In which our hero (me) gets distracted and lost and many other things besides, the explanation of which is certain to amuse and delight all but the most emotionally unavailable of readers. Read and learn from his story the unfortunate truth that you can run from God’s country, but you cannot hide.
My spacecraft glides over the Shinjuku district of eastern Tokyo as I swivel giddily in my captain’s chair with all the blinking labelless buttons on the left armrest. Looking out the window, which circles the entire ship, I see the blinking lights, sleek skyscrapers, packed commuter trains, and tiny inhabitants hustling and bustling along sidewalks, across bridges, and into and out of the giant beating heart of Shinjuku Station. My craft touches down slowly and alights on top of the Takashimaya Times Square building, which looks like a giant luxury cruise liner. I rise from my seat, remove my goggles, and prepare myself to be beamed directly into the thick of the madness spread out below me. I set the transporter to “Tower Records, Shinjuku,” and seconds later, here I am.
(Actually, no. I take a plane and then a train and then walk for a bit and then sleep for seventeen hours and then start work and finally get a day off after two goddamn weeks.)
The giant Tower Records television screen just outside the south end of Shinjuku Station plays a pop video featuring a gaggle of preteen girls dressed in shiny, frilly outfits so bright and cutesy they make American child beauty pageant contestants look like Dickensian street urchins. They dance in formation-not particularly well-and stare at the camera, doe-eyed and hollow. I stand at the bottom of a massive escalator looking up at the dangerous display of chiffon and taffeta and excitedly contemplate the pastel-tinted nightmares I will have about all this later.
I’m wandering around the city for the first time, enjoying my first day off. I interviewed with a popular language school called MOBA before coming, and they assured me they could place me in Tokyo. An empty promise, it turns out, since I’ve ended up with an apartment in a town called Fujisawa an hour south of Tokyo and a job at a school in nearby Yokohama. A disappointment, yes, like a young small-town Russian with stars in his eyes must feel when he has his heart set on living in the Big Apple and instead is forced to rent a studio in New Brunswick, New Jersey. But I’ll make it to Tokyo, no problem. All I need is thousands and thousands of dollars so I can afford to put a deposit and key money down on a fashionable closet or cubbyhole in, say, trendy Shibuya or, perhaps, the East Village-like districts of Kichijyoji or Koenji. It’ll happen. I’ll just need to teach a few hundred more English lessons, sell my used diabetes syringes and Pia Zadora records on eBay, and limber up for those lap dances. I’ll be there in no time.
In the meanwhile, I’ll continue my job in Yokohama, where I’m honing my communication skills and preparing myself for a career in front of the camera in ways I never anticipated. I have taught so many lessons that I’ve begun dropping all articles, prepositions, and sometimes the verb “to be” from my speech just to be more easily understood. (“On weekend went to movie and ate nice restaurant. Food so delicious.”) I’ve also started pointing to my ears when I talk about listening to music, behind me when talking about the past, and in front of me and over a little hill when talking about the future. Even when talking to my two Australian roommates, Ewan and Sean.
MOBA is a popular language school with branches all across Japan. I’d had to fly to Boston for the interview, and though I usually choke during interviews, this one ended, amazingly, with an immediate job offer.
Admittedly, it’s satisfying to know that simply by virtue of being born in the right place I have a skill very much in demand in another part of the world. I never really considered my English degree very marketable, and neither has anyone else. College papers touting Jane Austen as England’s best Harlequin romance novelist or exploring the homoeroticism in Bleak House won’t get you very far in the real world, let’s face it. But when I decided to travel to a faraway land of people who want to know how to speak like me, I automatically had a highly marketable skill: I speak great English. Jim, the interviewer and a former MOBA teacher, was clearly dazzled. In fact, he’d seemed to have only one concern:
“Now, Mr. Anderson, do you think that, as a full-time teacher, you can deal with being asked day in and day out questions like what your hobbies are, why you came to Japan, if you can use chopsticks, if you speak Japanese, if you like sushi, what your favorite movie is, what kind of music you like, what time you usually wake up, how often you eat out, and what your plans are for the weekend?”
It was a legitimate question, one you could spend days trying to answer appropriately. But when you get right down to it, the question he was really asking was, “Tim, can you talk about yourself until you’re blue in the face?” And the answer to that, my friend, is, “I feel confident that I can.”
