Elle did know. She was not a religious person either—at least not in the traditional sense. She had gone to church a few times growing up with her grandmother and had enjoyed it—it seemed like something normal people did—but then there had been the big fight between her mom and her grandmother. It was right after her brother died and Elle never saw her grandmother nor went to church again. As a result, God, Jesus, and prayer weren’t things she gave much thought to. They were for other people.
Music was Elle’s religion.
Although it had always been a part of her life—seventies rock was a constant in the bar where she spent most of her time—it was when Elle was in fourth grade that music really began to influence her. One of Bobbie’s “regulars” had taken pity on the little girl perpetually alone at a back table and had given Elle a small radio. It transformed her life. Music filled the gaping void in her childhood left by the death of her baby brother. Some people found solace in books or TV, but for Elle it was music. The radio became her constant companion, Casey Kasem her first friend.
Though too young to really understand what most of the songs she listened to were about, Elle escaped her loneliness with the stories they told. She was a guest at the YMCA with the Village People and in a card game with the gambler and Kenny Rogers. She drew pictures of how she imagined the Eagles’ Hotel California would look. Elle’s portable black Sony AM/FM radio became increasingly important to her daily routine, an integral part of her life.
So much so that, over time, Elle began to believe her relationship to the universe was dictated by lyrics, titles, and band names. In elementary school, if she turned on the radio in the morning and heard Randy Newman’s “Short People,” she was sure to get chosen last for dodge ball. Donna Summer’s “Bad Girls” meant bullying at the hands of the mean girls. Better were the mornings when Elle would hear Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive.” She would shuffle off to school confident it would be a good day—and more often than not, it was.
This continued throughout junior high. Bobbie wasn’t the type of mom who helped with algebra homework or gave advice on how to properly insert a tampon, but Irene Cara’s “Flashdance . . . What a Feeling” told Elle to believe in herself and her abilities and Aerosmith’s “Dream On” provided her with the strength and determination to keep working hard.
Over time, there were too many moments that seemed foretold through music for Elle to ignore. Michael Jackson’s “Beat It” played the morning Justin O’Malley was suspended for getting in a fight with Timmy Schrader; David Bowie’s “Let’s Dance” came on as she debated asking a boy to Sadie Hawkins; and news of the Space Shuttle Challenger disaster reached her by a special report interrupting the Bee Gees’ “Tragedy.” By the time Elle reached high school, music as a series of omens became her truth.
As such, she completely understood the power of music and accepted without question why Mitch would have such a visceral reaction to “Bad.” She had cried when she heard the song performed live in concert. She didn’t understand the tears, only that she experienced a great sense of belonging, of something bigger than herself that she couldn’t quite explain. It had been amazing. Like nothing she had ever experienced before.
If Mitch got that, he got her.
Chapter Four
The White Stripes: “We’re Going to Be Friends”
August 30, 1992
9:29 p.m.
Elle and Mitch continued to talk animatedly during the train ride to Shinjuku, bonding over their shared musical tastes. She had been wrong about him being a musician. Mitch confessed that although he would have given anything to be in a band, he lacked any musical talent, whatsoever. (Excepting, of course, his ability to whistle the Happy Birthday song in one long breath.) Elle sympathized with him; she was also utterly devoid of any musical aptitude—at least he could whistle.
Though not a musician, Elle was satisfied that her instincts about Mitch had been correct; he was definitely a good guy. To date, the only person she had ever misread had been her dad. For a brief period, she thought he might actually care about her.
Elle didn’t know her dad, not really; like her grandmother, he had disappeared shortly after her brother’s death. But one day when she was around seven years old, he had unexpectedly shown up at the bar where Bobbie worked. (Elle remembered it was spring because she’d had a terrible sunburn. It had been field day at school and her mom hadn’t thought to provide her with sunscreen.) He had enthusiastically greeted her with a big bear hug—it had felt like sandpaper scraping against her burning red shoulders—and invited her to sit next to him at the bar. This was huge—Elle was never allowed to sit in one of the high stools with maroon seats that could swivel.
He had then directed her mom to make her a Shirley Temple and to give her a glass filled to the top with maraschino cherries. (This second request had required a fair amount of coaxing on his part; Bobbie had initially objected—she didn’t want her daughter to be spoiled.) Along with these treats, he had placed a large stack of quarters in front of her to play slot poker with on the machine at the end of the bar. Elle didn’t understand the game, but she had a great time putting the quarters in the machine and pulling down on the handle. Between sips of his drink and puffs on his cigarette, her dad had looked at her proudly, especially when quarters came pouring out of the machine. He ruffled her hair and told her she was good luck.
Elle had been thrilled and took these as signs her dad loved her. He was giving her money, smiling at her, and she was at the bar! It was so much better than playing with paper dolls at a table in the back by herself. Elle couldn’t wait to see her dad again, and for the next few weeks she looked up hopefully every time the door to the bar opened.
But he never showed up again, and Elle realized the unhappy truth that her father’s attention that day had not been out of love; it was simply a way to keep her occupied so he could drink.
