Tuesday, April 20, 2004
S - Interview with a Male Prostitute in Japan*
S - Interview with a Male Prostitute in Japan*
*Special thanks to S for approving the transcription of this dialogue with only minor changes and especially for the preservation of the title, which he finds base and inaccurate in describing his profession (jpoldmixon)
The guy was good. Or, better said, he was smart. In the first ten minutes I had agreed to let the guy proof read and approve of the story before I published it online. "It's nothing major," I tried to explain, but he made no reply. No reaction in his face. He lit a cigarette and started talking before I could press record.
S: First things first. I'm not a baishunfu dansho. I'm not a host either. And tacking on something like "high class," won't do it justice. Got it?
I nodded. To be honest, my Japanese isn't so hot. But that's part of what made this guy perfect. Fluent English. Decent Japanese. I was also at his mercy, to a certain degree, but that was part of the package. He made that clear from the get go.
I: How long've you been here?
S: About eight years.
I: Any jail time?
S: (Laughs through is nose, takes a drag from his cigarette and shakes his head). No jail time. Look, you want the story or what?
What's bugging me is that there really isn't anything so remarkable about this guy. Blonde hair cemented in an intentional frazzle. Light blue eyes, pin striped black suit that makes him look more like a congressman than a... well, whatever he is. The hint of freckles on his cheeks add to that just-like-any-gaijin-in-Japan look. Yet he wears that big-timer, self-important, good-old-boy attitude like a cologne that you just can't get away from. He signals the waitress and orders two Gin and tonics. I hate Gin and tonic. But at the moment, I'm more worried about how much the drinks are going to run me. The place he's picked is far from a 300 Yen Izakaya. No menus. No prices. Low-backed Western armchairs surround dark wooden tables that suggest we should be smoking pipes or cigars instead of Lark cigarettes. I'm guesstimating it will run us anywhere from 800 to 2000 Yen a drink.
S: You want to guess what I did before this?
I: (Still unsure of what "this" is) Anything will help.
S: Don't be stupid. What did I do before this? Take a wild guess.
I: (smiling) English Teacher?
S: No Shit. Just like every one else in this country. The western ones, anyway. Nine to Five at a kindergarten. Not bad work actually, fairly enjoyable. But I had truck loads of student loan debt back home. Somewhere around 50,000 U.S. So, like everyone else in this country, I decided to pick up some private lessons on the side. That's what got me started. By mistake, anyway.
I gave him my best, "Ooooooh, I see," expression. He responded by snuffing his cigarette out in the ashtray.
S: You know what a "Language Exchange" is, right?
I: I think so... Yes.
S: You don't, do you? (Sighs). Pick up a free paper anywhere in Kansai, and in the classifieds, you'll see a section titled, "Language Exchange." Usually the ads are run by desperate western men or lonely, middle-aged Japanese women. Of course, the whole thing is a fa軋de. What happens is, you decide to meet the person somewhere, usually for coffee or sometimes at one of your places. If you know what's going on, you collect the money up front. You talk to each other in a hodge-podge of English and Japanese for about twenty to forty-five minutes, then you have sex. After all is said and done, you have a shower and hit the road with somewhere between 2000-5000 Yen for a couple hours work. Bada-bada-bing. Easy money.
I: And that's how you got started. . . ?
He leans forward in his chair. For the first time, I notice the guy has hardly moved an inch, except to signal the waitress or tap the ash from his cigarette. He smiles this time.
S: Not yet. I said that was a mistake, remember? You are recording this, right? Because if you're going to go home to type this up and butcher it, I might as well take off now.
I: No, It's recording. (I wave a nonchalant hand in his direction) Don't worry, I'll get it all verbatim. Just, you know, pick up where you were.
S: (Slides back into his armchair) Language Exchanges. That's small peanuts. 2000-5000 Yen. That's like 20 to 50 bucks. And what's worse, you have no control over who you're going to meet. If you make the mistake of having sex with them... (exhales through his nose and grins) ... There's just no telling what's going to happen. The variables start to pile up. Maybe they want you to come over again and again or they want to be your girlfriend. Maybe they start to get jealous or they start thinking they shouldn't be paying. For someone desperate, it's not bad as a one-time shot. But I'm not desperate.
I: So how long were you doing that before you stopped?
S: (Continues as if he didn't hear the question) It's dangerous. And it's an unreliable way of working. Just too many variables.
Here, he pauses with every indication that he has hit a dead end in the story. I start to wonder if that's it - if this seedy underworld he's promised me is accessible through a free weekly newspaper that anyone can pick up at their local bar. He orders two more gin and tonics. In fact, I'm not even half-way finished with my first one, and I'm convinced that this guy is a con man. And a crap con man at that. Dragging me to some posh bar that overcharges you for drinks while they trim the electric bill by turning down the lights under the guise of "atmosphere."
S: Not much of a drinker, are you?
I: I don't like to drink when I work.
At this he nods approvingly and glances at the tape recorder. I get a pen and notepad from my pocket and scribble, "Hooker approves of my professional work ethic". I scratch out "Hooker" and replace it with "Gaijin Gigolo". He watches this carefully, then glances at a remote corner of the room and continues.
S: I didn't know what I was doing. If I would've known, I probably wouldn't have done it. But I did, and I got lucky. (At this I write, "Gigolo gets laid," with an earnest expression) See, this wasn't the first time for the lady I met. Not the first Language Exchange. She put ads here and there, but always ended up with something she wasn't happy with. When I showed up at her door, I was skeptical. But before I walked out, she handed me an envelope that changed everything.
I: How much?
S: 35,000 Yen. But that wasn't why I was lucky. There was a note with a phone number, and a date and time. (He laughs through his nose again). Kind of like a spy story, huh?
I: Yeah, a little bit. (Writing: "Idiot")
S: I was lucky. You know Toyonaka City?
I: Toyonaka? Yeah. Up north. Suita and Senri-Chuo and all that.
S: Location is everything. It's one of the most important indicators of potential success. You know why they don't drill for oil in South Osaka?
I: No clue.
S: Because there is no oil in South Osaka. You know why no one sticks up pachinko parlors?
I: . . .
S: Because you'd walk out with a bag full of little silver balls.
I: . . .
S: Toyanaka is ripe with rich, lonely women. Most of their families have been rich since before the war. And most of them are married.
I: Doesn't that - ?
S: Not at all. A lot of the time their husbands live and work in Tokyo or Beijing or something. That's what they tell them, anyway. They come home once every two or three months to visit their children, if they have any, and jet back to work and a much younger girlfriend after two or three days. Of course, they're never so bad as to forget to leave their wives with huge bank deposits as apologies.
He's finished his second Gin and Tonic and has begun to glance more frequently at his watch. He orders two more with a raised finger. The waitress empties the ashtray.
S: So it started with the first lady. But, so much for discretion, she must have told her friends, because on our fourth or fifth visit, I call the number, show up at the place, and there's another lady with her.
I: So. . .?
S: No group business. I don't do that. The other one paid to watch. Of course, I was still wet behind the ears, so I only asked for 35,000 from each of them. But they were smart, paid the price, and later gave me hell when I raised the rates a little.
I: Where were you - you know, doing this? Hotels? Their Houses?
S: Bingo. The last thing these ladies want you to know is where they live. What their real names are. Any personal information is out the window. The first time, she blindfolded me and drove around in circles so that I lost all sense of direction. Same thing with the trip home. Of course, after a couple of times doing this and what with the new lady coming into the picture, it became clear that some alternative would have to be created.
I: And?
S: And I got the apartment I have now. About three months later I got a car. Nothing too impressive. A little two door number, but fully loaded.
I: So, do you mind if I ask... uh... how often are you meeting her? Or her friend?
S: (Glances at the tape recorder as the waitress arrives) It's not like that now. That was the beginning. Now she's... well, sort of the main one. But there are others. Only she has to be aware of every meeting. Every encounter. And I can't have sex with anyone but her.
I: Then what do the others do? Watch? I'm not sure I understand...
S: Dates, mostly. Someone attractive to be seen talking to at an expensive restaurant. Someone shopping with them in the department stores. You know, they even give me the money to pay for things? In the department stores - that way it looks like it's me who's buying them the necklace! Great stuff.
I: ... definitely. So, if you don't mind me asking, how much are you looking at? I mean, in a year or so?
S: Me? (He straightens up and let's his cigarette rest in the ashtray. His eyes roll up as if he's calculating the number from scratch) Last year - I'm guessing I was at around 10 million yen. Without the car, the apartment, the clothes... the, uh... perks, you know?
10 million yen. Roughly 100,000 U.S. dollars. Plus the perks.
S: But there are others I know. They make more than that. Do better.
I: How's that? I mean, 10 million yen is quite a bit of money. How do they...?
S: Location, Location, Location, my friend. It's one of the most important indicators of potential success.
I jot down that he must have memorized this phrase. Maybe he heard it from some real estate yuppie tourist on vacation in Japan. Or maybe he was the one on vacation. I start to imagine - Hawaii? Fiji? Thailand? With 10 million yen a year, you can pretty much go wherever the hell you want.
S: Some of these guys are making twice what I am. And they get the apartment, the car, the suits - everything.
I: And how old is... the, umm, main one?
S: (Here, he pauses to size up the question and coughs before he continues). Not sure. I think late forties, early fifties. It's hard to tell.
I act like I'm writing something important on my notepad. By his reaction to the last question, I'm starting to wonder how to phrase the more personal questions.
I: And, you, uh, said there's no one else?
S: No, like I said, there are others.
I: I mean that you have sex with. No girlfriends on the side?
He winks. It's that, "now that you're in the country club, you can find out for yourself," kind of wink. Of course, I'm not in the country club, so I'm a little confused. I wait, but he doesn't answer. There's a bit of a pause, and I notice that he's finished his drink, but isn't ordering another. I decide he must be cutting this short.
I: Alright. So, how does someone else get into this market? Without the luck, that is.
He licks his lips and puts out his cigarette. He tries to stifle a grin.
S: I don't know anything about it. Just, you know, it happens or it doesn't. It's not like there's an application or anything. Although - (grins in full) - I'd like to see it if there was one.
He stands up to shake my hand and signals the waitress for the bill. I make a move for my wallet, hoping he'll offer to pay before I get it out of my back pocket. Seeing this, he raises an eyebrow and shakes his head at me as if I had suggested something amusing. He glances casually at the bill and hands the waitress two crisp, 10,000 yen notes.