He seemed satisfied with this. Then he’d promptly asked me what my hobbies were.
“Well,” I began, licking my lips, “I like reading, traveling, playing the viola, and collecting records. And yoga. And swimming. Oh, and watching movies. Did I say swimming?” Of course, I could have gone on and expressed my love of gossip columns, White House scandals, Speedos, and interracial porn, but I figured in this case less was more.
“That’s good, you seem to have a lot of interests,” Jim said. “Because the teaching will take care of itself. Your free time really will be your own, and it’s good that you’ll easily be able to fill it.”
And that was that. He said they’d be sending me an official offer of employment in the next few weeks, and he let me go. In hindsight, I think if I’d said my hobbies were reading other people’s mail, collecting used handkerchiefs, and having sex with my viola, I would have gotten the same response. He just wanted to make sure I wasn’t dangerous and could string a sentence together. I fit both criteria and so got the job. My university degree is probably spinning in its frame.
It was the green Yamanote train that carried me to Shinjuku, and against all possible odds in this city of 13 million, I actually scored a seat on it. I got comfortable in my precious foot and a half of Tokyo real estate as people continued to roll into the carriage, a procession that might have lasted days but thankfully ended when the doors closed behind an old, hunched-over woman carrying three heaving shopping bags.
I stood up quickly to offer the tiny obaasan my seat. Cute as a button, she stood about four and a half feet tall, with sleepy eyes, short stringy silver hair sprouting out from under a white visor with a smiley face on it, and a back arched from years of housework, child-rearing, gardening, shopping, and bowing.
She was clearly one of a breed of elderly Japanese women who appear to be approximately 130 years old and, though they still walk around freely, doing their shopping, taking trains, and looking disapprovingly at young people, always look like they could keel over at any moment, uttering their last “sayonara.” Some gaijin folk uncharitably refer to them as Yodas. Usually it is those who have come up against the nasty side of these women, commonly displayed when the so-called Yodas board a train and proceed to elbow and smack out of their way any person younger than they are (pretty much everyone) so that they can get first dibs on the scarce supply of seats. So, because I’m a suck-up (and because I have a soft spot in my heart for old women wearing visors), I stood and offered her my seat. She bowed, smiled so wide I feared she may tear her face, and said thank you before sweeping me aside, wiping off the seat with a handkerchief to be rid of my white-man funk, and plopping herself down. I wanted to ask her to be my grandmother, but before I had a chance to come up with a decent pitch, the train pulled into the next station, she rose with all her bags, swatted her way through the crowd, and hopped off.
I sat back down, adjusted my gaze straight ahead, and gave a startled jump. There, staring directly into my eyes, into my very soul, was a young boy of about four years. He looked at me with an eerie, inscrutable expression, like the one a child forms when he’s about to command the dark forces to descend upon you. He didn’t take his eyes off me; he didn’t blink. He just stared, cute and creepy. I averted my gaze as the train began to move, hoping that he’d do the same. After a few minutes I turned back to him, and his expression hadn’t changed, though he had tilted his head slightly.
To take my mind off the probing toddler eyes, I stared out at the Tokyo scenery rolling past in the fading light. Actually, scenery might be too fancy a word. Explosion of ugly buildings would be more appropriate. As the train sprinted its way through the metropolis, an endless smattering of ashen-hued structures stood together in a desperate display of jigsaw development. No empty space is left unmolested, every extra block of air smashed to bits by the erection of an edifice with an attached arcade, karaoke box, cell phone stand, convenience store, apartment building, police station, flower shop, or Japanese eatery. The buildings aren’t in rows, unless your idea of a row is a slipknot. They face each other according to whichever way completes the jigsaw most effectively. The result is a static architectural orgy, the buildings caressing, groping, slamming, and going down on each other in a manner reminiscent of the last scene in Caligula (minus the money shots).
