Red Scarf
By Bill Doughty
July 9, 1979
I get the idea just as we are about to go into the ghost tunnel: Scare the shit out of the kids sitting in the back seat.
They’re strapped into new seatbelts, like us. Mika made me put them in this junker used Datsun. Also new brakes, tires, wipers.
The kids are arguing about some toy. As usual.
I try to push away a half smile as I picture exactly how I’ll prank them in the ghost tunnel.
That’s what we call it. One of a half dozen tunnels near Yokosuka. Carved out of prehistoric rock through hills and mountains. We through them on your way home from the Navy base.
Ghost tunnel is a long one. How many workers killed? How many bloody accidents? Suicides? And I don’t even want to think about ghosts of the Kanto war dead near here. Just a generation ago.
Mika will get mad. But the trick is worth it. Give the kids a thrill. Without turning my head I glance down to my left at the window crank handle on the door.
Three months stationed back in Japan, I’m used to driving on the left again; motorcycles have the right of way in the non-lane next on the left; take turns when merging; dim headlights when you come to a red light. Courtesy counts.
I wonder what the guy behind me will think. Will he see me do the prank for Junior and his big sister? In front of us is a truck carrying a couple of tons of rebar –– the recycled steel bars are too long for the truck bed but there’s some kind of rag tied to the end. Courtesy. And the law. Behind us, an old couple. Gray-white heads barely visible above the dash. The old dude’s gripping his steering wheel at 11 and 1. Maybe he won’t see the prank after all.
Two more lights after this one.
We should reach the ghost tunnel in a couple of minutes.
July 9, 1969
Ohayo.
Morning coffee needed.
Yesterday after work at steel factory flowers bought.
Old lilies.
Half price sale.
Stink of benjo gone now.
Sleeping is Mother.
Not home: Stupid Bastard.
Three nights ago home-shrine knocked over again.
Drunk Stupid Bastard.
From Monday still no Bastard.
Good.
Go away.
Always Father remembered by Jiro and Mother.
Imperial war: no forgiveness.
Father picture smile never, guarding incense ash.
Stupid Bastard: Junichi
Name: Jiro –– second son.
Name is hated.
New name chosen: “Kanji.”
Everyone knows.
Not JIro.
Kanji.
Name from hero: Inoki Kanji.
Hero’s borrowed name: “Antonio Inoki.”
Back in Japan from Bekoku.
World wrestling champion.
Strong chin, like Gibralter.
Strong martial arts.
Stronger than Giant Bubba even.
Antonio Inoki power.
Red scarf trademark.
Inoki always red scarf.
Jiro-Kanji always white scarf.
Even on motorcycle ride.
Red and White.
Nippon.
No helmet, no care.
Strong wind in face.
Cars, trucks dodged.
Respect large bikes only.
More wind.
Smell of diesel: city bus.
On road faster.
In-and-out, back-and-forth.
More speed.
Road narrows.
Tunnel ahead.
Big truck –– around truck go.
Truck swerving.
More power need.
Inoki Power.
Now.
More speed.
Chin forward.
Truck big swerve left.
Kanji pinned.
Rock.
Truck.
Rock.
Bike stops here.
Truck drives on, Kanji stuck.
Against rock-wall –– dragged.
And dragged.
Spinning.
Crushing sound.
Flashes.
Lights white.
Brightest white lights.
Smell of smoke and … something else.
Burning.
Numbing.
Wet.
Wet.
Wet.
July 9, 1979
I tell the story. Set up the prank.
I remember it vaguely but with one key detail. Mika translated the story for me from Japanese TV news the first time I was stationed in Japan. Another ship. Another time. Nam. We were dating. Getting serious.
Man, is she going to be pissed if I can make this prank work!
She’ll get over it.
I get the kids’ attention.
“Oh my god! I remember exactly what happened in this tunnel!”
Mika arches an eyebrow.
Slowly, so she wouldn’t notice, and without looking, I reach down, find the handle, and crank open the window.
Slowly. Nonchalantly. I hang my arm out.
The rebar truck is still in front of me. Through the last light. We’re moving now. Old folks behind us, pretty far away. Keeping his distance from the gaijin with his arm hanging out the window.
“Kids, you won’t believe it. Do you know why they call the big tunnel the ‘ghost tunnel’?”
In the rear view Junior is looking at me through the same Mika frown. His sister, Tami, victorious, holds some gacha toy. Listening, her eyes wide. At seven, still so gullible. Gotcha.
We enter the tunnel. A steady 30 klicks.
“They say dozens of workers were killed while building the tunnel many many many years ago,” I tell he kids. “There are tales of terrible car crashes. And, then … there was the boy riding his motorcycle who was crushed inside the ghost tunnel. He was wearing his white scarf, a white scarf that turned red from all the blood. They say his ghost still haunts the tunnel. He cannot rest or return home…”
Next to me, Mika shakes her head. Folds her arms. Looks out her window. In the reflection, she half-closes her eyes. Hopeless.
The tunnel is poorly lit. Strings of lights along the sides. Perfect.
“They say…”. I draw it out for suspense. “They say … the ghost of the dead motorcycle boy lives on the ceiling of the tunnel.”
Big sister Tami strains to look out and up toward the dark tunnel ceiling. She puts her hand on her brother’s arm. Carved rock shadows on the sides of the tunnel now hide something menacing. Junior wants to look out and up, but tries to cover his face with his small perfect hands.
Time for more drama.
“And.
They say.
Sometimes.
The ghost body falls…
… ON TOP OF PEOPLE’S CARS.”
At that moment I raise my left arm and SLAM the side of the car door.
WHAM!
Gasps and whimpers in the back seat. Hilarious.
I twist my torso and look into the back seat.
Ha ha h…
The rebar truck stops suddenly. About ten meters in front of us. Mika screams my name. Tami points at the windshield –– something flashes in the wet reflection of her eye. Junior covers his eyes again, mouth wide.
I turn around. But my legs are already reacting. Left leg mashes the clutch. Right slams down on the brake pedal. Mika, so smart, grabs the emergency brake between us and pulls up the handle. Hard.
They would say we are lucky no one was killed. All of us are sore from the seatbelts.
There’s an eyelash of distance between our windshield and the bundle of rebar. The end tied with … A red scarf.
The truck drives on.
© WBD January 2024
