Between Yakitori and a Hard Place 

John Gutekanst

It is December of 1982 and I am a 21 year-old naval air crewman flying along the coast of Vladivostok, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. Through my bubble window, I see my missile-packing escort; a shiny Soviet Su-15 Flagon floating in the jet stream just 30 yards away. I wave, flash a smile and offer him a friendly thumbs-up in hopes he won’t blow me up. The cold war is reaching its zenith and the United States of America has misguidedly made me the first line of defense against communist tyranny. My priorities on this mission are to never run out of cigarettes, make sure one of my headphones is tuned to the BBC’s History of British Rock and protect the parcel of chicken yakitori that is now thawing between my crotch and the seat.

That’s me second from right licking my lips in thoughts of eating yakitori.

 My P-3 Orion reconnaissance airplane is so old that it was flying during the Bay of Pigs incident under President Kennedy. The bathroom floors are rotting from years of badly aimed urine and the heat rarely works in the rear where I’m seated. I’ve been airborne a bumpy eight hours in this deathtrap and, given the choice of my demise, would rather take a warm missile-hit than cold crash landing in the roiling Sea of Japan below. As I blow warmth into my shivering hands, I get tossed aside by another too-tight turn forcing my head to bump against the headrest.

Our pilot today is Captain Elliot, the worst pilot in our squadron but he is also the XO, or Executive Officer. Being the “Number Two” answerable only to the Commanding Officer, his main duty is at a desk, dealing with the day-to-day administration of the squadron. Unfortunately, he has to keep a certain amount of flight time in his record to keep his flight status and those gold wings on his chest. The Captain is a source of consternation for our crew because of his quirky flying abilities like turning too tight, diving too steep and just plain being an asshole who doesn’t turn on enough heat during a mission.

As we drone on, I reach down and pull out the wax paper parcel that holds my treasure. I unfold the paper on my small table and silently rejoice in anticipation of finally eating what I have looked forward to all day-“Negima Yakitori.” These barbecued skin-on chicken thighs skewered with the undersized negi leeks are my favorite in-flight meal.

I look around for skulking crewmates and bend over gulag-style shielding my treasure from prying eyes and hungry beggars. Pulling one stick from my stash, I touch the yakitori. It is cold to the touch but still brilliantly shiny and sticky with sharp, blackened edges of pure sweet-salty char. I bought this the night before from a yakitori-ya near my base in Atsugi City, Japan. It’s my secret yakitori place and I hide its location from everyone except my roommate not because they make the best damn yakitori I have ever tasted, but because of the two pretty sisters who work there.

 On that previous night, my caustic roommate Timmy and I stood leaning in the chest-high window of the small, smoky roadside kiosk like a pair of gigolo’s sizing up prospective clients. The shop was family owned; the dad never hid his contempt for us, the mother wasn’t much better, but the two daughters were beautiful with long black flowing hair put up in smart, tight buns. I visited often.

 “Nice view huh?” Timmy said nodding at the girls. Timmy’s leering made their dad, standing just feet away, scowl at us with restrained hatred.

“I think you gotta find a smoother way to connect with these babes.” I chide Timmy. “Uh… Kong-banwa, Ikaga deshita?” I said in swaggering ignorance. The girls both smiled and giggled at my sad attempt to say “good evening, how are you doing?”  I looked at Tim and raised my eyebrows in guy language saying, ‘Now that’s how you do it.’

“What kind of yakitori are you gonna get?”  I asked Timmy while dad basted numerous yakitori sticks on the narrow grill with his liquid “Tare,” or traditional basting sauce.

The old guy proudly held his small handled, light green ceramic urn that looked centuries-old and dipped a brush into that concentrated liquid. This mysterious barbeque sauce distinguishes every yakitori master from others and is either dipped or brushed onto the chicken skewers. It is made from sake, soy sauce, caster sugar and a chicken reduction of previously roasted chicken carcasses and bones (reduced even further into what is called a Tare.) Some tare is reputed to be hundreds of years old and is replenished with cooked chicken juices and soy every cooking cycle.

The brushing made the juices drip onto the hot Bincho-Tan charcoal and the smoke billowed out of the small window becoming a chicken-soy fog of flavor that blanketed my head enticing me even more than the prospect of getting lucky with these girls.

I swiped the smoke away with my hand and looked up in wonder at the overhead menu written in English and Japanese:

Lamb 160 yen

Beef 140 yen

Pork 120 yen

Chicken 100 yen

Meat 75 yen

“Just get me the chicken John, 5 sticks, make sure Tojo here doesn’t spit on ‘em.” Timmy coughed while he put a cigarette in his mouth and walked slowly away.

 “Don’t you wanna try the ‘meat’ Tim?” I asked sarcastically as he lit up.  He turned around with a worried look. “It doesn’t matter dude, we’re all probably gonna die tomorrow anyway.”