Eventually I brought my gaze back inside and briefly made eye contact with the staring toddler before noticing the attractive young girl sitting next to me. She was digging through her purse and pulling out mascara, lipstick, tweezers, blush, and an eyelash curler, obviously intent on giving herself a quick touch-up. Then she pulled out a lighter. And next the largest hand mirror I had ever seen. It was the size of your average windowpane and probably afforded her a good view not only of her own cosmetic shortcomings, but mine and the sleeping gentleman’s on the other side of her. She had more tools than a smack-addled surgeon. I watched out of the corner of my eye as she used each one in turn, impatient for her to get to the lighter. Finally she only had two instruments left, the lighter and the eyelash curler. And sure enough, she used them simultaneously, flicking the lighter and holding the tiny flame over the curved metal end of the curler. When she believed it to be hot enough, she put the piping apparatus up to her eye and gave herself a set of shapely, luscious, twenty-four-hour lashes. I feared she’d put her eye out if the train should make a sudden jerk, but even with the rolling and swaying of the carriage, the girl’s expert grip on her tools and the precision with which she performed her tasks continued uninterrupted. Amazed, I looked over at the toddler. He was still staring at me.
The train pulled into Shinjuku Station, through which two million people pass in a typical day. I wasn’t sure which exit I should go for, but I realized it wasn’t up to me when I found myself eased down the nearest staircase by the sheer force of the crowds tugging me like an undertow. They decided I would go out the south exit. That would be fine.
So here I am, staring at a giant television screen full of wide-eyed, dancing preteen cherubs and wondering (1) if Japan has its own Britney Spears, and (2) if she’s a cheap dime-store floozy like ours. I hope so.
As a large portion of the two million Shinjuku-goers hustle past and slap me with their shopping bags, I wonder where to go. I have no plan, no idea where anything is. I just want to see some local color. I continue walking ahead and through a concrete courtyard directly in front of the exit. Lots of young folks are hanging out, strumming guitars, playing bongos, simply posing, leaning against railings, comparing wacky hats, and so forth. Up ahead, people sit and slurp at a steaming mobile noodle bar right next to a punk rock band thrashing it out on the sidewalk, surrounded by a dedicated horde of twelve-year-old girls offering their support.
The sounds of Shinjuku-spoken advertisements over loudspeakers; pop music from the Tower Records TV screen; the clinking, buzzing, and whirring of the pachinko parlors and game centers; the piercing recorded voices beckoning you into this shop or that one-whoop and holler around me as I walk. I enter this swirl of activity, feeling like one of those wide-eyed, big-headed aliens seen occasionally in Utah or Nebraska.
I pass a horde of young girls with bleached blonde hair, fiercely tanned complexions, panda-like eye makeup, foot-high platform shoes, and miniskirts of a cut that would make Paris Hilton stand back and go, “Oh, honey, cover that shit up a little!” A cute high school couple-wearing matching kilts and carrying the same handbags, made out of what looks like poodle fur-walks by hand in hand. Not to be outdone, a tall guy wearing Buddy Holly glasses and sporting an afro for the ages walks determinedly behind them, his black shirt screaming in white lettering, “So Fucking What?” Local color-check.
As I look around for something else to gawk at, a friendly looking middle-aged woman wearing flats and a skirt that is, thankfully, knee-length, approaches me.
“Excuse me,” she smiles. “You speak English?”
Not waiting for me to answer, she continues. “It’s nice to meet you. I am Miho Johnson.”
You’re who? I think. Her English is Japanese-inflected, but her last name most definitely is not.
“May I ask, where are you are from?” she continues. She sports a matronly bob, her bangs cut straight across and hanging just above her thin, painted-on eyebrows. Though she has a smile on her face, it’s tempered with a constant look of concern. Also, she never seems to be looking directly at me. When she asks where I’m from, she appears to be reading from a cue card placed above and a little to the right of my big head.
She has made no assumptions about my nationality, so I am tempted to adopt a strange accent and say Greenland or Siberia while gently taking her hand and rubbing my nose on it, the traditional greeting in my country.
“You are from America?”
“Yeah, actually. How did you guess?”
“Oh, just thinking. How long you are being in Japan?”
I tell her I’ve just arrived, and at this her pensive face brightens. “Oh, that’s nice. I want to tell you about my church…”
Your what? Church? They have those here? Hmm. I was actually hoping she’d be able to give me directions to a good ramen shop, a decent record store, and/or a news agent that sells English-language magazines. Perhaps I’m expecting too much.