*Special thanks to S for approving the transcription of this dialogue with only minor changes and especially for the preservation of the title, which he finds base and inaccurate in describing his profession (jpoldmixon)
The guy was good. Or, better said, he was smart. In the first ten minutes I had agreed to let the guy proof read and approve of the story before I published it online. "It's nothing major," I tried to explain, but he made no reply. No reaction in his face. He lit a cigarette and started talking before I could press record.
S: First things first. I'm not a baishunfu dansho. I'm not a host either. And tacking on something like "high class," won't do it justice. Got it?
I nodded. To be honest, my Japanese isn't so hot. But that's part of what made this guy perfect. Fluent English. Decent Japanese. I was also at his mercy, to a certain degree, but that was part of the package. He made that clear from the get go.
I: How long've you been here?
S: About eight years.
I: Any jail time?
S: (Laughs through is nose, takes a drag from his cigarette and shakes his head). No jail time. Look, you want the story or what?
What's bugging me is that there really isn't anything so remarkable about this guy. Blonde hair cemented in an intentional frazzle. Light blue eyes, pin striped black suit that makes him look more like a congressman than a... well, whatever he is. The hint of freckles on his cheeks add to that just-like-any-gaijin-in-Japan look. Yet he wears that big-timer, self-important, good-old-boy attitude like a cologne that you just can't get away from. He signals the waitress and orders two Gin and tonics. I hate Gin and tonic. But at the moment, I'm more worried about how much the drinks are going to run me. The place he's picked is far from a 300 Yen Izakaya. No menus. No prices. Low-backed Western armchairs surround dark wooden tables that suggest we should be smoking pipes or cigars instead of Lark cigarettes. I'm guesstimating it will run us anywhere from 800 to 2000 Yen a drink.
S: You want to guess what I did before this?
I: (Still unsure of what "this" is) Anything will help.
S: Don't be stupid. What did I do before this? Take a wild guess.
I: (smiling) English Teacher?
S: No Shit. Just like every one else in this country. The western ones, anyway. Nine to Five at a kindergarten. Not bad work actually, fairly enjoyable. But I had truck loads of student loan debt back home. Somewhere around 50,000 U.S. So, like everyone else in this country, I decided to pick up some private lessons on the side. That's what got me started. By mistake, anyway.
I gave him my best, "Ooooooh, I see," expression. He responded by snuffing his cigarette out in the ashtray.
S: You know what a "Language Exchange" is, right?
I: I think so... Yes.
S: You don't, do you? (Sighs). Pick up a free paper anywhere in Kansai, and in the classifieds, you'll see a section titled, "Language Exchange." Usually the ads are run by desperate western men or lonely, middle-aged Japanese women. Of course, the whole thing is a fa軋de. What happens is, you decide to meet the person somewhere, usually for coffee or sometimes at one of your places. If you know what's going on, you collect the money up front. You talk to each other in a hodge-podge of English and Japanese for about twenty to forty-five minutes, then you have sex. After all is said and done, you have a shower and hit the road with somewhere between 2000-5000 Yen for a couple hours work. Bada-bada-bing. Easy money.
I: And that's how you got started. . . ?
He leans forward in his chair. For the first time, I notice the guy has hardly moved an inch, except to signal the waitress or tap the ash from his cigarette. He smiles this time.
S: Not yet. I said that was a mistake, remember? You are recording this, right? Because if you're going to go home to type this up and butcher it, I might as well take off now.
I: No, It's recording. (I wave a nonchalant hand in his direction) Don't worry, I'll get it all verbatim. Just, you know, pick up where you were.
S: (Slides back into his armchair) Language Exchanges. That's small peanuts. 2000-5000 Yen. That's like 20 to 50 bucks. And what's worse, you have no control over who you're going to meet. If you make the mistake of having sex with them... (exhales through his nose and grins) ... There's just no telling what's going to happen. The variables start to pile up. Maybe they want you to come over again and again or they want to be your girlfriend. Maybe they start to get jealous or they start thinking they shouldn't be paying. For someone desperate, it's not bad as a one-time shot. But I'm not desperate.
I: So how long were you doing that before you stopped?
S: (Continues as if he didn't hear the question) It's dangerous. And it's an unreliable way of working. Just too many variables.
Here, he pauses with every indication that he has hit a dead end in the story. I start to wonder if that's it - if this seedy underworld he's promised me is accessible through a free weekly newspaper that anyone can pick up at their local bar. He orders two more gin and tonics. In fact, I'm not even half-way finished with my first one, and I'm convinced that this guy is a con man. And a crap con man at that. Dragging me to some posh bar that overcharges you for drinks while they trim the electric bill by turning down the lights under the guise of "atmosphere."
S: Not much of a drinker, are you?
I: I don't like to drink when I work.
At this he nods approvingly and glances at the tape recorder. I get a pen and notepad from my pocket and scribble, "Hooker approves of my professional work ethic". I scratch out "Hooker" and replace it with "Gaijin Gigolo". He watches this carefully, then glances at a remote corner of the room and continues.
S: I didn't know what I was doing. If I would've known, I probably wouldn't have done it. But I did, and I got lucky. (At this I write, "Gigolo gets laid," with an earnest expression) See, this wasn't the first time for the lady I met. Not the first Language Exchange. She put ads here and there, but always ended up with something she wasn't happy with. When I showed up at her door, I was skeptical. But before I walked out, she handed me an envelope that changed everything.
I: How much?
S: 35,000 Yen. But that wasn't why I was lucky. There was a note with a phone number, and a date and time. (He laughs through his nose again). Kind of like a spy story, huh?
I: Yeah, a little bit. (Writing: "Idiot")
S: I was lucky. You know Toyonaka City?
I: Toyonaka? Yeah. Up north. Suita and Senri-Chuo and all that.
S: Location is everything. It's one of the most important indicators of potential success. You know why they don't drill for oil in South Osaka?
I: No clue.
S: Because there is no oil in South Osaka. You know why no one sticks up pachinko parlors?
I: . . .
S: Because you'd walk out with a bag full of little silver balls.
I: . . .
S: Toyanaka is ripe with rich, lonely women. Most of their families have been rich since before the war. And most of them are married.
I: Doesn't that - ?
S: Not at all. A lot of the time their husbands live and work in Tokyo or Beijing or something. That's what they tell them, anyway. They come home once every two or three months to visit their children, if they have any, and jet back to work and a much younger girlfriend after two or three days. Of course, they're never so bad as to forget to leave their wives with huge bank deposits as apologies.
He's finished his second Gin and Tonic and has begun to glance more frequently at his watch. He orders two more with a raised finger. The waitress empties the ashtray.
S: So it started with the first lady. But, so much for discretion, she must have told her friends, because on our fourth or fifth visit, I call the number, show up at the place, and there's another lady with her.
I: So. . .?
S: No group business. I don't do that. The other one paid to watch. Of course, I was still wet behind the ears, so I only asked for 35,000 from each of them. But they were smart, paid the price, and later gave me hell when I raised the rates a little.
I: Where were you - you know, doing this? Hotels? Their Houses?
S: Bingo. The last thing these ladies want you to know is where they live. What their real names are. Any personal information is out the window. The first time, she blindfolded me and drove around in circles so that I lost all sense of direction. Same thing with the trip home. Of course, after a couple of times doing this and what with the new lady coming into the picture, it became clear that some alternative would have to be created.
I: And?
S: And I got the apartment I have now. About three months later I got a car. Nothing too impressive. A little two door number, but fully loaded.
I: So, do you mind if I ask... uh... how often are you meeting her? Or her friend?
S: (Glances at the tape recorder as the waitress arrives) It's not like that now. That was the beginning. Now she's... well, sort of the main one. But there are others. Only she has to be aware of every meeting. Every encounter. And I can't have sex with anyone but her.
I: Then what do the others do? Watch? I'm not sure I understand...
S: Dates, mostly. Someone attractive to be seen talking to at an expensive restaurant. Someone shopping with them in the department stores. You know, they even give me the money to pay for things? In the department stores - that way it looks like it's me who's buying them the necklace! Great stuff.
I: ... definitely. So, if you don't mind me asking, how much are you looking at? I mean, in a year or so?
S: Me? (He straightens up and let's his cigarette rest in the ashtray. His eyes roll up as if he's calculating the number from scratch) Last year - I'm guessing I was at around 10 million yen. Without the car, the apartment, the clothes... the, uh... perks, you know?
10 million yen. Roughly 100,000 U.S. dollars. Plus the perks.
S: But there are others I know. They make more than that. Do better.
I: How's that? I mean, 10 million yen is quite a bit of money. How do they...?
S: Location, Location, Location, my friend. It's one of the most important indicators of potential success.
I jot down that he must have memorized this phrase. Maybe he heard it from some real estate yuppie tourist on vacation in Japan. Or maybe he was the one on vacation. I start to imagine - Hawaii? Fiji? Thailand? With 10 million yen a year, you can pretty much go wherever the hell you want.
S: Some of these guys are making twice what I am. And they get the apartment, the car, the suits - everything.
I: And how old is... the, umm, main one?
S: (Here, he pauses to size up the question and coughs before he continues). Not sure. I think late forties, early fifties. It's hard to tell.
I act like I'm writing something important on my notepad. By his reaction to the last question, I'm starting to wonder how to phrase the more personal questions.
I: And, you, uh, said there's no one else?
S: No, like I said, there are others.
I: I mean that you have sex with. No girlfriends on the side?
He winks. It's that, "now that you're in the country club, you can find out for yourself," kind of wink. Of course, I'm not in the country club, so I'm a little confused. I wait, but he doesn't answer. There's a bit of a pause, and I notice that he's finished his drink, but isn't ordering another. I decide he must be cutting this short.
I: Alright. So, how does someone else get into this market? Without the luck, that is.
He licks his lips and puts out his cigarette. He tries to stifle a grin.
S: I don't know anything about it. Just, you know, it happens or it doesn't. It's not like there's an application or anything. Although - (grins in full) - I'd like to see it if there was one.
He stands up to shake my hand and signals the waitress for the bill. I make a move for my wallet, hoping he'll offer to pay before I get it out of my back pocket. Seeing this, he raises an eyebrow and shakes his head at me as if I had suggested something amusing. He glances casually at the bill and hands the waitress two crisp, 10,000 yen notes.