She had been crushed. How could she have been so wrong? She vowed to be more careful, to pay more attention. She would never make the same mistake again. And she hadn’t. In terms of detecting scumbags, Elle was now batting a thousand and she intended to keep it that way.
Mitch was different, and she knew it. On the train ride, Elle discovered they had many other things in common besides their love of music: they were both English Lit majors, yellow was their favorite color, mashed potatoes their favorite food, and they agreed that it was essential to eat all the marshmallows out of the Lucky Charms cereal box first.
As far as things they found overrated? People who stood in the middle of escalators blocking the way for those in a hurry, acid wash cut-off jeans, corn dogs, and mall rats that wore parachute pants and roach clips. Roach clips were the worst, especially the ones with the added piece of dangling hair. Lame. A look for total posers.
Too bad I’m not attracted to him.
Mitch was cool. And good-looking, too. But Elle knew from experience she was either into a guy or she wasn’t, and she just wasn’t feeling it with Mitch, which kind of sucked. They would make a good couple.
Mitch told Elle he had used his college graduation gift money to buy a one-way ticket to Tokyo and had been living there since June. He had a job teaching English for a company called English First. “They’re a chain, and are everywhere. They’re popular because they’re the most affordable schools around—kinda like the Wal-Mart of English-language schools.” He said he was sure he could help her get a job. “Obviously, if they hired me, their standards aren’t very high.”
Elle was grateful—she hadn’t yet sorted out the finer details of securing a job.
Mitch also convinced her to stay at the same place he was living, a hostel for gaijin—the Japanese word for “foreigner”—called the Zen House. It was a complete shithole, but the owner had a thing for blondes and Mitch was sure she would be able to negotiate a cheap rate with him.
This was another offer Elle was happy to accept. What did she have to lose? Besides, it couldn’t be any worse than
the shithole she had grown up in.
Dragging her duffle bag into the Zen House, Elle could immediately see Mitch had not been exaggerating in his description of the place. There wasn’t anything the least bit Zen about it. Paint was peeling off the walls, the linoleum floors were stained, and a rank smell permeated the air. Elle wasn’t sure what the source of the odor was, but it was gnarly.
“That would be the kimchi,” Mitch explained. “It’s a Korean thing. Fermented vegetables or something. You’ll get used to it.”
Elle tried to smile gamely. It would be fine.
The two walked in past the main living area. It was full of men of varying age, size and nationality. Several of them were crammed together uncomfortably on a couch, while others were sprawled out on the dirty floor in front of a small TV. Elle was unnerved—she didn’t see a single other woman in the room. What had Mitch gotten her into?
Perhaps sensing her nervousness, Mitch set down Elle’s duffle bag and reached for her hand. He led her past the common room and down a hallway, where he peeked in through a half-closed door. “Watanabe-san, may I come in?”
“Ah so. Mitch-san. Yes, yes. Come in, please.”
Elle followed Mitch into what was an office with a rather small, middle-aged Japanese man sitting behind a large oak desk, smoking a cigarette. The man’s fingers were slightly discolored, and his fingernails were longer than a man’s ought to be.
Mitch protectively put one arm around Elle’s shoulder and gestured toward her with his free hand. “Watanabe-san, this is Elle. She is a very good friend of mine and needs a room.”
Watanabe stood and bowed enthusiastically toward Elle, looking her over as he did. “Nice meet you, Erre-san. Welcome-o Zen House.” Watanabe’s eyes lingered a little too long on Elle’s breasts. It made her uncomfortable.
Mitch noticed Elle’s unease and stepped in front of her, blocking Watanabe’s view. “Here’s the thing. She needs to be in the same room as me.”
“Yes. Yes. So, your room, one week is ten thousand yen.” Watanabe nodded agreeably, but also reached out his hand indicating he was expecting payment up front.
Elle tried to do the math on how much this was in American dollars. Bobbie had refused to cosign for her on a credit card application, so all she had was the $300 she had saved working as a temp over the summer. One U.S. dollar equaled approximately one hundred Japanese yen, so the charge for a week was around a hundred dollars. This seemed reasonable, although it was a full third of her funds—she would need to start working right away. Elle reached for her pocketbook, but Mitch stopped her.
“So, the thing is, Elle doesn’t have a job yet. Is there anything you can do to make it more affordable for her to stay here? Say—five thousand yen a week?”
“You funny man, Mitch-san.” Watanabe furrowed his brow and looked over Elle once more. He deliberated for a few minutes and then said, “Okay, special favor for you, one week—eight thousand yen.”
Elle looked over at Mitch; he nodded okay to her. Even though not entirely convinced it wasn’t a mistake, she carefully counted out eight 1,000-yen notes and handed them to Watanabe. “Do you have a key for me?”
Watanabe laughed, exposing a set of horribly crooked and coffee-stained teeth. “You no need key. This Japan.”
No key? Elle’s stomach tightened. Nervous, she looked to Mitch again.
He was reassuring. “It’s cool. You really don’t need a key.”
Elle smiled wanly. What else could she do? It was too late to try and drag her duffle bag anywhere else. She would trust Mitch.
Elle bowed awkwardly to Watanabe and followed Mitch out of his office and back into the common room where they grabbed her duffle bag.
