
The Yakuza, simply put, is the Japanese mafia. It is Japan’s infamous organized crime syndicate. Like their Italian counterparts, they have been elevated to legendary pop-culture status through countless movies, TV shows, and anime. I don’t really know much about them other than the tattoos and pachinko parlors. I am not really fascinated by them as much as I am with other aspects of Japanese culture. However, I am familiar with their Italian counterparts by default
I am both Italian, and from Chicago. Two fun facts that lead people to assume the following:
- I am connected.
- I am carrying a gun.
- I am angry until the cannolis arrive.
It is amazing how many times I am asked about this outside of Chicago, especially in Japan and Europe. God bless Michael Jordan for giving the rest of the world something else to associate Chicago with. I can assure you that being Italian and from Chicago does not give me any special insight into organized crime. Which becomes painfully obvious from the story I’m about to tell.
One Saturday morning in Nagoya Japan, I walked down to my favorite grocery store. It was not my favorite because or its selection of fresh Japanese foods, It was my favorite because it was literally under the weight of every railroad track shooting out north of Nagoya Station. Including the Shinkansen (the bullet train). It was worth the walk just to see all the trains rocketing out of the station.
On my way back from the store, I turned down the street just before my apartment. It ended, or started in my case, at the red brick wall of the Toyota Commemorative Museum. As I walked down the street with my two bags of groceries, I heard someone yell in the distance behind me. I turned around as I continued to walk. There was a man yelling from the back window of a long Mercedes Benz that had stopped along the red bricks. It was a black 4-door mid-90′s Benz with tinted windows. He opened the door, got out, and began waving his arms as he started to walk toward me.
I comically turned in the other direction to see who he was waving to. The alley-like street was lined on one side with a long tall schoolyard fence. The other was lined with various sides of buildings. The residential part did not start until the smaller street began just up ahead. That was my street. Some quick surveillance revealed a quiet and empty area.
I turned back to the guy. He was very wide for a Japanese guy. He walked toward me and waved his arm, yelling, “Hey… Hey….” My first reaction was that he needed directions. Perhaps he was lost or trying to find some building.
As he picked up his pace, my Chicago instincts began rapidly kicking in. Something was not right about this. He was now close enough that I could see his face. Most interesting, is that he did not look Japanese. As he picked up his pace to jogging speed, I saw another man get out from the front door of the Mercedes. He was wearing a black suit and glasses.
I was quickly processing all the information. Why would a guy in a Benz need directions. Why would you ask an obvious foreigner for information. In fact, most Japanese are terrified to even sit next to me on a train, why would one run after me to get directions. And now the final troublesome fact: You don’t need TWO large guys to run down an empty street to get directions.

My tried and true”Rabbit Technique!”
Conclusion; – Trouble.
Solution; – Run
The Karate Kid has his “Crane Kick”. I had my “Rabbit” maneuver. Which is a cool martial arts way of saying I turned and ran my ass off.
The big guy went into a full sprint and was on top of me in seconds. He grabbed the back of my shirt and pulled me to a stop. We were both huffing and puffing when he started saying something to me. His large hands let go of me and he gave me the international, “calm down, I’m-not-going-to-hurt-you” gesture. At this point I was under the assumption that I was being robbed, or mugged, or whatever the Japanese equivalent is. It did bother me that my “Rabbit” maneuver did not work. How did he catch me so fast? I realized that he had already been running full speed when he caught me, revealing the first flaw in my “Rabbit” technique. But now we were both at a complete stop… Interesting.
He began saying ok… ok… and was doing the “calm-down” gesture. I nodded and said,
ok… ok…. and gave him the “I’m ok” gesture.
Then, I turned and ran my ass off!
It was brilliantly timed. All those years of soccer training. The speed. The quickness, The timing. It was like my own “wax-on/wax-off” training that the Karate Kid did. It payed off for him in the end, and it’s paying off for me now.
Then I felt the big guy tug at the back of my shirt again. It did not seem like an eternity. It was not in slow motion, like in the movies. It seemed only seconds because it was. How could he have caught me so quickly? This revealed the second flaw in my technique: I was still holding on to all my groceries.
Unfortunately, at no point in my long soccer career had I trained with 2 bags of groceries in my arms. In my nervous condition, I not only forgot about my groceries, but I had been actually gripping them so hard, that when the bags flew from my arms, I was still gripping pieces of them in my hands.

Scorpion from Mortal Kombat.
They flew from my arms because this time he was not giving the international “calm-down” gesture. This time he came with a full Mortal Kombat take-down, followed by an elbow to my head that mashed the side of my face along the street and left me flat on the ground. In his left hand he had grabbed my shirt and twisted it tightly up to my neck. In his right hand was a clenched fist. The international gesture for punching someone in the face. (See image above for accurate dramatization.)
“No more run” he yelled at me. “No more run”
He was pulling on my shirt and wanted me to get up slowly to avoid me from running again. We both slowly rose to our feet with our eyes locked the entire time. I finally got a good chance to look at him. He was definitely not Japanese, He was Brazilian.