Friday, April 16, 2004
d
d
Tuesday, April 13, 2004
Masako in Photographs
Masako in Photographs
Through the paper-thin walls, the seven-year old eavesdropper wondered why her mother sprinkled her hushed comments with English (a sure sign that she was trying to hide something from her daughter), and her father, Yuuichi, answered in Japanese (a gesture that suggested nothing unusual, inappropriate, or otherwise eavesdrop-worthy).
"... and she's never been on a plane before, Satomi."
"That doesn't matter."
"Then why are you so worried?"
To this her mother replied, "Nine eleven." Her fathered sighed and the conversation appeared to trail off from that single remark. Nine eleven? She was confused. Nine Eleven. What did that mean? It was the key to the conversation and yet she had no idea what it meant. That is, she understood that nine and eleven were English numbers. But... Nine Eleven? Had her mother, after discovering Noriko's mastery of English, created a new, more sophisticated code language that she would have to crack? The possibility of the entirely numerical conversation seemed altogether plausible. She could picture her parents in the living room whispering, "Thirteen four hundred eleven two."
"Six thirty five thousand seven, twenty teen."
"Eighty nine?"
"Fourteen six."
How had they done it? First it was English, now it was this number language. She sighed and felt determined to figure out this new language that revealed adult secrets. Nine eleven. A language comprised entirely of numbers. Think of it! God, her parents were smart!
Noriko was born on the morning of the Kobe earthquake. The hospital in Toyonaka city was unaffected, but Noriko's grandmother, living alone in Kobe, was not spared that day. Since then, her mother had become almost obsessively protective of Noriko. The first year at the international school had been difficult for her mother, but the distance had developed a small amount of trust in Satomi. In fact, Noriko's schooling had gone without incident until the day after her husband announced his imminent transfer to Cooperstown, New York. a-MEI-RI-ka. ah-Me-Ri-ka. A-ME-rika.
Noriko was meticulously counting and recounting the cotton balls she had recently glued to the construction paper Santa's beard when she popped out of her seat and headed towards Teacher Meridith. She tugged at Teacher Meridith's flowered skirt and waited for her attention.
"Nine Eleven." Noriko said it with a frank expression that suggested she was giving business advice. Teacher Meridith, a rather portly American woman with curly blonde hair appeared confused, then a little a shocked as she asked, "What did you say?"
Noriko relaxed. Teacher Meridith's reaction meant that she recognized the child's recent acquisition of this new language. She repeated it again, as if to threaten the very fabric of the adult world's secrecy, "... Nine... Eleven."
At this, Teacher Meridith was genuinely puzzled, and her reaction did not go unnoticed in the class. In fact, little Shiomi had already flipped over his construction paper Santa and, having borrowed a pencil, was scrawling the numbers to explain to the two friends sitting next to him, "Two numbers. Nine... Eleven... see? Easy." Teacher Meridith tried to get herself together and told Noriko to sit down and Shiomi to please be quiet and return to his work. But her remark only drew attention from other students. In a matter of minutes Mai had stood up from her desk, and, feeling somehow left out, demanded to know what Nine Eleven was. At this Shiomi raised his construction paper Santa and, pointing to his proudly written numbers, exclaimed, "TWENTY! Nine eleven equals twenty."
Again Noriko was told to sit down and Shiomi was directed to return to his work, but Mai was insistent and the other children took the sudden outburst to be some kind of game, so three or four in the back of the room began singing, "Nine Eleven, Nine Eleven, Nine EEEE-leven," to the tune of "The Wheels on the Bus." Shiomi was now marching up and down the aisles with his numbers on display as if he were in a parade. Noriko, watching Teacher Meridith try to end the confusion, marveled at the power of the number language.
In fact, Noriko had virtually no recollection of September 11th, 2001. The date, much like the severity of the events and their connection with her imminent departure to New York, was wholly unattached to the sparse images that remained in her memory. In other words, she had, at the age of six, surmised from the images on Japanese T.V. that planes at times flew into buildings, and that such events were called terrorism; three years later, the thought that this tragic event took place in New York and that her own move from Osaka to that State might present a similar threat had never occurred to her. In the same regard, her parents had never spoken of the tragedy surrounding her birth and the death of her grandmother; for the same reason as the flight to New York, she feared earthquakes less than she feared the host of threats produced by and existing only in her imagination.
The car moved slowly over the bridge toward Kansai Airport. Yuuichi had picked up his daughter from school and explained what he could about Nine Eleven. Noriko, for her part, tried to follow what her father was saying, although some of the English was fairly incomprehensible. Although she hadn't dismissed the notion of the number language, she gathered from what he said that this particular phrase might be a dangerous one.
Her father circled the airport, avoiding the parking lots and instead finding a narrow road that ran near the tarmac. He parked off the shoulder of this road next to a couple of K class cars. Noriko had asked repeatedly where they were going, but her father had only told her that she had to be patient and she would get a surprise.
She clenched her father's hand as he led her, at a brisk trot, toward the tarmac. A sign a few meters ahead warned of incineration by the planes' jets. Reading it from a distance, Noriko was confused, afraid, and inexplicably excited.
"Just stand still now."
"But what are we doing out here?"
Yuuichi dropped to one knee and pointed at the sky in the distance. "Just out that way, a plane is flying from New York to Osaka. Anytime now, that plane is going to land right here in Kansai Airport." Noriko smiled a little, but failed to understand. Her father released a muffled laugh and glanced back at the sky. "The plane will land," he turned her around, "right over there, see, where those thick lines begin there?" She nodded. "The plane from New York will fly - right - over - our - heads. And land, safely, right over there."
Noriko narrowed her eyes. They were flying to New York soon, but why was her father taking her here? Was there something that she didn't know that she needed to know? She scrambled for a reason and pitched pebbles about the tarmac in the ten minutes before the plane arrived. Her father knelt again and hugged her tightly to his chest. The 747 was low in the sky, drawing a wide arc before the wings flattened in their direction. Noriko was suddenly enthralled. Afraid, she clung to her father and breathed heavily. The weight of the noise seemed to press down on her small body. She issued a scream as the deafening rush shook the pavement beneath her.
She felt her father's chest jostle in a light chuckle. He gently pulled her from his chest and turned her trembling form to face the opposite direction. The plane was rolling along the pavement in the distance, the heavy noise moving away as it turned slowly on the tarmac. Noriko watched in awe. With a wordless, gaping mouth she turned to her father. The shock and fear slowly left her face. She began to laugh, and threw her arms around her father's neck.
It wasn't the fact that they didn't have ramen, but the way the cabin attendant looked at her when she said, "I'm sorry, we don't have that." She was opening her mouth to say, "Nine Eleven," when her father interrupted her with something about how she'd have the fish. Noriko was flustered, but managed to shake her head with downcast eyes and, in the most insidious tone that the seven year old could muster, utter the word, "Poopie."
The cabin attendant paused for a second, her eyes showing the attempt to cover her surprise for a short time before regaining their perpetually pleased expression. Noriko, feeling satisfied, smiled back at her in a childish imitation of her cheerful countenance.
Satomi insisted that the cat would only make a mess in the house. Of course, her protests were all together useless, as Noriko was already debating whether to name the gray and black tabby "Pochi" or "Bill." Her father, who got the cat from a nearby shelter in hopes of comforting Noriko in this potentially difficult transitional period, cast his vote for "Bill," while his wife made a motion to abstain by silently walking off to the kitchen.
Despite her objections on the day of Bill's arrival, Satomi had grown quite fond of the plump tabby from the minute she laid eyes on it. In the ensuing months she had taken countless hours of video footage of Noriko and Bill, and she was somewhat relieved to have Noriko's attention focused on something other than the television. She was in her room when she noticed the silence in the house. Outside, the repeated cry of a bird resounded in a single, shrill note. She called Noriko's name but heard no reply. She approached the front room of the house and found her daughter looking out the screen door, the latch held tightly closed by her right hand. Satomi was about to scold her when she saw Bill crouched on the front lawn, a blue jay slumped lifelessly on the ground some 3 feet ahead of him. She heard the shrill cry again as another bird dived toward Bill, dropping it's beak in an attempt to attack the gray and black tabby.
Noriko turned to face her mother with a flat expression. There was little sentiment in her voice as she said, "Bill killed that one's girlfriend." Satomi, placing a hand on her daughter's shoulder, drew her away from the latch on the screen door and called Bill from inside the house. The cat made no response, but continued to dart about the front yard, crouching low to the ground, as the male blue jays seemed to grow in number, the shrill cry of the first multiplied by three, by five, by nine. The brown forms shot towards the cat in steep angles, one drawing him as a decoy while two would follow seconds later to surprise him from behind. Satomi opened her mouth to call him again, but instead placed her arm around her daughter and turned her resisting shoulders away from the scene.
She drew her daughter towards her and spoke in an even, soft tone. "Come with me to the bedroom, Noriko. There's something I want to show you."
Noriko followed with a backwards glance out the screen door. Her mother sat her on her parent's bed and went to a small desk in the corner of the room. She rummaged in one of the drawers and nodded, bringing a handful of flat, slick black and white photos to the bedside. She laid the photos in a scattered fashion on the bed so that her daughter could see look at them in whatever order she saw fit. "Do you know who this is, Noriko?"
Her daughter shook her head with the corners of her mouth turned down, the off-centered pigtails wiggling awkwardly.
"There's a story I want to tell you." Noriko cocked her head, her eyebrows raised as she drew one of the pictures close to herself. "About you, Noriko. About how you were born."
Through the paper-thin walls, the seven-year old eavesdropper wondered why her mother sprinkled her hushed comments with English (a sure sign that she was trying to hide something from her daughter), and her father, Yuuichi, answered in Japanese (a gesture that suggested nothing unusual, inappropriate, or otherwise eavesdrop-worthy).
"... and she's never been on a plane before, Satomi."
"That doesn't matter."
"Then why are you so worried?"
To this her mother replied, "Nine eleven." Her fathered sighed and the conversation appeared to trail off from that single remark. Nine eleven? She was confused. Nine Eleven. What did that mean? It was the key to the conversation and yet she had no idea what it meant. That is, she understood that nine and eleven were English numbers. But... Nine Eleven? Had her mother, after discovering Noriko's mastery of English, created a new, more sophisticated code language that she would have to crack? The possibility of the entirely numerical conversation seemed altogether plausible. She could picture her parents in the living room whispering, "Thirteen four hundred eleven two."
"Six thirty five thousand seven, twenty teen."
"Eighty nine?"
"Fourteen six."