“Thanks again for your help.” Although ambivalent about the Zen House, Elle did appreciate Mitch’s kindness.
“Well, you might want to hold off on the thanks until after you see the room.”
Oh no. How much worse can it get?
Mitch led Elle further down the hallway and stopped in front of a red door damaged with scratches, like those from an animal clawing to get in. He paused and explained that they had two other roommates, brothers from Iran who worked in some sort of electronics factory. “They’re all right, and they work the night shift, so you won’t even see them all that much.”
Mitch opened the door and gestured for Elle to enter first. She took a few steps in and surveyed the room with dismay. The Spartan room was shocking, even by her working-class standards. It was really nothing more than a ten-by-ten-foot space with two sets of bunk beds. In place of mattresses, there were incredibly thin futons on each bed frame and even thinner light-blue floral-patterned comforters. They looked old. And very used. Yuck. Elle tried not to think about all the other people who had slept under them.
Mitch nodded his head upward. “Better for you to have the top bunk. I’ll move my stuff.” He stood on his toes and grabbed his belongings in one fell swoop, the way only a tall person with a large arm span could, and dropped them haphazardly onto the lower futon. He then lifted her duffle bag and shoved it up toward the end of the top bunk. “You’ll have to keep your bag up here; there isn’t room for it anywhere else.”
It wasn’t ideal, but Elle was so tired she didn’t much care. “Yeah, that’s fine.”
Mitch placed a hand on her shoulder. “Look, I’m sure you’re beat. Let me show you the bathroom and then you can get some shut-eye. The best part of teaching at English First is that it doesn’t open until one o’clock, so I can help you out some more in the morning.”
Mitch guided Elle out of the room and back down the hall, stopping in front of another red door, this one free from scratches. “The good news is, there aren’t any other women who live here, so the women’s bathroom should always be open. The bad news is, I’m fairly sure guys go in there if the men’s room is taken.” He rapped on the door with the back of his hand several times. “You’re gonna want to knock loudly before going in. Trust me.” When no one responded, Mitch turned to Elle and said, “It’s all yours. I’ll leave you to it. I’ll be in the living room if you need anything else. If not, I’ll see you in the morning.” He turned to leave, adding, “Welcome to Tokyo.”
Elle opened the door and was immediately struck by a strong urine odor—Mitch was right about men using the bathroom. Elle had read about Japanese-style squat toilets, but she was still surprised by what looked like a small porcelain babies’ bathtub on the floor. It was stained and there were clear indications that some users had missed the toilet hole altogether.
Unsure of what to do, Elle looked around for something to hold onto but couldn’t find anything. Above the toilet there was a sign in both Japanese and English: How to Use a Japanese Toilet. There were three illustrations, two of which had big red Xs marked over them indicating what not to do. It was a funny sign and made Elle laugh—like anyone would be stupid enough to plant their ass in the disgusting urinal like the stick figure in the first picture with an X on it.
Elle pulled down her jeans and underwear and set about squatting, mimicking the picture with the green sign above it. It’s just like camping. Never mind that she loathed the outdoors. If Elle was going to make this work, she needed to have a positive attitude. She was on an adventure.
Elle peed without incident. That was easy. Going number two might be more challenging, but she would worry about that later. She walked back to her room and was relieved to find it empty. Elle trusted Mitch but wasn’t so sure about sharing the space with two other strange men. She rummaged through her bag and found a sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants with her sorority letters embroidered across the back. She changed into them, hoping they would keep her warm. She wanted to avoid use of the nasty floral comforter at all costs.
Elle flopped down on the futon, exhausted. Normally, she fell asleep to music—it was comforting to listen for a final sign, and it helped to quell her night terrors over her dead baby brother. But tonight, it seemed like too much effort to get her Walkman.
Elle could detect the faint sound of U2 coming from the room Mitch had gone to—that was good enough. She drifted off into a deep sleep, confident she didn’t need to listen for any further signs.
I got this.
Chapter Five
Joy Division: “Isolation”
May 18, 2017
10:11 a.m.
Elle jumped up and down a few times at the baseline, trying to ready herself to return serve. She wasn’t in the mood to play tennis. As feared, her day had continued to be a total nightmare.
The metallic taste in her mouth and its reminder of a time and place she had no desire to revisit had lasted a full hour after Win’s sudden announcement about his business deal in Tokyo. The only way Elle could finally rid herself of the offensive taste was by summoning all her resolve to not think about what a return to Japan would mean. Luckily, she had plenty of experience with ignoring the unpleasant truths of her life.
What Elle did have to think about that day was not much better, though. The coffee at Jane’s was as tedious as expected. Thatcher’s situation had been discussed ad nauseam. What would the ramifications be beyond his suspension from the team? Thatcher had been accepted to Princeton. Was that now in jeopardy?
Elle understood everyone’s concern. It wasn’t like it had been in the eighties, when getting caught misbehaving meant a trip to the principal’s office for a talking to or a slap on the wrist from a sympathetic police officer. No, that’s not the way it worked anymore. Conduct which was once considered to be the mostly innocent naughtiness of normal teenagers was now viewed through an entirely different lens.
Grannie Panties Are UnderRated Page 4