There were a lot of Brazilians in and around Nagoya. Another American born English Teacher had explained it to me like this; When the Japanese were kings of the world in the 80′s and 90′s, they started hiring other people (Brazilians for some reason) to do the “3K jobs” (kitsui, kitanai, and kiken – hard, dirty, and dangerous.) These were labor-intensive jobs that they no longer wanted to do. Most of these jobs were in the Nagoya area, and that’s where most of them settled. He said, “The Brazilians are the Mexicans of Japan.” (No offense to my Mexican pals.) But when the Japanese economy sizzled in the late nineties, the Japanese wanted their jobs back. This left many Brazilians on the streets wondering what to do. So, in other words, the socio-economic implications of this are now being worked out on my face.
He was a big guy. Not much taller than me, but he was wide. He wore a black track suit and had obviously mastered some kind of martial art; Japanese, Brazilian, or both. He started yelling at me in what I assumed was Japanese and then Portuguese. Both of which I have trouble speaking when under pressure. Then the occasional English word would pop out.
In my cloudy judgment, I figured Portuguese is similar to Spanish, which is similar to Italian, which was similar to what my Grandmother would say. Aside from the main problem of that making no sense at all, my dear ole Grandmother actual swore like a sailor.
Its funny how people are much more comfortable swearing in their second language. Things that they would never say in their native language just come blurting out in other languages. My Italian Grandmother, and I wish I was exaggerating this, swore in both languages all the time. Everything from yelling at me and my siblings to swearing at my Mother and Grandfather. The words that I learned from her would just make this guy more angry.
“Where you live?” He eventually asked. I did not want to tell him that I lived around the corner. So I pointed in the opposite direction.
“Where you go?” He yelled. I pointed at the various food items that were now laying all around me. He looked around me. It seemed obvious where I just came from.
“Saifu? Saifu? Passport?” He demanded.
“No comprendo… No passport” I said.
He pulled on my shirt again and now was searching me for more information. He reached around and grabbed the wallet from my pocket. So here we go, I thought, I’m getting robbed. I was scared out of my mind but I was not in fear of my life. I knew in the back of my mind that this was Japan, and people are just not murdered in the streets. Like… say… Chicago.
My wallet was actually loaded with cash from a teacher who had just payed me back for a loan. Nothing crazy, but there was over 200 US equivalent dollars. This is going to suck I thought. After the big guy got my wallet, he pulled down on my shirt to make me sit down on the ground.
“No more run.” He yelled again, and raised his fist to remind me of the consequences.
As I was looking at his fist, the black suit and sunglasses of the Mercedes driver appeared over his shoulder.
The Brazilian guy was flipping through the cash in my wallet when he realized the other guy was next to him. He handed the wallet to him immediately, cash and all. This guy was older, mid forties maybe. He was clearly Japanese. He had a cigarette in his mouth and sunglasses on.
The Brazilian guy said nothing as the Japanese man flipped through my wallet.
“Nihongo hanashimasuka?” The Japanese guy said. I was not sure what he asked, but I heard Nihongo (The Japanese language). I shook my head to indicate that I don’t speak Japanese. The Japanese guy took the cigarette out of his mouth, blew out the smoke, and slowly looked around with a pissed-off look on his face. He thumbed through my wallet, passed all the cash, and was looking at the ID’s and credit cards.
“What name?” The Japanese guy asked putting the cigarette back in his mouth.
“Richard.” I answered.
Now that I was able to catch my breath, I was starting to think that these guys were the worst robbers ever. Why all the questions? Whats with the suit? The cash is right there, just take it and lets get this over with. That’s when a horrible sinking feeling came over me. Something else was going on. These guys had no interest in the cash in my wallet. This guy was not a robber or a petty criminal. He was Yakuza, or something like it. They keep asking for my passport, which I was not carrying. Perhaps this was some kind of fake passport ring. They were collecting them and selling them in some kind of black market scam. If they take my ID’s then I could be deported or something.
Because I was working in the country, I had a “Gaijin Card” (foreign resident card), so I did not need to keep the passport on me at all times. But these guys seemed like they were not looking for the Resident Card. I had another US government issued ID that actually had a photo on it. Perhaps that would help. I pointed to it in my wallet. The Japanese guy pulled it out and read it. A look of shock came across his face. He stepped back and yelled,
“Firearm! Firearm! Where is your firearm?
The Brazilain guy sprang into action. He pulled on my shirt and twisted while grabbing one of my arms.
“Firearm?” I said. Do these guys think I have a gun? My voice started getting higher and faster.
“No no no… No firearm…. No gun… No comprendo!”

Chicago Police not being treated kindly by Bean Bandit in the anime Riding Bean.
What the hell is going on? My best friend is a Chicago Policeman. He had taught me how to say “drop the weapon!” and “do you have any chewing gum?” in five different languages. He said knowing this would get you out of the most difficult situations. I was actually thinking of this at the time. What I had NOT practiced, was a situation where I had the weapon and the chewing gum.