How had they done it? First it was English, now it was this number language. She sighed and felt determined to figure out this new language that revealed adult secrets. Nine eleven. A language comprised entirely of numbers. Think of it! God, her parents were smart!
Noriko was born on the morning of the Kobe earthquake. The hospital in Toyonaka city was unaffected, but Noriko's grandmother, living alone in Kobe, was not spared that day. Since then, her mother had become almost obsessively protective of Noriko. The first year at the international school had been difficult for her mother, but the distance had developed a small amount of trust in Satomi. In fact, Noriko's schooling had gone without incident until the day after her husband announced his imminent transfer to Cooperstown, New York. a-MEI-RI-ka. ah-Me-Ri-ka. A-ME-rika.
Noriko was meticulously counting and recounting the cotton balls she had recently glued to the construction paper Santa's beard when she popped out of her seat and headed towards Teacher Meridith. She tugged at Teacher Meridith's flowered skirt and waited for her attention.
"Nine Eleven." Noriko said it with a frank expression that suggested she was giving business advice. Teacher Meridith, a rather portly American woman with curly blonde hair appeared confused, then a little a shocked as she asked, "What did you say?"
Noriko relaxed. Teacher Meridith's reaction meant that she recognized the child's recent acquisition of this new language. She repeated it again, as if to threaten the very fabric of the adult world's secrecy, "... Nine... Eleven."
At this, Teacher Meridith was genuinely puzzled, and her reaction did not go unnoticed in the class. In fact, little Shiomi had already flipped over his construction paper Santa and, having borrowed a pencil, was scrawling the numbers to explain to the two friends sitting next to him, "Two numbers. Nine... Eleven... see? Easy." Teacher Meridith tried to get herself together and told Noriko to sit down and Shiomi to please be quiet and return to his work. But her remark only drew attention from other students. In a matter of minutes Mai had stood up from her desk, and, feeling somehow left out, demanded to know what Nine Eleven was. At this Shiomi raised his construction paper Santa and, pointing to his proudly written numbers, exclaimed, "TWENTY! Nine eleven equals twenty."
Again Noriko was told to sit down and Shiomi was directed to return to his work, but Mai was insistent and the other children took the sudden outburst to be some kind of game, so three or four in the back of the room began singing, "Nine Eleven, Nine Eleven, Nine EEEE-leven," to the tune of "The Wheels on the Bus." Shiomi was now marching up and down the aisles with his numbers on display as if he were in a parade. Noriko, watching Teacher Meridith try to end the confusion, marveled at the power of the number language.
In fact, Noriko had virtually no recollection of September 11th, 2001. The date, much like the severity of the events and their connection with her imminent departure to New York, was wholly unattached to the sparse images that remained in her memory. In other words, she had, at the age of six, surmised from the images on Japanese T.V. that planes at times flew into buildings, and that such events were called terrorism; three years later, the thought that this tragic event took place in New York and that her own move from Osaka to that State might present a similar threat had never occurred to her. In the same regard, her parents had never spoken of the tragedy surrounding her birth and the death of her grandmother; for the same reason as the flight to New York, she feared earthquakes less than she feared the host of threats produced by and existing only in her imagination.
The car moved slowly over the bridge toward Kansai Airport. Yuuichi had picked up his daughter from school and explained what he could about Nine Eleven. Noriko, for her part, tried to follow what her father was saying, although some of the English was fairly incomprehensible. Although she hadn't dismissed the notion of the number language, she gathered from what he said that this particular phrase might be a dangerous one.
Her father circled the airport, avoiding the parking lots and instead finding a narrow road that ran near the tarmac. He parked off the shoulder of this road next to a couple of K class cars. Noriko had asked repeatedly where they were going, but her father had only told her that she had to be patient and she would get a surprise.
She clenched her father's hand as he led her, at a brisk trot, toward the tarmac. A sign a few meters ahead warned of incineration by the planes' jets. Reading it from a distance, Noriko was confused, afraid, and inexplicably excited.
"Just stand still now."
"But what are we doing out here?"
Yuuichi dropped to one knee and pointed at the sky in the distance. "Just out that way, a plane is flying from New York to Osaka. Anytime now, that plane is going to land right here in Kansai Airport." Noriko smiled a little, but failed to understand. Her father released a muffled laugh and glanced back at the sky. "The plane will land," he turned her around, "right over there, see, where those thick lines begin there?" She nodded. "The plane from New York will fly - right - over - our - heads. And land, safely, right over there."
Noriko narrowed her eyes. They were flying to New York soon, but why was her father taking her here? Was there something that she didn't know that she needed to know? She scrambled for a reason and pitched pebbles about the tarmac in the ten minutes before the plane arrived. Her father knelt again and hugged her tightly to his chest. The 747 was low in the sky, drawing a wide arc before the wings flattened in their direction. Noriko was suddenly enthralled. Afraid, she clung to her father and breathed heavily. The weight of the noise seemed to press down on her small body. She issued a scream as the deafening rush shook the pavement beneath her.
She felt her father's chest jostle in a light chuckle. He gently pulled her from his chest and turned her trembling form to face the opposite direction. The plane was rolling along the pavement in the distance, the heavy noise moving away as it turned slowly on the tarmac. Noriko watched in awe. With a wordless, gaping mouth she turned to her father. The shock and fear slowly left her face. She began to laugh, and threw her arms around her father's neck.
It wasn't the fact that they didn't have ramen, but the way the cabin attendant looked at her when she said, "I'm sorry, we don't have that." She was opening her mouth to say, "Nine Eleven," when her father interrupted her with something about how she'd have the fish. Noriko was flustered, but managed to shake her head with downcast eyes and, in the most insidious tone that the seven year old could muster, utter the word, "Poopie."
The cabin attendant paused for a second, her eyes showing the attempt to cover her surprise for a short time before regaining their perpetually pleased expression. Noriko, feeling satisfied, smiled back at her in a childish imitation of her cheerful countenance.
Satomi insisted that the cat would only make a mess in the house. Of course, her protests were all together useless, as Noriko was already debating whether to name the gray and black tabby "Pochi" or "Bill." Her father, who got the cat from a nearby shelter in hopes of comforting Noriko in this potentially difficult transitional period, cast his vote for "Bill," while his wife made a motion to abstain by silently walking off to the kitchen.
Despite her objections on the day of Bill's arrival, Satomi had grown quite fond of the plump tabby from the minute she laid eyes on it. In the ensuing months she had taken countless hours of video footage of Noriko and Bill, and she was somewhat relieved to have Noriko's attention focused on something other than the television. She was in her room when she noticed the silence in the house. Outside, the repeated cry of a bird resounded in a single, shrill note. She called Noriko's name but heard no reply. She approached the front room of the house and found her daughter looking out the screen door, the latch held tightly closed by her right hand. Satomi was about to scold her when she saw Bill crouched on the front lawn, a blue jay slumped lifelessly on the ground some 3 feet ahead of him. She heard the shrill cry again as another bird dived toward Bill, dropping it's beak in an attempt to attack the gray and black tabby.
Noriko turned to face her mother with a flat expression. There was little sentiment in her voice as she said, "Bill killed that one's girlfriend." Satomi, placing a hand on her daughter's shoulder, drew her away from the latch on the screen door and called Bill from inside the house. The cat made no response, but continued to dart about the front yard, crouching low to the ground, as the male blue jays seemed to grow in number, the shrill cry of the first multiplied by three, by five, by nine. The brown forms shot towards the cat in steep angles, one drawing him as a decoy while two would follow seconds later to surprise him from behind. Satomi opened her mouth to call him again, but instead placed her arm around her daughter and turned her resisting shoulders away from the scene.
She drew her daughter towards her and spoke in an even, soft tone. "Come with me to the bedroom, Noriko. There's something I want to show you."
Noriko followed with a backwards glance out the screen door. Her mother sat her on her parent's bed and went to a small desk in the corner of the room. She rummaged in one of the drawers and nodded, bringing a handful of flat, slick black and white photos to the bedside. She laid the photos in a scattered fashion on the bed so that her daughter could see look at them in whatever order she saw fit. "Do you know who this is, Noriko?"
Her daughter shook her head with the corners of her mouth turned down, the off-centered pigtails wiggling awkwardly.
"There's a story I want to tell you." Noriko cocked her head, her eyebrows raised as she drew one of the pictures close to herself. "About you, Noriko. About how you were born."
Shitennoji Sidewalks
(jpoldmixon)
Shitennoji Sidewalks
Under the undulating, gray shingles of Shitennoji Temple, through the walls surrounding the temple grounds, tied to the handrails that line the narrow sidewalks outside, she can count them one by one. Three, four, five, a yellow knit cap peaks out against the tattered purple blanket. Plastic tarps tightly tied around discarded cardboard, the static dollies as makeshift carts, each to his or her own, neatly gathered stacks that unpack and fold into bedtime boxes for the city's homeless. She has passed them sleeping in the same positions as always, blankets tight over their heads, the top of a somnolent matchbox sliding, closed over their heads like corrugated coffins. Six, seven, the two who sleep with their shared box open to the winter's cold, foot to foot, heads at opposing ends while the unfailing presence of two neatly wrapped Mochi stands sentinel between them. As she walks, she begins to hum a lullaby whose tune is indelibly etched in her memory, but whose words she has hopelessly forgotten. A sidelong glance through the enormous gate reveals others nestled beneath the trees lining the central courtyard. Eight, nine, ten, eleven, she smiles, cranes her neck to inspect the contents of his bag - water bottled by Suntory, half a loaf of bread, an empty can of Asahi beer streaks silver through the plastic. On the sidewalk above his resting head, a pair of red socks, freshly scrubbed.
Liz pulled the red muffler tightly around her throat. She wore a royal blue blouse under a fleece pullover, black slacks, and a small satchel embroidered with the word "Roots," the strap bearing a white pin with a red maple leaf to remind all that despite her appearance and her accent, she was not an American. Aside from her sensitivity concerning this subject, she was easy to get along with. She could not recall ever having anything like an enemy. A polite young lady of 23, Liz was the type who would shriek at the sight of a cockroach, but demand that the creature remain unharmed until it made its way safely out of sight. In the tiny apartment just beyond the temple, her perpetually drunk roommate, Janna, had begun decorating the living room without her. Tinsel, lights, and red ribbon were bought from the 100 Yen shop in a nearby ward some three weeks ago, but Liz had never found her roommate in the proper spirits for the task. Tonight, they agreed on making the holiday, "an authentic American Christmas."