“Church? Your…church?” I stammer, trying to think of a means of escape.
“It’s lovely place, everyone accepted. We have many meetings and enjoy. Jesus there. It’s near to here. Please, let me take you to there.”
As she places her open hand against my shoulder to lead me towards Christ, I wonder, can this be true? Can I have traveled all the way across the world from the God-fearing American South to an island known more for its electronics, its love of stately rituals like tea ceremony and flower arranging, and its raging Lolita complex than its faith in Jesus Christ, only to be witnessed to in broken English about the Good News?
“We all God children. Brother and sister with Christ. Jesus love you.”
Yes, I guess I have.
When I envisioned my first jaunt through vast Shinjuku, it went something like this: I would first circle the city on the Yamanote Line, starting at Tokyo Station in the east and making my way westward, through Hamamatsucho, Shinagawa, Gotanda, Ebisu, and the hot-to-trot districts of Shibuya and Harajuku. Along the way I might pick up a pair of Harajuku girls dressed fashionably in fitted burlap sacks, ten-inch heels, and Mouseketeer hats, and we would walk through Yoyogi Park arm in arm as a band of Taiko drummers followed behind us on a dolly and beat out a rhythm for us to swagger to. We would arrive in Shinjuku and immediately go for a few cocktails at a place called Hello Highballs. The cocktails would be neon blue, and they would turn our lips a fetching shade of fuchsia. After drinks we would spill back out onto the street and hitch rides with a clan of bosozoku motorcycle bandits. They would escort us into the next club, which would have a name like Stark Raving Suzuki. There, we’d have more cocktails-these smoking and gasoline-scented-and befriend the DJ, who would be in the midst of a world tour that had taken him to Paris, Berlin, Rome, Moscow, Hong Kong, Bangkok, and Jersey City. After his set, he’d offer us some magic mushrooms, and we’d gladly accept them. Then we’d take turns at the turntable rocking the worlds of the club kids. As the night slowly came to an end and the crowds dispersed, we’d elegantly take our leave, lock arms again, and step out into the crisp morning air hand in hand, escorting each other to the station, secure in the knowledge that we’d done a little bit of Shinjuku.
Nowhere in my wild imaginings did I consider that the first Japanese person I spoke to socially would be a forceful born-again Christian with nothing but time on her hands and a quota to meet. Because I must say that, all due respect to my parents, who tried their hardest to raise me right, realizing a closer relationship with Jesus is not what I’ve come to Tokyo for.
“Thank you so much, but I’m really not…able.” Not unless your church sells Details or Vanity Fair. Hell, I’ll even take a damn New York Dog. “I’m…waiting for a friend.”
Either she sees through my lie or she doesn’t care.
“We have meeting right now, please, you can come and we food and drink and talk and enjoy with other of Jesus people. We sing about Good News and praise God and Jesus Messiah. You bring your friend. You call from there.”
It hits me right then how important correct intonation and word choice are to evangelism. You absolutely must put the right stress on the right words or you’ll sound unemotional and disembodied, like Ira, the chatty computer screen consultant on Wonder Woman. Because of her flat Japanese intonation, she sounds only vaguely interested in what she’s saying. But she is pushy.
“You come? You come? It just this way.”
“I’m sorry, thank you, but I’m not interested.”
She appears confused, disbelieving. I decide to break it down into the simplest possible terms.
“Thank you, I no interest. No can do. Can’t. Must with friend and eat.” I figure the less sense I make to myself the more I make to her. Wrong again.
“No, please, you must not go tempting! God watching you!”
I see. And what does that mean, exactly?
“It safe in my church. Safe from tempting.”
“Thank you soooo much,” I say, backing away. “But I meet friend now. I see Jesus later.” Then she rushes me.
“Please, take this, you can visit anytime you like.” And with this she drops into my hand a flyer and her church’s business card with address and directions in English. “You no go tempting,” she says with a worried smile.
“Thank you,” I say again before turning around and getting the hell out of there. I walk briskly, lest Ms. Johnson should decide to approach again, this time with a bigger, beefier member of her church less inclined to take no for an answer. A rotund black belt named Akira O’Donnell, say. I cross the street and, since I have no idea where I am or what I’m doing, walk towards whatever is ahead of me. I stop under another giant television screen and take a look at the flyer Miho had given me.
