If you frequently answer the phone of a person whose callers are sometimes people who speak only Japanese, this is an important phrase to have in your vocabulary. Replace Saki by the name of your roommate, or whoever it is. What you are saying is: Saki (or someone)'s not here. (This does not mean 'Saki does not exist' - I forget what that phrase is, but I've gotten clarification and despite the two being easily mixed up, this means what it's supposed to. No 'bite the wax tadpole'.)
I've just lost a roommate and with her departure a period of my life is unequivocally over. This morning we saw Saki (and Sparky, as well) off to Japan. They'll be back in June, eleven days before Sparky and I graduate.
The roommate who's taken Saki's place seems to be a doll, but right now it doesn't matter. The house feels empty. She's not Saki.
Last year, in the dorms, Saki taught bellise and I several useful phrases, but Saki wa imasen is the only one I've retained. The rest of my knowledge of the language is either swear words, the word for jet trails, or the translation of, "If you're eating Twizzlers, you must be an American." Once, Saki's mother wanted to talk to me on the phone. I held it up to my ear and a string of Japanese syllables shot out from somewhere west of here, too fast for me to catch. While it's lovely that Saki's mother gives the American educational system so much credit, it was clarified to bellise and myself that we needed to be able to inform Saki's friends and family back home when she wasn't around. Hence, one night at the Ribeye, Saki wa imasen.
But now she's gone for good. She'll come back to Oly, of course, and she'll be at Evergreen for two more years, but the unit we all grew so comfortable with has been split. Bellise and I are still here, engaged in the same things that served as a common bond between the three of us, but Saki is gone. This is not summer vacation. It felt right then; it doesn't now. On the way back from the airport, we talked about whether bellise wants to move back in with Saki next fall. We couldn't put our fingers on it, but that struck both of us as wrong. College roommates aren't often like we are. How are we? We're close friends. We know each others' secrets, we do things together, and of course, we share a home. To try and extend that too long would be surreal and desperate and probably futile. All things break down eventually.
Saki is rad. She's secretive, independent, and intelligent. She's not the kind of student who makes up excuses when she doesn't want to do her homework or skips class. She has integrity. She has the capacity for complete goofiness and when she gets drunk she's as blunt as any tenured alcoholic. Finally, three Sundays ago, she sang karaoke with me, and I've promised to sing with her if I ever get to go to Japan. When she's back over summer, I get the honor of running around with her on her 21st birthday. In a mock argument, she will punch you lightly on the arm. She's punk rock and she listens to punk rock. Every time she falls asleep on the couch, she puts the book she's been reading over her face.
Last spring break, me and Saki took a Greyhound to San Francisco. when we came back, the three of us had accidentally gotten matching haircuts. We looked like a cult. We were the Dungeon Girls, stuck at the end of a windowless hall, half subterranean. She always claimed she couldn't cook, but Saki makes awesome sushi with eggplant and eggs and tofu. We would sit at Otto's or Denny's or Shari's or IHOP or the Ribeye for hours, talking shit, talking nonsense. Saki just can't stop eating cheese.
I want her to have fun, but I'm going to miss that girl. Saki wa imasen, and that's not fair. |
