so-called “laughter.” They call it laughter, but there was nothing happy or cheerful about it. It sounded as though she was trying to stifle a laugh as it welled up, but for the life of her she couldn’t hold back, and no matter how much she tried, her brain was unable to overcome the involuntary physical reaction—that’s what kind of laugh it was. An unspeakably sinister laugh, as if at some sick joke.
Our son was terrified, I was in a panic, and my wife, her eyes filled with tears, just kept on laughing.
“Cut it out, will you?” I said, as our son whimpered faintly.
“I c-can’t stop. I-It’s like my throat and my f-face and my chest—n-none of them are under my c-control,” my wife replied with difficulty, through her laughter.
I was irate. Why was it that she constantly needed to cause such trouble? We went hiking practically every weekend and, frankly, I didn’t enjoy it very much. Neither did our son. He would probably have been just as content to stay at home, painstakingly assembling his plastic models, or to go fishing in the creek by our house, or what have you. Instead, both he and I did as we were told and got up early to wander around the hills on the outskirts of town. But that just wasn’t good enough for my wife—she had to go and eat a Big Laughing Gym mushroom.
My wife was treated in the hospital, but, as the ever-nonchalant doctor said, since the mushroom’s toxin was already in her bloodstream, there was really nothing they could do about it, and her condition remained more or less unchanged after he examined her. Ultimately, my wife went on laughing until that evening. We took a taxi home and I put our son, who had worn himself out crying and had fallen asleep, under the covers in his bed. I kept an eye on my still-laughing wife as she sat alone in the living room while I made us some strong green tea. My wife drank her tea, laughing, and I drank my tea, stewing in my anger.
After her symptoms subsided at last and my wife was back to normal, I started in on my lecturing. Do you have any idea how much trouble you caused for all of us, in this single day today? Oh, I was in rare form. I lectured her like I was lecturing a student. My wife listened with downcast eyes, her head hung low. She nodded at each thing I said. I’m sorry, she said over and over. When I was done, she said earnestly, “Everyone causes trouble for someone at some point in their lives.”
“ I don’t cause anyone any trouble! You’re the one who is a nuisance! Please refrain from extrapolating your own personal issues onto the general public,” I harangued. My wife hung her head again. More than ten years later, when she ran off, I was left with a vivid recollection of her like that, eyes downcast and contrite. My wife was a difficult person, but I wasn’t so different. I used to think that we complemented each other—like the saying goes: Even a cracked pot has a lid that fits. But, as it turned out, I guess I didn’t fit my wife very well.
“HERE, SENSEI, HAVE a drink,” Toru pulled the Sawanoi saké from his rucksack. It was a 720-milliliter bottle. We had polished off the mushroom soup, but like magic, Toru produced one item after another from his bag. Dried mushrooms. Rice crackers. Dried smoked squid. Whole tomatoes. Canned bonito.
“It’s quite a feast,” Toru remarked. Both he and Satoru were swigging saké from paper cups and gnawing on tomatoes.
“You don’t get as drunk if you eat a tomato first,” they claimed.
“Sensei, do you think they’ll be all right to drive?” I asked under my breath.
He replied, “One bottle between the four of us shouldn’t be a problem, I guess.” My stomach was already warm from the mushroom soup, and the saké warmed it even more. The tomatoes were delicious. We just bit right into them; they didn’t even need salt. Apparently, they were straight from Toru’s garden. He pulled out another bottle of saké from his rucksack, meaning we’d
Our son was terrified, I was in a panic, and my wife, her eyes filled with tears, just kept on laughing.
“Cut it out, will you?” I said, as our son whimpered faintly.
“I c-can’t stop. I-It’s like my throat and my f-face and my chest—n-none of them are under my c-control,” my wife replied with difficulty, through her laughter.
I was irate. Why was it that she constantly needed to cause such trouble? We went hiking practically every weekend and, frankly, I didn’t enjoy it very much. Neither did our son. He would probably have been just as content to stay at home, painstakingly assembling his plastic models, or to go fishing in the creek by our house, or what have you. Instead, both he and I did as we were told and got up early to wander around the hills on the outskirts of town. But that just wasn’t good enough for my wife—she had to go and eat a Big Laughing Gym mushroom.
My wife was treated in the hospital, but, as the ever-nonchalant doctor said, since the mushroom’s toxin was already in her bloodstream, there was really nothing they could do about it, and her condition remained more or less unchanged after he examined her. Ultimately, my wife went on laughing until that evening. We took a taxi home and I put our son, who had worn himself out crying and had fallen asleep, under the covers in his bed. I kept an eye on my still-laughing wife as she sat alone in the living room while I made us some strong green tea. My wife drank her tea, laughing, and I drank my tea, stewing in my anger.
After her symptoms subsided at last and my wife was back to normal, I started in on my lecturing. Do you have any idea how much trouble you caused for all of us, in this single day today? Oh, I was in rare form. I lectured her like I was lecturing a student. My wife listened with downcast eyes, her head hung low. She nodded at each thing I said. I’m sorry, she said over and over. When I was done, she said earnestly, “Everyone causes trouble for someone at some point in their lives.”
“ I don’t cause anyone any trouble! You’re the one who is a nuisance! Please refrain from extrapolating your own personal issues onto the general public,” I harangued. My wife hung her head again. More than ten years later, when she ran off, I was left with a vivid recollection of her like that, eyes downcast and contrite. My wife was a difficult person, but I wasn’t so different. I used to think that we complemented each other—like the saying goes: Even a cracked pot has a lid that fits. But, as it turned out, I guess I didn’t fit my wife very well.
“HERE, SENSEI, HAVE a drink,” Toru pulled the Sawanoi saké from his rucksack. It was a 720-milliliter bottle. We had polished off the mushroom soup, but like magic, Toru produced one item after another from his bag. Dried mushrooms. Rice crackers. Dried smoked squid. Whole tomatoes. Canned bonito.
“It’s quite a feast,” Toru remarked. Both he and Satoru were swigging saké from paper cups and gnawing on tomatoes.
“You don’t get as drunk if you eat a tomato first,” they claimed.
“Sensei, do you think they’ll be all right to drive?” I asked under my breath.
He replied, “One bottle between the four of us shouldn’t be a problem, I guess.” My stomach was already warm from the mushroom soup, and the saké warmed it even more. The tomatoes were delicious. We just bit right into them; they didn’t even need salt. Apparently, they were straight from Toru’s garden. He pulled out another bottle of saké from his rucksack, meaning we’d
Similar Books