Liz hardly flinched at the comment, saving her rolled eyes and Janna, Christmas isn't only for Americans, for another time. Liz waved a "look what I got," to her roommate as she took off her shoes in the antechamber. Janna, wondering why it couldn't have been a little more rum for the eggnog, "What's the name of that movie they always used to show at Christmas? 'Bing Crosby's White Christmas,' or something. Only it was the director's name, I think, like, 'Frank Zefferelli's White Christmas.' Do you remember?"
Liz didn't remember, and she didn't think it was the soundtrack, but maybe a radio show recorded a long time ago. In any case, she was happy to find her roommate more or less sober, and the fact that she had taken interest in her purchase made her feel like a little sisterly bonding was at hand. Sisterly bonding? The decorations, the lights, the little wiluma tree sprayed with fake frost, and maybe even a little eggnog - Not sisterly bonding. It was more like they were conspirators in this plan to create a traditional Christmas in a country where the holiday was for lovers; where couples greasy with Japan's tradition of Kentucky Fried Chicken for Xmas dinner lumbered through the cold to respectable hotels that would accommodate their off-season rites with separate "stay" and "rest" rates.
"It's like we're 'Xmas sweet hearts'," said Janna, quoting the slogans draped in advertisements where "Merry Christmas" might appear in the west.
The hooks for hanging the lights went into the walls as easily as the rum went down Janna's gullet. The two were Buh-buh-buh-Booing along with Bing before long, and the discussion of how high should this and are you going to put that's subsided in favor of what we did was "open them on Christmas Eve. Sort of Strange, huh? Like, all the other kids would be beaming on Christmas morning and running from Gramma to Gramma to unwrap whatever they got, but I was sort of, you know, done with the whole thing. Christmas Day was more like, eat with your family and watch TV. I dunno," she concluded with a wave of her hand.
Janna, now reflecting on the wiluma tree with a glass of eggnog, "Yeah. Yeah... we always used to beg my parents to let us open one present on Christmas Eve. You know, 'Just one, mom, common!' But they never did. I guess it really didn't matter. But I guess it wouldn't have mattered either way." And Liz with the obvious but then they would have to let you do it every year. Janna nodded absent mindedly, humming out of tune in a way that made her roommate turn and laugh.
Although the compulsory urge to decorate had worn off by ten o'clock, the alcohol had not. As the stories branched off and dead ended into you're drunks and no I'm nots with fits of laughter from both, it began to seem as if their traditional Christmas had stretched itself as far it would go without annoying cousins, awkward church clothes, and something more than noodle soup spread across the table. Feeling adventurous from the drinks and quite comfortable with her companion, Liz allowed herself to be coaxed into taking the subway to Umeda, a spot spattered with ex-pat bars that made the perfect faux away from home.
Wham commanded the juke-box with last Christmas hits and the hunched over the table faces one might find on Christmas Eve back home turned at every pair of hips that crossed the room, hellos and O Namae Wa's from the sticky pink lipstick of stripped orange hair and pleather pants to the pea coats and shined shoes of every Tom Dick and Hiro. But the smoke and the booze and the German Japanese English French wall of talking meant anything goes, or everyone goes, even Liz.
Janna, it appeared by raised eyebrows and lower lip tightly bit, had already found a few admirers. Liz sighing comically with a hand to her forehead only wanted to watch, but enough of this sit here and say nothing Liz, this is Jun. "Yoroshiku" replaced by "How do you do," produced a giggle and her hand outstretched with "I'm fine thank you." And this is Hitoshi and Miki and Junji, so she thought she might as well be Lizzy for laughter's sake, but no one seemed to notice, or no one seemed to care.
So she was Liz again and he was Mike, two plain names and the conversation running about the same way before she looked up to find her roommate had disappeared. Of course, she thought, she would be back soon, because no one leaves anyone stranded on Christmas Eve, especially in some pick-up joint for desperate locals and horny middle age western men. But she did.
For a while anyway. In the meantime, Liz had the decency to rule out the possible "rest" rate at the Wedding Bells Hotel, but was made to put up with the increasingly dizzying parade of this is and meet my friends by Hitoshi Miki and Junji, who now introduced her as Lizzy. Janna returned to find her roommate like a Christmas ham waiting to be glazed by Japanese men already watering at the mouth. And Janna's boy toy? Arm around her waist and a look like he had really done something but it was really nothing for him to pick up a western girl. After declining drink after drink Liz told Janna she would have to meet her at home. Janna, words stumbling, would not wait up, no you wait, hahaha, I mean you don't, wait up, don't wait up for me.
The stairway exit descended into the cold streets of Umeda. The force of the cold hit her face as she stepped onto the sidewalk. She fumbled for her red muffler, the passersby turning at sharp angles to avoid colliding with the only unmoving figure in the street. Liz walked forward thinking she couldn't have expected anything different. It's not that her roommate was to blame for always being that way; if she wanted to be a lush, let her. She immediately took back that word - lush. The frigid light of neon rising stories high, the turns and crosswalk songs played at the changing of the traffic light. It really could have been any part of Osaka, she thought. But it couldn't be home. It wasn't like home. Suits and bloodshot eyes crowded on the last train, the last chance to get wherever you wanted to go without paying a fortune for a taxi, and Liz congratulated herself on saving the money, despite the two men pushing against her for room to breathe their whiskey soaked stench over her head.
As she pushed her way up from the underground into the gray asphalt streets, the iridescent light of the city glowed, lighting the white stripes of the streets, falling away in narrow allies with colder signs and faces staring at her through the shadows. But Christmas could still be saved and maybe she could buy a loaf of bred for all those that slept along the sidewalk outside the Temple, leave it quietly quietly so that they woke up wondering what had happened and she immediately felt that sinking, the blood is drained from your face, leaving from the tips of your fingers through your limbs and from your toes through your legs up from the stomach sucked backwards from whichever way it went before. That feeling that won't think to look up to the sky and wonder if someone is watching or where is whoever is dear to you and what might they be doing right now.
Seeing the cold air escape from her lips and nose as she did so, she began to hum one of those Bing Crosby renditions to herself, counting them one by one as she went along the walls of the Shitennoji Temple. Four, Five, step by step ringing against the pavement, Eight, Nine, following the cracks in the sidewalk and imagining the empty space between, Fourteen, Fifteen, the consecutive eves of the central pagoda curling up and out while the spire's concentric rings remain unseen against the night, Twenty-two, Twenty-three, and she stops, turns around. Somewhere behind her, a tattered voice bounces off the walls and his plaintive palm points toward the pavement. A fireman, looking disheveled and probably annoyed from being summoned so late, attempts to lift the dead weight shadow but only shakes his head. Help arrives with a stretcher and the tattered voice is shoved aside, his wail swelling as he stumbles back against the Temple wall. Liz retraces her steps as quickly as she can, going Eighteen, Seventeen, Sixteen to keep the people straight but finds her breathing coming in pants and stops counting with her feet starts counting with her eyes - Twelve, Eleven, Ten - and stops all together. Box top slid shut, blanket pulled tightly over the uncovered body in the same position as always, yellow cap or freshly scrubbed socks worn feet to feet with heads at opposite ends and the sentinel standing watch between them. A heavy cloud of cold breath hangs before her face. She shudders, Six. Eleven. Seventeen.
Shitennoji Sidewalks
Under the undulating, gray shingles of Shitennoji Temple, through the walls surrounding the temple grounds, tied to the handrails that line the narrow sidewalks outside, she can count them one by one. Three, four, five, a yellow knit cap peaks out against the tattered purple blanket. Plastic tarps tightly tied around discarded cardboard, the static dollies as makeshift carts, each to his or her own, neatly gathered stacks that unpack and fold into bedtime boxes for the city's homeless. She has passed them sleeping in the same positions as always, blankets tight over their heads, the top of a somnolent matchbox sliding, closed over their heads like corrugated coffins. Six, seven, the two who sleep with their shared box open to the winter's cold, foot to foot, heads at opposing ends while the unfailing presence of two neatly wrapped Mochi stands sentinel between them. As she walks, she begins to hum a lullaby whose tune is indelibly etched in her memory, but whose words she has hopelessly forgotten. A sidelong glance through the enormous gate reveals others nestled beneath the trees lining the central courtyard. Eight, nine, ten, eleven, she smiles, cranes her neck to inspect the contents of his bag - water bottled by Suntory, half a loaf of bread, an empty can of Asahi beer streaks silver through the plastic. On the sidewalk above his resting head, a pair of red socks, freshly scrubbed.
Liz pulled the red muffler tightly around her throat. She wore a royal blue blouse under a fleece pullover, black slacks, and a small satchel embroidered with the word "Roots," the strap bearing a white pin with a red maple leaf to remind all that despite her appearance and her accent, she was not an American. Aside from her sensitivity concerning this subject, she was easy to get along with. She could not recall ever having anything like an enemy. A polite young lady of 23, Liz was the type who would shriek at the sight of a cockroach, but demand that the creature remain unharmed until it made its way safely out of sight. In the tiny apartment just beyond the temple, her perpetually drunk roommate, Janna, had begun decorating the living room without her. Tinsel, lights, and red ribbon were bought from the 100 Yen shop in a nearby ward some three weeks ago, but Liz had never found her roommate in the proper spirits for the task. Tonight, they agreed on making the holiday, "an authentic American Christmas."
Liz hardly flinched at the comment, saving her rolled eyes and Janna, Christmas isn't only for Americans, for another time. Liz waved a "look what I got," to her roommate as she took off her shoes in the antechamber. Janna, wondering why it couldn't have been a little more rum for the eggnog, "What's the name of that movie they always used to show at Christmas? 'Bing Crosby's White Christmas,' or something. Only it was the director's name, I think, like, 'Frank Zefferelli's White Christmas.' Do you remember?"
Liz didn't remember, and she didn't think it was the soundtrack, but maybe a radio show recorded a long time ago. In any case, she was happy to find her roommate more or less sober, and the fact that she had taken interest in her purchase made her feel like a little sisterly bonding was at hand. Sisterly bonding? The decorations, the lights, the little wiluma tree sprayed with fake frost, and maybe even a little eggnog - Not sisterly bonding. It was more like they were conspirators in this plan to create a traditional Christmas in a country where the holiday was for lovers; where couples greasy with Japan's tradition of Kentucky Fried Chicken for Xmas dinner lumbered through the cold to respectable hotels that would accommodate their off-season rites with separate "stay" and "rest" rates.