On one side is a collection of illustrations seemingly drawn by the good folks at Marvel Comics. In the center is Planet Earth, above which stands-I’m assuming here-God, wrapped in angelic white robes, His arms outstretched, His smile twinkling, His long white hair and beard nicely highlighted by the halo suspended above His head. He stands in the center of what appears to be a meteor shower, but He’s unaffected because He’s God, and He made the friggin’ meteors, bitch. In another scene, the Statue of Liberty faces an attack by a thick red, yellow, and evil cloud. And in another, a tall, square-jawed, ruggedly handsome man, dressed in a dark blue shirt and matching cape, walks in front of a dome-shaped building, a religious gathering place, perhaps. Oh, and he’s got a sign on his shirt that says “666.” Oh, and also there are people bowing down in front of him. (I don’t blame them. Look at those cheekbones. The man is handsome. Like, Superman handsome.)
On the back of the flyer is a lengthy piece of hysteria titled “The Final Signs of the End.” I read through it quickly, stumbling through the arbitrary and relentless use of underlined passages and all-caps text. (“ONE MAJOR
Let’s see, what’s next? A-ha! Straight ahead is a narrow shopping street peppered with groups of sharply dressed, incredibly oily looking young men wearing collared white shirts open nearly to their navels, smoking cigarettes, and looking like they’re in training for the International Sleaze Olympics. Let’s go this way!
I notice that every so often, one of these men will see an attractive girl in the throngs of passersby, run up to her, and, walking alongside her, offer her some sort of proposition. He bends down and speaks directly into her ear as she passes, and more often than not, she tries to lose him. Eventually, she’ll hold up her hand politely, shielding her face from the guy, and decline his offer, speeding up her step to outrun him. He doesn’t give up easily, but, as if he’s being kept on an invisible leash by his greasy compadres, he eventually halts, takes a drag of his cigarette, and swaggers back to his post.
Being naturally curious and, yes, even nosy, I walk the length of the street up to the next block, turn around, and walk back from where I’ve come, just to watch this ritual a few more times from different angles.
As I expect, every time a particularly attractive or otherwise qualified young lady passes by, one of the greasers jumps up and chases her down like a little puppy, speaking softly into her ear, getting the same polite but unequivocal “no” from the woman each time. Eventually he backs off and rejoins his boys.
What’s going on here? Was he asking her out for an ice cream soda? Complimenting her on her knee-high socks? Challenging her to find his one and only chest hair? Frustratingly, I can’t find out. Even if I could speak good Japanese, these guys are obviously young gangsters-in-training. Come on, would you approach Christopher from The Sopranos and ask him what he wanted from the attractive young women he kept talking to on the streets of New Jersey? Huh? Yeah, that’s what I thought.
So I give up and keep walking. While waiting at an intersection with half a million other people, I think about my encounter with Miho Johnson. Did she see in me someone who looked lonely and desperate? A lost, malleable soul? A kid who’s treading down the wrong path and needs to be brought back to the Alley of the Almighty? Or did I just look like an easy target? When it comes to the devoutly religious, there’s a fine line between those who bow their heads in humble supplication and those who can be convinced to puncture bags of sarin on the Tokyo subway. Which camp is Miho in? The literature she gave me is hysterical, but is she?
They say people are put in your path for a reason. If so, Miho’s reason must be to lead me to an entire street of massage parlors and sex clubs, as right in front of me is an entire street seemingly dedicated to getting male Tokyoites’ rocks off. It kind of makes sense. Usually when missionaries hang out in huge cities, they tend to place themselves near the dirty and immoral goings-on in order to steer misguided souls away from sin, the possibilities for which typically loom very close by. They loiter in hopes of steering those who are about to enter a sexual healing zone towards a purer destination where the healing is focused elsewhere. I once stayed at a Christian youth hostel in Amsterdam that was right across the street from an S & M store. Yes, Miho had succeeded in pointing me in the direction of Shinjuku’s smut district. It’s all so dirty and depraved. I can’t wait to have a look.
