The Dragon Comes To America, Chapter 1: Family Business

I was never a big drinker, but as someone who was a stranger in a strange land, I needed to “take the edge off” as the Americans say. I was alone for the first time in my life. The first time I didn’t have family, friends, or fans around me. While it was a shock to the system, it also felt freeing. So, with all of those factors weighing upon my shoulders, I find myself in a small bar.

It was more of an upscale restaurant than a bar, really, but the bar is where I sat. That, coupled with the fact that not many people order swordfish or a tomahawk rib-eye at eleven pm, leads me to call it a bar. The drastic changes in a short amount of time helped lead me here, but it did not strengthen my taste for Irish whiskey, thus the nursing of my drink at the end of the bar.

I hoped to acquire the "acquired taste" with another sip. I almost choke on my drink though, as a soft voice beside me says, “I love your hair”.

As I began to choke and was clearly startled, she responds with laughter in the same soft voice. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you”, she says through laughter as she hands me some cocktail napkins.

I turn to retrieve the napkins, and I’m stunned by her beauty. Hair dark as night, skin white as snow, and eyes as green as precious jade. “No, I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting anyone to talk to me.”.

She smiles, and I smile.

I paused for a moment and looked around the room. Even in a city as large and as culturally vast as San Francisco, I still stood out. Not many 6’4" Asian men with golden blonde hair walked the streets, even here. I looked back into her green eyes and smiled. I wasn’t sure of myself in this situation. Back in Japan, I had women flocking to me all the time. It was part of being a star and a semi-celebrity. Here though, it was unusual. She was the first person to speak to me in a genuine manner, instead of someone doing service work, or looking to con someone “fresh off the boat”.

“I don’t know anyone here”, I say, as I lay the crumbled, wet napkins on the bar.

“New to San Fran?”, she asks as she settles onto the stool across from me, clearly ready for a conversation.

“Well, welcome to America. Little secret, it isn’t all that the tourism ads make it out to be. My name is Kristen, it’s nice to meet you.”, she says as she extends her hand.

I smile, and shake it, responding, “My name is Shinjiro, very nice to meet you.”.

My face smiles, but my mind flashes back to the real reason I am in America. The place. Mount Takao National Forest, just outside of Tokyo. It was night, and the rain was falling heavily that day. I remember the headlights of my Subaru WRX illuminating my father was on his knees, his arm severely cut and bleeding. I saw the man who had raised me on his knees, ready to die, not fearing death, but also not welcoming it. Between my car and him stood two men, one with a gun, and one with a Katana.

The men turned and looked at me, I knew who they were, and they certainly knew who the car belonged to. I saw my beaten and bloody father, then I saw two other bodies lying behind him. I felt the fire of rage overflowing inside of me. I quickly shifted the car into gear and sped toward the two men. The man with the katana leaped from my path, but the one with the gun was overconfident. He thought his gun made him more powerful than he was. His aim and trigger squeezing was quick, but my Subaru was faster.

A single bullet hit my windshield, and while it cracked the glass, it did not pierce it. My lowered hood clipped him below his knees and his body flew up my hood and over the roof. I quickly stopped the car, shifted into reverse, and backed over him to ensure he was not going to get up. I spring from my car and sprinted to my father. I wrapped my arms around him and helped him to his feet. His voice, which was as weak as his body, shakily said, “Shinjiro, you do not know what you have just done.”.

I hear the sound of steel dragging on dirt, causing me to turn cautiously. There stood the man with the katana. His suit was wet and tattered, and his face was marked with a slight bruise. He had clearly already engaged in combat with my father. I watched his hands as he gripped the handle of the Katana. His left pinky finger was missing, a clear indicator of his affiliations.

I stepped forward, prepared to engage in war. “Shinjiro, no, you do not understand. You cannot…” I silenced my father’s speech by lifting my hand. I did not look back at him as I spoke, “no father, they don’t understand WHO we are.”.