"It's like we're 'Xmas sweet hearts'," said Janna, quoting the slogans draped in advertisements where "Merry Christmas" might appear in the west.
The hooks for hanging the lights went into the walls as easily as the rum went down Janna's gullet. The two were Buh-buh-buh-Booing along with Bing before long, and the discussion of how high should this and are you going to put that's subsided in favor of what we did was "open them on Christmas Eve. Sort of Strange, huh? Like, all the other kids would be beaming on Christmas morning and running from Gramma to Gramma to unwrap whatever they got, but I was sort of, you know, done with the whole thing. Christmas Day was more like, eat with your family and watch TV. I dunno," she concluded with a wave of her hand.
Janna, now reflecting on the wiluma tree with a glass of eggnog, "Yeah. Yeah... we always used to beg my parents to let us open one present on Christmas Eve. You know, 'Just one, mom, common!' But they never did. I guess it really didn't matter. But I guess it wouldn't have mattered either way." And Liz with the obvious but then they would have to let you do it every year. Janna nodded absent mindedly, humming out of tune in a way that made her roommate turn and laugh.
Although the compulsory urge to decorate had worn off by ten o'clock, the alcohol had not. As the stories branched off and dead ended into you're drunks and no I'm nots with fits of laughter from both, it began to seem as if their traditional Christmas had stretched itself as far it would go without annoying cousins, awkward church clothes, and something more than noodle soup spread across the table. Feeling adventurous from the drinks and quite comfortable with her companion, Liz allowed herself to be coaxed into taking the subway to Umeda, a spot spattered with ex-pat bars that made the perfect faux away from home.
Wham commanded the juke-box with last Christmas hits and the hunched over the table faces one might find on Christmas Eve back home turned at every pair of hips that crossed the room, hellos and O Namae Wa's from the sticky pink lipstick of stripped orange hair and pleather pants to the pea coats and shined shoes of every Tom Dick and Hiro. But the smoke and the booze and the German Japanese English French wall of talking meant anything goes, or everyone goes, even Liz.
Janna, it appeared by raised eyebrows and lower lip tightly bit, had already found a few admirers. Liz sighing comically with a hand to her forehead only wanted to watch, but enough of this sit here and say nothing Liz, this is Jun. "Yoroshiku" replaced by "How do you do," produced a giggle and her hand outstretched with "I'm fine thank you." And this is Hitoshi and Miki and Junji, so she thought she might as well be Lizzy for laughter's sake, but no one seemed to notice, or no one seemed to care.
So she was Liz again and he was Mike, two plain names and the conversation running about the same way before she looked up to find her roommate had disappeared. Of course, she thought, she would be back soon, because no one leaves anyone stranded on Christmas Eve, especially in some pick-up joint for desperate locals and horny middle age western men. But she did.
For a while anyway. In the meantime, Liz had the decency to rule out the possible "rest" rate at the Wedding Bells Hotel, but was made to put up with the increasingly dizzying parade of this is and meet my friends by Hitoshi Miki and Junji, who now introduced her as Lizzy. Janna returned to find her roommate like a Christmas ham waiting to be glazed by Japanese men already watering at the mouth. And Janna's boy toy? Arm around her waist and a look like he had really done something but it was really nothing for him to pick up a western girl. After declining drink after drink Liz told Janna she would have to meet her at home. Janna, words stumbling, would not wait up, no you wait, hahaha, I mean you don't, wait up, don't wait up for me.
The stairway exit descended into the cold streets of Umeda. The force of the cold hit her face as she stepped onto the sidewalk. She fumbled for her red muffler, the passersby turning at sharp angles to avoid colliding with the only unmoving figure in the street. Liz walked forward thinking she couldn't have expected anything different. It's not that her roommate was to blame for always being that way; if she wanted to be a lush, let her. She immediately took back that word - lush. The frigid light of neon rising stories high, the turns and crosswalk songs played at the changing of the traffic light. It really could have been any part of Osaka, she thought. But it couldn't be home. It wasn't like home. Suits and bloodshot eyes crowded on the last train, the last chance to get wherever you wanted to go without paying a fortune for a taxi, and Liz congratulated herself on saving the money, despite the two men pushing against her for room to breathe their whiskey soaked stench over her head.
As she pushed her way up from the underground into the gray asphalt streets, the iridescent light of the city glowed, lighting the white stripes of the streets, falling away in narrow allies with colder signs and faces staring at her through the shadows. But Christmas could still be saved and maybe she could buy a loaf of bred for all those that slept along the sidewalk outside the Temple, leave it quietly quietly so that they woke up wondering what had happened and she immediately felt that sinking, the blood is drained from your face, leaving from the tips of your fingers through your limbs and from your toes through your legs up from the stomach sucked backwards from whichever way it went before. That feeling that won't think to look up to the sky and wonder if someone is watching or where is whoever is dear to you and what might they be doing right now.
Seeing the cold air escape from her lips and nose as she did so, she began to hum one of those Bing Crosby renditions to herself, counting them one by one as she went along the walls of the Shitennoji Temple. Four, Five, step by step ringing against the pavement, Eight, Nine, following the cracks in the sidewalk and imagining the empty space between, Fourteen, Fifteen, the consecutive eves of the central pagoda curling up and out while the spire's concentric rings remain unseen against the night, Twenty-two, Twenty-three, and she stops, turns around. Somewhere behind her, a tattered voice bounces off the walls and his plaintive palm points toward the pavement. A fireman, looking disheveled and probably annoyed from being summoned so late, attempts to lift the dead weight shadow but only shakes his head. Help arrives with a stretcher and the tattered voice is shoved aside, his wail swelling as he stumbles back against the Temple wall. Liz retraces her steps as quickly as she can, going Eighteen, Seventeen, Sixteen to keep the people straight but finds her breathing coming in pants and stops counting with her feet starts counting with her eyes - Twelve, Eleven, Ten - and stops all together. Box top slid shut, blanket pulled tightly over the uncovered body in the same position as always, yellow cap or freshly scrubbed socks worn feet to feet with heads at opposite ends and the sentinel standing watch between them. A heavy cloud of cold breath hangs before her face. She shudders, Six. Eleven. Seventeen.
Seaweed Smamiches
(jpoldmixon)
Seaweed Smamiches
So Ollie was already on the Midosujii line when he got the email that said -
LET'S HIT SHINISAI TONIGHT. ANYA DROPPED THE L-BOMB.
MARCEL.
A proposition Ollie readily accepted, mainly because it seemed like some kind of message in a bottle, but also because he couldn't figure out what "L-BOMB" meant. It took him a few seconds to sort out Anya as the ex-girlfriend from Florida, but "L-BOMB?" A train coming the opposite direction on parallel tracks slammed past his carriage.
Ollie closed his cell phone and decided on two possible meanings. The most obvious was that she told Marcel that she loved him. Considering they were about a billion miles apart and that he had left on uncertain terms, this would be the most likely option. Marcel would be overwhelmed by her declaration and probably be wondering if he should go home or not. Questions about weighing the opportunities of his present situation and the couple's powder-keg past would put him in a potentially lose-lose situation. That, of course, would be overblown, trite, and likewise altogether boring.
The second possibility was that she was not American, but Lithulanian - and had failed to admit this to him for the duration of their four-year relationship (DUN DUN DUNNNN!!!). She was engaged in international espionage. Sent to research and document every detail of young American culture. Fashion, speech patterns, eating habits, hygiene products, actions and reactions endemic to the lifestyle. And now that Marcel had moved to Japan, his usefulness had run its course. Only she found that she couldn't cut him off that easily - no, there was something between them. Something she had never known. Not love. But something much more terrifying. It was with Marcel that she had become - American! (DUN DUN DUNNN!!!!). That would be interesting. But before Ollie could take the story any further, a rather emphatic voice informed him (in Japanese) that he had reached Shinsaibashi.
So I'll say this while Ollie walks to the exit where he'll meet Marcel: Ollie and Marcel are both Americans living and teaching English in Osaka. They work, as Marcel would put it, "for the damn pink bunny." Ollie's favorite flavor of ice cream is rocky road, but he's lactose intolerant and therefore shuns all dairy products as if they come from the teats of Cerberus himself. He's kinda tall and kinda not. Brown Hair, Brown Eyes, Freckles. Marcel, on the other hand, is about 6 foot 3. He's skinny and he's got a long face with light eyes that give him the look of a Lynard Skynard fan. He listens to grindcore and mid nineties hip-hop. He hates Lynard Skynard.
M: What's going on, Ollie?
O: Ehh. Same old bullshit. Yourself?
M: Yeah - the same. Have you eaten yet?
O: Yeah, but I don't care. I can sit with you or something.
M: I'm thinkin Mos Burger.
O: Mos Burger has white cheese.
M: ?
O: White cheese. It's not natural. It's supposed to be yellow cheese.
Ollie thought about flushing out the subject from the start but changed his mind. It was early, anyway.
O: Do you know what time it is?
M: Something like Ten. (He looks at his watch). Nine Forty-something.
Marcel returned his phone to his pocket and turned to Ollie.
M: Well it's early so I better get this out of the way now: I think my last train home leaves at eleven forty eight from Umeda. Which means I have to catch a train here, like ten minutes before that, which would put me in Juso. . . but I kinda wanna stay out and drink, so I was thinking about just taking a taxi. Do you wanna, like pitch in on a taxi together or something. I mean, would you mind if I crashed at your place? Or if that's too much of a problem, then. . .
Of course it wasn't a problem, but Marcel when on about the inconvenience for another couple of minutes before Ollie said: Is that it? Marcel cocked his head: What?
O: I thought you were going to tell me about whatever it was you -
M: Oh! No - that wasn't it. I thought I told you in the email, but Anya called me the other day and told me that she has a girlfriend. She's a lesbian. Which is kind of messed up, you know? Not that I think I turned her into a lesbian or anything. It's just - kind of shocking. But I guess she likes both, you know? So she's technically not a lesbian or something.
O: Techinally?
M: You know what I mean, right?
O: Technically.
The conversation, continued in front of the cashier, in the seating area, and out the door on the way to the bar, followed in a format that was mainly Marcel talking to himself - at Ollie. Which didn't bother Ollie, although he ranked the "L-bomb" around the level of a firecracker and wished he could have been right about her being Lithuanian after all. The place where they eventually bought two Kirin's on draft was called Khurashba. It was on the third floor of a non-descript building and offered free pool and darts. The girl behind the bar was named Naoko. As it was one of her few English words, she picked out the word "lesbian," in their conversation, but correctly guessed that they had no idea that they were in a gay bar. The two scrawled their names on a chalkboard to reserve a spot in the lineup of pool players.