On the other side of the intersection there’s a much wider side street exploding with revelers, club bouncers, flyer hander-outers, and drunken businessmen. I set off down this street, and before I know it, smartly dressed men-some Japanese, some African, some Middle Eastern-are approaching me, one after the other, asking me if I’m interested in any number of titillating activities available at their particular den of sin. Massages, lap dances, private scrubdowns, penetrating conversation with a gorgeous hostess: all is offered.
It’s new and exciting to be taken for a straight man. I can saunter down the dirty boulevard completely immune, not tempted in the least to take any of these generous gentlemen up on their offers. Now, were these guys offering supple young college kendo masters named Nobu, I might have been more engaged. But as it stands I can breezily decline while enjoying a pleasant tinge of moral superiority.
I walk the length of this very long strip of hilarious heterosexual filth and feel sated, if a little nauseous. You can’t behold a Hello Kitty sex toy collection in a shop window-including a vibrator, love oil, and what appeared to be French ticklers-and come away the same person, no matter how prepared you think you are for it. At the end of the day, however, I feel better knowing that if I ever do find myself in dire need of a deep tissue massage administered by a woman dressed up as a schoolgirl of fourteen (or by a girl who is actually fourteen), I know where I can find it.
At this point I’ve given up on meeting the Harajuku girl of my dreams/nightmares and decide that I will count this evening a success if I can get a good Japanese meal, grab some reading material, and find my way back to the station. I’ve pretty much gone in one direction, so I figure I’ll just go around the block and return the way I came. I do this; I end up lost. And the more I try to set myself on the righteous path back towards the station, the more tangled up in Shinjuku’s web of winding shopping streets I become.
I sit down to consult my dog-eared guidebook again, but its detailed maps and extensive explanations tell me nothing. I stand up and look down the street, hoping against hope to catch a glimpse of a gigantic neon sign showing a steaming bowl of ramen accompanied by a flashing message in English exclaiming, “WE ALSO HAVE ENGLISH MAGAZINES!!! AND OREOS!!!” I walk around the corner and start thinking about just giving up when I turn my head towards a news agent and my eyes land squarely on naked male flesh.
Even better than a steaming bowl of ramen or a copy of Soap Opera Hair! I’ve successfully stumbled upon a gay “bookstore.” Well, since it’s right here and, you know, I don’t have Internet yet, I’ll just, you know, have a, you know, take just a little, uh…
It’s small and incredibly cramped, but boy is it well stocked. I excitedly squeeze through the other gawkers to have a look. There’s shelf upon shelf upon shelf of magazines, books, videos, and toys. A porn-a-palooza. Many interests are catered to. Got a surfer fetish? Go straight back and have a look at the top shelf on the left. Into straight guys who are “gay for pay”? Look beneath the surfers. Got a thing for aging, fat Japanese businessmen being stripped naked, hung in a tiny net suspended from the ceiling, and probed with a lit candle? You are sick and should be ashamed of yourself. Look over to the right above the lube.
All the magazines are shrink-wrapped, so I have only the covers to go on, but I haven’t seen the stuff in a while, and since these days I’m becoming aroused at the sight of subway advertisements for energy drinks, everything looks good (up to but definitely not including the fat old businessmen). I do the waltz of shame around the shop, trying to wring myself through any tight squeezes and not send a collection of Japanese surfer videos crashing to the floor. After a few minutes of browsing and fending off the advances of an old Japanese man with whom I’m sure I have nothing in common, I make my choice, sheepishly pay my money, receive some free condoms and lotion, and get the hell out.
I feel flushed as one usually does when walking from a porn shop out into public view, and then it hits me. Not only did I “go to tempting,” as Miho had so poetically put it, but I’d completely given myself over to tempting-swallowed it whole-and come away with the brown paper bag with the free “love oil” inside that I am now clutching tightly to my side. I think of the flyer Miho had given me with its friendly, approachable God wrapped in white. Then I think of Mr. 666 and wonder if he’s a top or a bottom. Is this wrong?
By way of divine punishment, on my way back to the station, I find myself back in the Straight Greaseball District, where the pack of young, sharp-dressed hoods are still gathered. One of them is quickly walking alongside an office lady on her way home with groceries, who wants none of his foolishness and wastes no time in outpacing him. Realizing he’s been outrun by a woman in heels, he stops, swishes his hair back into place, and, attempting to save face by opening his phone and pretending to take a call, swaggers back to his fellow navel-baring delinquents. Bada-bing.