I moved forward and began to circle as the man with the katana circled as well. He lifted his sword and charged forward, and I readied myself for combat. His swipe was wide, unskilled, untrained. He was not a Samurai; he was merely a gangster playing at being a warrior. I stepped in and, to the side, blocked his arms, caught his wrist, and used my Judo skills to throw him onto his back. I held onto his wrist and used my Aikido training to break his elbow with a Nikyo pin.

As I stood up, I picked up the katana. I stood over this man who was once an aggressive abuser and attacker and watched him as he was now a victim, writhing in pain. I turned to my father and handed the katana to him.

Her words snapped me back to reality. I had zoned out, lost in my memories. I smiled, to ease her concern, and took a sip of my Irish Whisky to steel my nerves, but all it does is burn my tongue and throat. My face gives away that I am not a drinker and again causes her to laugh. I shake my head, amused at myself as I sit the glass down again.

I give an agreeing laugh and this gives her a genuine smile as if she could get any more beautiful.

She laughs, a genuine belly laugh, even giving a little snort as she does. Through her laughter, she says, “That’s it, the bridge? What, were you obsessed with Full Hosue growing up or something?”.

I shake my head, my face giving away that I do not know what she is talking about. This is a clear sign to her that I am not only new to San Francisco but to America.

She smiles and shakes her head.

I’m a bit hesitant to give her the answer. In Japan, they looked at us as professional athletes in the same vein as baseball or basketball players, but in America, it was different. The professional wrestlers here had a bit of a celebrity attached to them, and I’d be lying if I said that didn’t intrigue me a bit. So, without certainty of how she would respond, I answered vaguely.

She gave an inquisitive grin and leaned in. Her eyes looked around the room overly dramatically, as she said, “What are you in the Yakuza?”.

Again my mind flashed back to that rainy day in the first with my father. I held the katana out to my father. “This one is yours. Take your vengeance”, I said as I held the blade out to him.

My father, Hahn Yamamoto, shook his head “no”, and waved me off with his good arm.

I pulled the sword away from my father and turned back to the owner of the Katana. I lifted the blade up, and as a bolt of lightning flashed through the air and glistened off the steel blade, its reflection returned my mind back to the present moment. I smiled back at Kristen as I leaned in closer to her.

She leans back laughing, and says, “I thought James Bond was British, not Japanese.”.

I winked at her as I sat back and replied, “I’m a master of disguise”.

We spent the next hour and a half talking to one another. In that time, I managed to finish the rest of my Irish Whiskey, but it was a battle the entire time, and with each disgusted sip, she laughed. I walked her to her car at the end of the night, and to my delight she too drove a Subaru WRX.

I smile and give a slight laugh.

She bit her lower lip as she smiled. She pulled out her phone and asked for my number. A moment after giving it, I received a text reading “Kristen Warren” with a smiley face emoji. We smiled at each other in silent bliss for a moment.

She laughed as she opened her door. I took the door from her in a gentle manner and held it open for her. Before I shut the door, she looked at me and said, “don’t forget about me, or that celebration dinner while you’re on the east coast.”.

I shut the door with a smile, and as I watched her drive away, I wonder to myself if she will ever get to know the real me, or if she can handle knowing the truth about me. As the taillight of her car disappeared, I began the walk back to my apartment. The streets were littered with people and lights, and as I placed my air pods in my ears, I turned up my music and let myself get lost in the thoughts of my debut American match.

I derailed my train of thought as I arrived at my apartment to an unusual sight. I noticed my outside light was shattered and my door was ajar. I take out my earbuds and return them to my pocket as my senses raise to high alert. I pull my phone out and utilize the flashlight feature.

As I slowly open my front door, I find something quite unexpected, a box that has been gift-wrapped. I slowly pick the box up, using my sense of sight, sound, and smell to examine it for danger. With none detected, I open the box, by untying the black bow that bound it closed. I slowly lift the lid and what I find inside sends chills up my spine.