O: I don't buy it.
M: Buy what?
O: The whole they were "born that way," thing.
M: Yeah. . . I don't know.
O: It just makes no sense. Why would you be biologically hardwired to do something that's disadvantageous to the propagation of the species? . . . Which is not to say that I agree with the survival and reproduction bag. That shit overlooks the evolution of culture and all sorts of other variables - not exactly marginal influences.
M: So - eh. Right. Is it nature or nurture, then?
O: But, see, that's boiling it down too far too. No one is born like some robot programmed to fuck only women. Or only men. Or whatever. But it's not like showing gay porn mags to a little kid from age 3 to age whatever is going to guarantee they'll be gay. That's fucking reductionism. On both ends.
M: Right. I think I kind of agree.
O: Or reductionist fucking?
M: I don't really think people are born gay. And it's kind of weird to think of people as becoming gay. Because that sort of implies that people start off with some preference and then somehow end up changing it. Which goes back to the idea of being born gay or being born straight.
O: And all that business about, "falling in love with a person," as opposed to a sex? I don't think that's right either. Because I really don't think I could fall in love - love love - with a man. I guess it's like cottage cheese. I really hate cottage cheese. There's nothing more disgusting than that shit. But I bet there's something you could make with cottage cheese that I would like. Of course, I'm pretty sure I'm not biologically predisposed to hate cottage cheese, and I can't say my environment has influenced me to ineluctably hate cottage cheese. Both of those options are absurd reasons for my hatred of cottage cheese. Which is not to say that I hate homosexuals. . .
But by this time Marcel had left for another round of beers and Ollie was trying to work it out in his head. As Marcel returned, Ollie noticed his expression was a little more removed than usual. And he was pretty sure he knew what he would say next.
M: What if every girl from here on out is gay?
O: Every girl? Gay?
M: Every girl I'm attracted to is really gay. A lesbian. Not a straight girl. And I end up falling for all of these girls that are gay. Or I only attract gay girls, which poses something of a problem.
O: Yeah, Yeah, Yeah... whatever. It's a myth. Impossible. Think of how slim the chances would be. I mean, why even entertain such a notion?
Marcel nodded and watched the subject drop somewhere into the bottom of his glass.
O: Of course, this means we have to get you laid tonight. What other option is there?
Marcel narrowed his eyes a bit.
M: Yeah, I don't know about that. I don't think I really feel like chasing girls tonight.
O: Oh, come on. COME ON, MAN! You know all it takes.
M(laughs): That's right - All it takes is Kon'ban wa. (laughs again) I forgot all about that.
O: See? No problem. All it takes is Kon'ban wa.
Marcel shakes his head.
M: You know, after this whole Anya business, I don't even want to think about sex. I thought I had this Zen outlook on sex, but. . . It's not even that, but every time I've met a girl, it's been by pure chance. I'm not really a go-getter. Has it been that way with you or is it. . .?
O: No, no - it's been that way. Almost every time. But I have met girls by looking. Even when you're not looking, you're looking, you know? You're not handing out flyers, but you're looking.
M: I guess that's true. You know, I'm not exactly young anymore, either. Girls used to approach me, so I never had to worry about it. I never introduced myself, I just waited for them, basically. But, Jesus, look, I'm even starting to go bald. Runs in family. I guess I really should be getting out there, but. . . I don't know. I don't know.
O: That's your problem.
M: What's that?
O: Peanuts.
M: Peanuts?
O: Peanuts! My god, Marcel, you don't know Peanuts?
M: Whaaat?
O: What? Peanuts! Charlz Shultz. Charlie Brown. Snoopy. But it's actually called "Peanuts," and I fucking hate it when people call it "Snoopy." It's called "Peanuts."
M: And that's my problem?
O: You're just like Charlie Brown.
M: Because I'm going bald?
O: Because you're going?! - come on, Marcel. Really. Not knowing Peanuts is like not knowing Rockwell.
M: The philanthropist? Ollie, what the hell -
O: That's Rockefeller. Rockwell: The Saturday Evening Post. But that's beside the point. Charlie Brown and Lucy. The football scenario. You're Charlie Brown in the football scenario.
M(laughs): Oh-hoh-kay.
At this response Ollie appears to be somewhat annoyed. It is as if he were explaining to a small child how to make a bologna sandwhich. He proceeds with a tone of voice that is appropriate to such a situation.
O: Lucy holds the football in place. An obvious symbol of the vagina. The shape - everything. Most of the time she promises him she will let him kick the football this time around. Our friend Chuck is the balding middle age man - impotence - and the strapping young lad - virility - all rolled into one. Charlie Brown, whether or not he believes Lucy, vows time after time that he will succeed in kicking the football; he approaches at full speed, only to have the football jerked away at the last moment. He lands on his ass and typically says something like, "UGGGH." Sometimes he says "ARRG."
M: So I should slow down my approach?
O: You're missing the point. The scene is an allegory about male sexual frustration. This isn't a new idea. See, most people think it's about the seemingly unattainable vagina, and leave it at that. But they're forgetting one important detail.
M: That it's a comic strip about two little kids?
O: That Lucy is not Chuck's girlfriend. Charlie's girlfriend is the one who gave him his nickname - Chuck.
Here, Ollie either pauses to collect his thoughts or to elicit the some twisted corollary from his interlocutor. Marcel can't tell which. I can't either.
M: ?
O: Popcorn Patty. His girlfriend is Popcorn fucking Patty. Do you read the comics, Marcel?
M: I guess not.
O: Anyway, the point is, if it were an allegory about male sexual frustration in general, Charlie Brown wouldn't have a girlfriend. They would be two parties with no ties attached. But good old Chuck does have a girlfriend. So everything changes.
M: Of course it does.
O: Of course it does - why wouldn't Popcorn Patty be holding the football?
M: Because she plays on the baseball team.
O: So does Lucy. She's the pitcher. And Charlie brown manages all of them, but now we're talking about an entirely different allegory. Look - the point is this: Lucy is holding the football instead of Popcorn Patty because the allegory isn't just about male sexual frustration. It's about the anxieties of post-modern man's sexual promiscuity. Not polygamy, mind you, or even casual sex, but the anxiety which results from the mere pursuit of multiple women - a practice which is presented as inevitable through social and pan-cultural norms perpetuated by all sorts of fucked up parties.
M: Parties?
O: You know what I mean, Marcel. The thing is, you've got yourself stuck in that comic. You're always going after the football. Getting it pulled away right before you kick it. And now you're pissed. So now you're lining up again, wondering if you should even bother to try to kick the fucking thing.
M: OK! . . . you lost me. I genuinely have NO IDEA what you are talking about. Charlie Brown and the football, Ollie? What the hell does that have to do with my situation?
Someone from a few tables is asking if anyone knows who "Mar-kell" is. "Nextoh," the guy says with a gesture toward one of the pool tables. Ollie asks him if he wants a beer and heads in the direction of the bar. Naoko, the bartender who was pretty sure the two weren't gay, makes a show of kissing a girl seated on a stool across the bar as Ollie approaches her. He pays for the beer and returns to the table, keeping an eye on the two guys playing pool at the table next to Marcel's. He puts his beer down and turns to find Marcel. His competitor, it turns out, is a rather cute twenty-something Japanese girl with short, black hair and a beauty mark on her right temple. After she breaks, Marcel wiggles his thumb to indicate that he needs a lighter. The girl nods and approaches him with her hand in her pocket. Rather than hand him the lighter, she cups it in her hand and allows Marcel to lean in so she can light it. At the moment when his cigarette comes into contact with the flame, she raises her thumb and lets the flame disappear. Marcel gives her a look of apology and lowers his head to the newly lit flame, which she promptly lets fall as it comes into contact with Marcel's cigarette. At this, the girl bursts into laughter. Marcel turns with an incredulous look to his friend across the room. Ollie shrugs.
Seaweed Smamiches
So Ollie was already on the Midosujii line when he got the email that said -
LET'S HIT SHINISAI TONIGHT. ANYA DROPPED THE L-BOMB.
MARCEL.
A proposition Ollie readily accepted, mainly because it seemed like some kind of message in a bottle, but also because he couldn't figure out what "L-BOMB" meant. It took him a few seconds to sort out Anya as the ex-girlfriend from Florida, but "L-BOMB?" A train coming the opposite direction on parallel tracks slammed past his carriage.
Ollie closed his cell phone and decided on two possible meanings. The most obvious was that she told Marcel that she loved him. Considering they were about a billion miles apart and that he had left on uncertain terms, this would be the most likely option. Marcel would be overwhelmed by her declaration and probably be wondering if he should go home or not. Questions about weighing the opportunities of his present situation and the couple's powder-keg past would put him in a potentially lose-lose situation. That, of course, would be overblown, trite, and likewise altogether boring.
The second possibility was that she was not American, but Lithulanian - and had failed to admit this to him for the duration of their four-year relationship (DUN DUN DUNNNN!!!). She was engaged in international espionage. Sent to research and document every detail of young American culture. Fashion, speech patterns, eating habits, hygiene products, actions and reactions endemic to the lifestyle. And now that Marcel had moved to Japan, his usefulness had run its course. Only she found that she couldn't cut him off that easily - no, there was something between them. Something she had never known. Not love. But something much more terrifying. It was with Marcel that she had become - American! (DUN DUN DUNNN!!!!). That would be interesting. But before Ollie could take the story any further, a rather emphatic voice informed him (in Japanese) that he had reached Shinsaibashi.
So I'll say this while Ollie walks to the exit where he'll meet Marcel: Ollie and Marcel are both Americans living and teaching English in Osaka. They work, as Marcel would put it, "for the damn pink bunny." Ollie's favorite flavor of ice cream is rocky road, but he's lactose intolerant and therefore shuns all dairy products as if they come from the teats of Cerberus himself. He's kinda tall and kinda not. Brown Hair, Brown Eyes, Freckles. Marcel, on the other hand, is about 6 foot 3. He's skinny and he's got a long face with light eyes that give him the look of a Lynard Skynard fan. He listens to grindcore and mid nineties hip-hop. He hates Lynard Skynard.
M: What's going on, Ollie?
O: Ehh. Same old bullshit. Yourself?
M: Yeah - the same. Have you eaten yet?
O: Yeah, but I don't care. I can sit with you or something.
