chopsticks and it was Jappy-nese food. Sounds silly, but it's true. Jappy-nese chopsticks come t'a point at th'end and are easier t'have precision with. Th'Karate Kid musta been usin' Jappy'nese chopsticks. Or mebbe flies are easier t'catch'n eel bones. So then I figgered I c'd just grab th'thing with m'fingers -- it just looked so easy. Too esay. Soon's m'fingers started t'touch anything in th'back'a m'mouth, m'gullet started t'make funny noises like a cat tryin' t'pitch a fuzzball or somethin'. I hadda stop b'fore th'thing became th'eel bone that wasted m'twenny doallar meal. Twenny dollers t'eat a pseudo-Jappy-nese meal is one thing, but fer that price, I wanna own th'food; not just rent it. Finally I gave up an'drank m'tea, figgerin' I c'd try gettin' th'bone out in th'mornin'. Figgered if I'm gonna rolf somethin' up, I'd rather it be a 59-cent bowl'a cheap breakfast cereal than a twenny-doller Jappy-nese meal. I mean like, I din't enjoy it so much th'first time, so I was pretty durned sure I'd like it even less th'second time 'round.

Slept. Kinda hoped some miracle'd make th'durned thing pop out while I was sleepin'. Checked th'ceiling in th'morning' fer nocturnal eel bone projectiles. No such luck. Did m'mornin' spittle-swallow, an' sure enough, th'thing was still there. In m'groggy state of mind, I started t'panic: what if I haffta go through th'rest of m'life with an eel bone stuck in m'tonsil? Will it drastically alter m'social skills? Will this keep me from bein' eligible fer a nationalized medical insurance? Never heard'a somebody becomin' prezzy-dent o'America th'Beautiful with an eel bone stuck in 'is tonsil. Found a pair'a tweezers an' desperately went t'work with a chopstick an' a flashlight. Holdin' th'flashlight an' chopstick in on ehand, diggin' 'round in m'mouth, I soon realized that either I had one hand too few or arthritis was settin' in.

Found m'mother. Told her th'story. Dunno if she was rilly willin' t'help me out by diggin' 'round in m'mouth, but she din't wanna be left outta th'fun: she wanted a look at th'eel bone in 'er baby's tonsil. So she pulled a chair under th'light an' stood on it, an' told me t'get under 'er, turn m'head up, open m'mouth an' say "aaaah." This is a well-known posistion in th'family house when someone has a sore throat an' Mumsy wants t'see it, alla us men bein' over 6 feet tall, an' her bein' a dinky 5 foot 9. Mebbe it's some sorta weird maternal perversion. Dunno 'bout that, but in this position: head up, mouth open, I'm always afraid she's gona do something bird-brained an' stick a worm in m'beak an' down m'throat. Heh. ird-brained.

She din't see right, 'cause m'tongue was in th'way, but she din't realize that; she just thought th'light was not catchin' in th'right place, so she started twistifyin' and turnifyin' m'headin her hands, crick-crackin' twelve vertebrae up an'down m'neck an'back in th'process ... but with alla that crick-crackin', she sure's sugar got me sayin' "aaaah!" You have someone twist yer head 'round till yer breathin' down th'back'a yer own neck an' see if you don' say, "aaah!" Heck; I wasn't just sayin' it; I was singin'! With alla that crick-crackin' and "aaah-aaaaah-in'", she still din't see nothin', but she did things no chiropractor'd ever imagine. Though she din't see it, she's still Mumsy, so she believed me. She wanted t'believe me so she c'd worry. She's mom. She picked up th'phone an'called th'doctor. Office closed till noon. She demanded I go to'th doctor at noon so he c'n shove things down m'throat fer twenny seconds an'pull out th'bone an' say, "Thank you very much, Mister Potter. That was fun. Fifty dollers pelase." Seems whenver people call me Mister Potter, either they're gonna make me stand in th'corner, or they wana screw me outta money. When I'm shellin' out two dollers an' fifty cents persecond, he'd damed well better call me Mister! Rather stand in th'corner'n pay fifter dollers t'be called "Mister." Rather save m'money an'not be called Mister at all.

With that in mind, I blood hounded and Shianghiaed m'brother Ned t'play nurse fer me an' hold th'flashlight in front'a th'bathroom mirror while I played doctor, patient, an' malpractice insurance company all in one t'try gettin' th'thing outta m'barf tube -- free'a charge. As I started diggin' in m'face with th'tweezers, good ol' Curious Ned kept rubberneckin' an'wigglin' th'light all around so he c'd find out what th'heck I was doin' there. Strugglin' t'keep My Overmuscular-and-hyperactive tongue outta th'way with th'chopstick an'tryin' t'see 'round m'other hand t'see th'bone so I c'd get it with th'tweezers -- all while tryin' t'keep Brother Ned from jitterin' th'flashlight onta a different vibrational level -- were prolly not th' conditions I woulda encountered in th'doctor's office. Somehow, I miraculously din't do th'ol liquid laugh. So practically with m'eyes closed, I finally got th'thing out. Outta reflex, some har-har-harrin' came out. Nothin' was funny, but I guess it was some'a th'ones that din't get out th'night b'fore. Bone was 'bout an inch long. 'Bout three-quarters of th'thing had been inside m'tonsil. Now I'm not th'sorta goon gt'go jumpin' fer joy all th'time, but this time, well, I sorta did. Brother Ned was happy, too. Mumsy came inta th'bathroom, too, t'make it a family event. It was such a happy moent in th'Potter house when Rich got th'eel bone outta his tonsil. We had a group hug an' got all sentimental an' stuff. Ned said, "The family that pulls out eel bones together stays together." Personally, I feel like we sh'd get out more.

Called My Friend Cindy on th'telly-phone t'share m'happy moment with her. She har-har-harred through th'whoel thing. Someone tried t'interupt m'story by callin' on 'er other line., but good ol' My Friend Cindy gave 'em th'brush off by tellin' 'em, "Not now; Rich is tellling me the story of the eel bone in his tonsil." Apparently her friend got a har-har-har from that comment. Dunny why it's so friggin' funny t'everyone, but if that;s th'way they wanna take it, that's fine by e. Just so long as I c'n have a bit of har-har at them when they have an eel bone stuck in their tonsils.

As fer th'eel bone itself? Well, I was gonna save it in a jar or somethin' t'kinda show it off like some sorta sharapnel thing from m'wartime injury, but I figgered it's prolly full'a calcium which is good fer a person like me who wants healthy teethies an' bonies. Plus those old fart sorta stories get kinda old after a while. So munched it up inta little tiny bits an' swallowed it. I kinda miss th'thing though. It brought a strange sorta excitement temporarily t'a otherwise boring life. Much as I hated it while it was stuck there, it did make me a happier person fer a time afterwards, an' that was a lt quicker an' easier'n losin' ten pounds or readin' some sora self-help book. Eel bone self-help therapy seminars? Hmmmm... Or mebbe I c'n sell th'right t'm'story t'Hollywood.