I realized that the photo ID he was looking at was my Illinois issued Firearm Owners Identification. Or F.O.I.D card as its referred to. I got it a few years ago so that I could go to a shooting range with my father. I brought it to Japan because it had a photo and thought It might come in handy. What the heck, It can’t hurt right? Across the top of the card in big bold 3rd-grade English was written, “FIREARM OWNER”
Ok. Hold on. I can explain this in Portuguese/Spanish/Italian-Grandmother.
“I have no firearm.” I said slowly and clearly while I gave the international, calm down, I’m-not-going-to-hurt-you gesture. Exactly how the Brazilian guy had done it for me.
“We are in Japan…” I pause for effect. “No guns in Japan… No guns here.” Pause again as they try to understand me. “That card is from America. No guns here.”
“America?” The Brazilian guy said out loud. He turned and looked up at the Yakuza guy.
“America?” The Yakuza guy repeated as if he was answering the question.
“No guns in Japan. I am an English Teacher.”
“You are English Teacher?” The Brazilian guy repeated more as a matter of fact then questioning me. He looked up again. This time the Yakuza guy said nothing. The Brazilian released my shirt and arm. He stood up, took a few steps back, and looked around the area as if he was checking to see who was around.
The Yakuza guy took the cigarette out of his mouth.
“Where do you teach Englsih?”
AEON Nagoya, I said. As if this prestigious company would explain everything.

Gunsmith Cats. One of the few Manga-Anime stories set in Chicago. It is about a group of girls in Chicago. They work at a gun shop and are hired out as bounty hunters to stop the Chicago mob. A popular anime in the late 90′s, it did not really help my situation with the Chicago/guns/mob image.
“America” He mumbled to himself. “What city you come from? ” He asked in a conversational tone.
“Chicago.” I replied.
There was a short pause, and then a smile came across his face.
“Chee-ca-go… ” He said, pronouncing the “chi” like in cheese. “I know this Chee-ca-go… many firearm in Chee-ca-go. ” He said as he looked at my F.O.I.D card and placed it back in my wallet.
I guess Chicago does have a lot of guns, I thought to myself. But compared to Japan, Disneyland would have more guns. “Michael Jordan was there too.” I mumbled under my breath.
“Do you like Chee-ca-go?” He asked with a strange sincerity. As if someday in the future, he would like to go to engineering school there.
“Yes I do. Its a good place.” I said, defending its honor while also trying to put the good word out.
The Yakuza guy flicked his cigarette away and lowered his hand as a gesture to pull me up. I was not sure if it was some kind of trick. I looked up at him and then over at the Brazilian guy who remained motionless with a disappointed look on his face. I looked back at the Yakuza guy, grabbed his hand, and he pulled me up. He handed me back my wallet and then strangely dusted the rocks and dirt from my shoulders.
I then stood there in amazement, as he walked around me to grab all my fallen groceries and place them back in their bags. He handed the bags to me, and said.
“Suminasen” (I apologies). He turned and started walking back to the Mercedes. He pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and blew a big puff of smoke into the air. The Brazilian guy soon turned and followed him a few paces behind.
I stood in the empty street holding my torn grocery bags. Everything was still in my wallet. My face was skinned and bleeding and I was wondering what the hell just happened. Curiosity alone drive me to do the next thing.
I yelled, “Scusi… Scusi…” and started running after the brazilian guy. When I caught up to him, he neither stopped nor turned to look at me. He just continued his walk back to the car.
“What the hell was all that about?” I said in my best teacher-polished English.
He nodded his head forward toward the Yakuza guy.
“Someone owes him much money… Brazilian… He think it you…” He said.
I stopped and watched them walk off.
Now what do I do? Should I call the police? Tell them I was mugged by two guys who took no money from me, but roughed me up and rearranged my groceries. Maybe warn them that there is a Brazilian guy who lives in this neighborhood who looks like me, but borrows a lot more money. Perhaps tell them that the bad news is; I got beat up by the Yakuza, The good news is; I have never been beat up with such respect and courtesy.
I told the other Japanese teachers on Monday how I got all the scrapes and bruises on my face. They were all shocked and verified that the guy was some level of Yakuza, and that I should call the police. In the end, I did not call the police, or even call home for that matter. I figured it could have been a lot worse in Chicago. They could have just shot me and then found out I was the wrong guy.
As with all the stories on my True Stories Page, I ask myself the same question after it happens. How the hell am I going to explain this to people back home? Start a blog perhaps…
Photo Credits:
Top photo – Kurosaki from the manga Dengeki Daisy (電撃デイジー) by Kyosuke Motomi. Painstakingly rendered in color by yiny-chan from Deviant Art.
Running Photo – Ryuuichi from the manga Full Contact (フル・コン) by kabuto kitahama and Shinobu Minazuki.
Scorpion from Mortal Kombat. Mortal Kombat Wiki
Police Cars – Riding Bean(ライディング・ビーン) by Kenichi Sonoda
Gunsmith Cats (ガンスミス キャッツ ) by Kenichi Sonoda
The Quiet Don (静かなるドン) by Tatsuyo Nitta
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