M: I'm thinkin Mos Burger.
O: Mos Burger has white cheese.
M: ?
O: White cheese. It's not natural. It's supposed to be yellow cheese.
Ollie thought about flushing out the subject from the start but changed his mind. It was early, anyway.
O: Do you know what time it is?
M: Something like Ten. (He looks at his watch). Nine Forty-something.
Marcel returned his phone to his pocket and turned to Ollie.
M: Well it's early so I better get this out of the way now: I think my last train home leaves at eleven forty eight from Umeda. Which means I have to catch a train here, like ten minutes before that, which would put me in Juso. . . but I kinda wanna stay out and drink, so I was thinking about just taking a taxi. Do you wanna, like pitch in on a taxi together or something. I mean, would you mind if I crashed at your place? Or if that's too much of a problem, then. . .
Of course it wasn't a problem, but Marcel when on about the inconvenience for another couple of minutes before Ollie said: Is that it? Marcel cocked his head: What?
O: I thought you were going to tell me about whatever it was you -
M: Oh! No - that wasn't it. I thought I told you in the email, but Anya called me the other day and told me that she has a girlfriend. She's a lesbian. Which is kind of messed up, you know? Not that I think I turned her into a lesbian or anything. It's just - kind of shocking. But I guess she likes both, you know? So she's technically not a lesbian or something.
O: Techinally?
M: You know what I mean, right?
O: Technically.
The conversation, continued in front of the cashier, in the seating area, and out the door on the way to the bar, followed in a format that was mainly Marcel talking to himself - at Ollie. Which didn't bother Ollie, although he ranked the "L-bomb" around the level of a firecracker and wished he could have been right about her being Lithuanian after all. The place where they eventually bought two Kirin's on draft was called Khurashba. It was on the third floor of a non-descript building and offered free pool and darts. The girl behind the bar was named Naoko. As it was one of her few English words, she picked out the word "lesbian," in their conversation, but correctly guessed that they had no idea that they were in a gay bar. The two scrawled their names on a chalkboard to reserve a spot in the lineup of pool players.
O: I don't buy it.
M: Buy what?
O: The whole they were "born that way," thing.
M: Yeah. . . I don't know.
O: It just makes no sense. Why would you be biologically hardwired to do something that's disadvantageous to the propagation of the species? . . . Which is not to say that I agree with the survival and reproduction bag. That shit overlooks the evolution of culture and all sorts of other variables - not exactly marginal influences.
M: So - eh. Right. Is it nature or nurture, then?
O: But, see, that's boiling it down too far too. No one is born like some robot programmed to fuck only women. Or only men. Or whatever. But it's not like showing gay porn mags to a little kid from age 3 to age whatever is going to guarantee they'll be gay. That's fucking reductionism. On both ends.
M: Right. I think I kind of agree.
O: Or reductionist fucking?
M: I don't really think people are born gay. And it's kind of weird to think of people as becoming gay. Because that sort of implies that people start off with some preference and then somehow end up changing it. Which goes back to the idea of being born gay or being born straight.
O: And all that business about, "falling in love with a person," as opposed to a sex? I don't think that's right either. Because I really don't think I could fall in love - love love - with a man. I guess it's like cottage cheese. I really hate cottage cheese. There's nothing more disgusting than that shit. But I bet there's something you could make with cottage cheese that I would like. Of course, I'm pretty sure I'm not biologically predisposed to hate cottage cheese, and I can't say my environment has influenced me to ineluctably hate cottage cheese. Both of those options are absurd reasons for my hatred of cottage cheese. Which is not to say that I hate homosexuals. . .
But by this time Marcel had left for another round of beers and Ollie was trying to work it out in his head. As Marcel returned, Ollie noticed his expression was a little more removed than usual. And he was pretty sure he knew what he would say next.
M: What if every girl from here on out is gay?
O: Every girl? Gay?
M: Every girl I'm attracted to is really gay. A lesbian. Not a straight girl. And I end up falling for all of these girls that are gay. Or I only attract gay girls, which poses something of a problem.
O: Yeah, Yeah, Yeah... whatever. It's a myth. Impossible. Think of how slim the chances would be. I mean, why even entertain such a notion?
Marcel nodded and watched the subject drop somewhere into the bottom of his glass.
O: Of course, this means we have to get you laid tonight. What other option is there?
Marcel narrowed his eyes a bit.
M: Yeah, I don't know about that. I don't think I really feel like chasing girls tonight.
O: Oh, come on. COME ON, MAN! You know all it takes.
M(laughs): That's right - All it takes is Kon'ban wa. (laughs again) I forgot all about that.
O: See? No problem. All it takes is Kon'ban wa.
Marcel shakes his head.
M: You know, after this whole Anya business, I don't even want to think about sex. I thought I had this Zen outlook on sex, but. . . It's not even that, but every time I've met a girl, it's been by pure chance. I'm not really a go-getter. Has it been that way with you or is it. . .?
O: No, no - it's been that way. Almost every time. But I have met girls by looking. Even when you're not looking, you're looking, you know? You're not handing out flyers, but you're looking.
M: I guess that's true. You know, I'm not exactly young anymore, either. Girls used to approach me, so I never had to worry about it. I never introduced myself, I just waited for them, basically. But, Jesus, look, I'm even starting to go bald. Runs in family. I guess I really should be getting out there, but. . . I don't know. I don't know.
O: That's your problem.
M: What's that?
O: Peanuts.
M: Peanuts?
O: Peanuts! My god, Marcel, you don't know Peanuts?
M: Whaaat?
O: What? Peanuts! Charlz Shultz. Charlie Brown. Snoopy. But it's actually called "Peanuts," and I fucking hate it when people call it "Snoopy." It's called "Peanuts."
M: And that's my problem?
O: You're just like Charlie Brown.
M: Because I'm going bald?
O: Because you're going?! - come on, Marcel. Really. Not knowing Peanuts is like not knowing Rockwell.
M: The philanthropist? Ollie, what the hell -
O: That's Rockefeller. Rockwell: The Saturday Evening Post. But that's beside the point. Charlie Brown and Lucy. The football scenario. You're Charlie Brown in the football scenario.
M(laughs): Oh-hoh-kay.
At this response Ollie appears to be somewhat annoyed. It is as if he were explaining to a small child how to make a bologna sandwhich. He proceeds with a tone of voice that is appropriate to such a situation.
O: Lucy holds the football in place. An obvious symbol of the vagina. The shape - everything. Most of the time she promises him she will let him kick the football this time around. Our friend Chuck is the balding middle age man - impotence - and the strapping young lad - virility - all rolled into one. Charlie Brown, whether or not he believes Lucy, vows time after time that he will succeed in kicking the football; he approaches at full speed, only to have the football jerked away at the last moment. He lands on his ass and typically says something like, "UGGGH." Sometimes he says "ARRG."
M: So I should slow down my approach?
O: You're missing the point. The scene is an allegory about male sexual frustration. This isn't a new idea. See, most people think it's about the seemingly unattainable vagina, and leave it at that. But they're forgetting one important detail.
M: That it's a comic strip about two little kids?
O: That Lucy is not Chuck's girlfriend. Charlie's girlfriend is the one who gave him his nickname - Chuck.
Here, Ollie either pauses to collect his thoughts or to elicit the some twisted corollary from his interlocutor. Marcel can't tell which. I can't either.
M: ?
O: Popcorn Patty. His girlfriend is Popcorn fucking Patty. Do you read the comics, Marcel?
M: I guess not.
O: Anyway, the point is, if it were an allegory about male sexual frustration in general, Charlie Brown wouldn't have a girlfriend. They would be two parties with no ties attached. But good old Chuck does have a girlfriend. So everything changes.
M: Of course it does.
O: Of course it does - why wouldn't Popcorn Patty be holding the football?
M: Because she plays on the baseball team.
O: So does Lucy. She's the pitcher. And Charlie brown manages all of them, but now we're talking about an entirely different allegory. Look - the point is this: Lucy is holding the football instead of Popcorn Patty because the allegory isn't just about male sexual frustration. It's about the anxieties of post-modern man's sexual promiscuity. Not polygamy, mind you, or even casual sex, but the anxiety which results from the mere pursuit of multiple women - a practice which is presented as inevitable through social and pan-cultural norms perpetuated by all sorts of fucked up parties.
M: Parties?
O: You know what I mean, Marcel. The thing is, you've got yourself stuck in that comic. You're always going after the football. Getting it pulled away right before you kick it. And now you're pissed. So now you're lining up again, wondering if you should even bother to try to kick the fucking thing.
M: OK! . . . you lost me. I genuinely have NO IDEA what you are talking about. Charlie Brown and the football, Ollie? What the hell does that have to do with my situation?
Someone from a few tables is asking if anyone knows who "Mar-kell" is. "Nextoh," the guy says with a gesture toward one of the pool tables. Ollie asks him if he wants a beer and heads in the direction of the bar. Naoko, the bartender who was pretty sure the two weren't gay, makes a show of kissing a girl seated on a stool across the bar as Ollie approaches her. He pays for the beer and returns to the table, keeping an eye on the two guys playing pool at the table next to Marcel's. He puts his beer down and turns to find Marcel. His competitor, it turns out, is a rather cute twenty-something Japanese girl with short, black hair and a beauty mark on her right temple. After she breaks, Marcel wiggles his thumb to indicate that he needs a lighter. The girl nods and approaches him with her hand in her pocket. Rather than hand him the lighter, she cups it in her hand and allows Marcel to lean in so she can light it. At the moment when his cigarette comes into contact with the flame, she raises her thumb and lets the flame disappear. Marcel gives her a look of apology and lowers his head to the newly lit flame, which she promptly lets fall as it comes into contact with Marcel's cigarette. At this, the girl bursts into laughter. Marcel turns with an incredulous look to his friend across the room. Ollie shrugs.
Wednesday, April 07, 2004
The Midosuji Cowboy (About this Blog)
Irasshaimasen Dozo... The following Blog is being composed in the heart of South Osaka by J.P. Oldmixon, a native Texan living and working in Japan. For requests or comments of any kind, please write to my email address, which you should be able to find by a number of legal or nefarious means. All the texts are the original and the copyrighted property of J.P. Oldmixon; all rights concerning the publication, distribution, and rapid dust gathering of this material are held exclusively by J.P Oldmixon.
... or something like that, anyway.
... or something like that, anyway.
Monday, April 05, 2004
Wait. . .
Just a moment