“What?” I asked.

Tim walked back to me. “Didn’t you see the roster that was posted on base? That crazy Captain Elliot is our pilot tomorrow, y’know, the ‘Nam burnout?”

 I turned and looked at the old Japanese dad thinking that maybe I should order a stick of ‘meat’ and cheer Tim up by eating it, but thought better of it because I didn’t wanna insult Dad, especially before getting my chicken yakitori for tomorrow’s long flight.

Tomorrow was now and I am airborne, frozen and hungry; staring at a jet bouncing along like a beautiful shiny bullet that can end my life. I nibble small chunks around the yakitori like corn on the cob in hopes of prolonging this experience of perfect taste.

 I squint out my window at the numerous white painted missiles that hang under each delta wing of the Su-15. The pilot turns his head and looks out at me through his clear canopy; his helmet is white with a cat or a skull on it. I wave again but receive nothing in response, just a cold stare. I shiver again and squint. I hope it is a cat.

 Really just a flying gun, the Flagon is best suited for blowing the crap out of imperialistic interlopers (like me) and is the infamous plane that shoots down Korean Airlines 007 in 1983. I wave again and give the fighter pilot another thumbs-up hoping in some way to placate him so he won’t blow me to smithereens, (after all, Reagan is President). For the past few years I have been flying, this technique has worked well.

“Petty officer Gutekanst.”  A muffled directive comes from beyond my earphones and pulls me out of yakitori reverie. I swivel my chair around to find Captain Elliot, our pilot, crouching next to me with a smile.

  The Captain is the oldest pilot in my squadron and looks like a tall Richard Gere. His close cropped salt and pepper hair is perfect for his pilot’s countenance-cool, crisp, calm and daring. He is an ex-Marine helicopter pilot who flew above the jungles in Vietnam and always lands this monster as though it’s a Huey dropping into the jungle with a load of jar heads to attack Charlie. We bounce down the runway like a sumo wrestler on a trampoline. Radios jostle off of their mounts, coffee spills into our laps and nerves jump with every horrific jolt. It is not a nice way to end a ten hour flight but none of us have the guts to tell this hard-ass, Captain America that his flying and landing abilities suck.

“I was just on my way to the head when I saw what you’re doing.”

“Sir?” I ask.

“Oh, don’t worry sailor, nothing wrong. It’s just that ever since the ‘Nam’, I find certain situations in life amusing; you, with that yakitori skewer in your mouth has gotta be one of the best I’ve encountered in weeks.” He said.

“I don’t understand sir.”

“Well, when you’re an old man like me you’ll tend to see much more humor in ironic situations, ya know, those one-of-a-kind things you see that makes life interesting?

“A, yea…yes sir.”

“You see Rasputin out there in his crotch rocket?” he pointed.

“Yes sir.” I didn’t look.

“At this exact moment you and he are making history. Did you know that young man?” I raise my tired eyebrows in questioning stupidity, (officers like that.) 

“Ah, no sir.”

“This is something for the Guinness book of World Records.” The Captain slaps my shoulder and laughs. “There will never be another moment in all of time where some young American man sits giving the thumbs-up to a Soviet fighter poised to blow the shit out of him while chewing on a stick of chicken yakitori.”

The Captain laughs then waves his hand in the bubble window to get the Soviets attention. I see the Soviet pilot turn his head toward us. Captain Elliot’s eyes lose their sparkle as he squints and I can see his jaw bone pulsing tensely as his lips squash together.

“By the way, got any more of those sticky chicken sticks?” He whispers quietly still gazing at the Flagon.

“No sir.” I lie and close my thighs protecting my yakitori thighs.

 He pushes his head close to the window, smiles in the bright sunlight beam and flips the Soviet pilot off pushing his middle finger against the plastic bubble. “Fucking commie” he yells so loud that he fogs the glass. Captain Elliott then stands up and trots to the bathroom before stopping; “Carry on sailor, just be careful with that sharp bamboo, we may hit some turbulence soon.”

I turn back to look at the fighter in utter confusion wiping officer spittle off the window with my forearm. I want to apologize to the Soviet pilot but can’t.

Three minutes later the fighter leaves and I watch another fly out at me as a speck on the horizon. I chew faster as it morphs from a small dot against the blue-grey ocean clouds to a much larger dart with a white smoky tail. As it gets closer, I chew faster and unwrap the two remaining yakitori sticks and prepare to eat them while falling to my death. This new fighter is a camouflaged Mig-23 Flogger with cannons that would rip us to shreds in seconds. Thankfully, he floats 40 yards outside my window like his predecessor and I shove them back in my crotch. 

 Once I know I am safe, I wave in introduction, give the Mig a thumbs up and fake smile while wiping the sauce from my cheek. I look around, pull another sticky skewer of yakitori from my stash and live to tell this story. (No thanks to the Captain.)