As I skirt through the street towards what I can now see is the east entrance of the train station, one excitable Japanese guy chases me down and, his English obviously failing him, simply points to a flyer he’s holding in front of my face and says, “SEX!” Can’t really disagree, but I politely decline and move on, after which I am chased down by an African guy saying, “Come, man, come on! Hot ladies for you! You come to my bar!” I tell him no thanks, but he continues with his sales pitch. “HOT WOMEN, MAN!! HOT WOMEN!! ALL FOR YOU, MAN!! COME ON!” I speed up and wave him away, at which point he stops, stomps his feet, and yells in mortal frustration, “WHY NOT, MAN??!!” I want to turn around, stomp my foot, and bellow self-righteously, “Because I have too much respect for women!!” But this isn’t why.
I take the Yamanote train to Shinagawa Station, where I will transfer to the Tokaido Line and ride all the way to back down to Fujisawa. At Shinagawa the platform is a sea of people. The train soon comes, and as people pile in, two uniformed attendants standing by each pair of doors push, nay cram, the people in, forcing everyone on board to assume positions normally reserved for doctor visits. The carriage is a piece of modern art, each arm, newspaper, briefcase, set of headphones, chin, book, and elbow squeezing into each other like blood cells in a particularly narrow capillary. And just when you think no other living soul can possibly fit into the carriage, a stiff looking businessman leaps in and, as the doors shut, slowly morphs into whatever position the carriage allows (broken cigarette, leather slingback, praying mantis).
The train is so packed that every part of my body is being touched (not an altogether horrible sensation). When the train stops at Yokohama Station the people start flooding out, and I’m nearly strangled to death by my own bag (carrying my precious porn-an irony Miss Miho would have appreciated) because, though the strap is still over my shoulder, the bag and I are apparently separated by a few dozen people; those people, unfortunately for me, live in Yokohama. Thankfully, I’m able to pull it back to me without slicing anyone in half, and the rest of the ride isn’t nearly as intimate.
Arriving back at my apartment, I go immediately to my tiny room, flop onto the futon, open my bag, take out the magazine (an imported American one), tear off the shrink-wrap, open it, and gasp.
I gasp not with lust, amazement, or even amusement. It is with disillusionment and disgust that I turn the pages of this very expensive magazine and move my eyes over the glossy, full-color content. Every crotch shot, every hint of man-meat, every flash or flicker of cock and/or balls is scratched out. It is unthinkable. Yes, yes, a very lucky man at some porn importer has the dream job of thumbing through all the magazines coming into the country and taking a big, thick black marker, or sometimes a pencil eraser, to each and every hard, throbbing penis contained within. Such blatant disregard for art and those who buy it I have never witnessed. All those gorgeous photographs laid to waste because of some weird Japanese law against showing the crotch area to those who wish to pay good money to see it.
You can still make out some of the goods, but really, the whole point of porn is that it makes absolutely no demands on your imagination. It puts everything you want to see right in front of you so you can enjoy it briefly before getting on with your life.
I set the magazine down and, lying on my bed staring at the cracks in the ceiling, let out a frustrated laugh. I lean over and pull the flyer that Miss Miho had given me out of my back pocket and look at the illustrations on the front. There’s God again, smiling widely in his pristine white robe. When I’d looked at it before, he seemed like a benevolent, soft-featured God with a voice like Morgan Freeman’s. Now, it seems, he is smiling knowingly, like he’s just told a great joke about a Jew, a priest, and a homosexual and is waiting for me to get it. Did he just wink at me?
A little ashamed of myself, I look over at my porn, its pages open to a photo spread of a farmhand asking his boss for a raise up against a wheelbarrow, a big, thick black blotch running through the best parts. I look back at God, his eyes twinkling, his mouth grinning with a self-satisfied “gotcha!”
Miho Johnson was right. God is always watching. Even when you’re hopelessly lost in Shinjuku.
I’ll be damned.
# of beers bought from vending machines: 22
# of times train has been late: 0
# of bows taken (big): 13
# of bows taken (small): 1,157