Grannie Panties Are UnderRated

  Did she mean Elle should leave for that night only, or something more permanent? Elle looked intently at Mae-san, searching for clues, but the madam sat expressionless and quiet.

  It had been a bad call to come to work so fucked up. If she weren’t so high, she might be able to better read the subtext. As it was, Elle had done a few lines with Tak and members of the Japanese rock band Sugar Puss before work, and she was having a hard time focusing on the situation at hand.

  Perhaps sensing Elle’s confusion, Mae-san made her intentions clear. She placed a stack of yen on the table and stood to leave. “Here your final pay. You go now.”

  High or not, this wasn’t difficult to interpret. She was being fired.

  Elle was ashamed. For twenty-four years she had been the model of responsibility, a consummate pleaser intent on proving her worth to classmates, teachers, employers—everyone, really. And now she was being fired for the second time in six months? Unbelievable. Elle’s humility quickly turned to anger. How dare she fire me?

  Elle was good at her job. She had made Mae-san tons of money. And how did the madam even know about the cocaine? She had been very discreet.

  It must have been Sato, the lawyer Elle had met a few evenings ago and sold a few grams to. He wasn’t a regular. Maybe he had hoped to score brownie points with Mae-san by selling her out.

  What a jack-ass.

  Elle should have known better than to trust someone she didn’t know. Still, it’s not like she had been dealing that much coke at the Big YAC. Elle had been careful, bringing in just enough for a few lines to help her get through the night. If customers wanted to partake with her, what was the big deal? Mae-san should thank her. Everyone could drink so much more when high.

  Whatever.

  Elle was sick of the job, anyway. And Tak would be pleased, he had wanted her to quit for some time now.

  Elle considered the money on the table. From what she could tell by the stacks of yen notes, it was the equivalent of at least $2,000, maybe more. Should she take it? Elle wasn’t sure. This was all such bullshit.

  What would be better? To take the money, or to leave it on the table and storm out, indignant? Elle decided to take the money. She had earned it.

  As Elle stood and reached for the yen, she became light-headed. She teetered in her high heels and needed to hold onto the table for balance. Funny, she didn’t think she was that high. Elle searched for the right words to say. Before she could think of anything, Mae-san held her arm out in the direction of the door, inviting—no, commanding—her to leave.

  Elle was again humbled. She dropped her shoulders, her bravado weakened by the realization she had disappointed Mae-san. It was important to Elle that the madam approve of her and she had let her down. She wasn’t worthy.

  For a moment, Mae-san seemed to be moved. She softened a tad, touching Elle’s shoulders. “You smart girl. You be careful.”

  Elle fought a strong urge to hug Mae-san. To thank her. To explain. But it was too late. The moment had passed. Mae-san pulled her shoulders back and, again, pointed to the door.

  Elle bowed to Mae-san, a final gesture of respect. She became dizzy as she stood back up. When she turned to leave, she wasn’t sure where to direct her gaze. She couldn’t face the other hostesses in the club. It was too humiliating. Instead, Elle focused her attention on the poster next to the door. It was of Al Pacino as Michael Corleone. This made her feel worse. Michael Corleone was sitting in a chair, pensive, staring back at her with stern judgment in his eyes. “How disappointing your behavior is. What a failure you are.”

  Elle opened the door and tried her best not to cry as she left the Big YAC for the last time.

  9:01 p.m.

  Elle sat on the curb outside of the Big YAC smoking a cigarette. She needed a few minutes to get it together. Japanese women walking by averted their eyes, pretending not to look at her; Elle’s low-cut gown and stiletto heels made her profession obvious. Men were less successful at hiding their curiosity and most eyed her with varying degrees of intrigue and desire. Elle usually enjoyed the attention, but not now.

  It had been a fucked-up day, right from the start. She should have expected something like this.

  It had all started back at the apartment Elle shared with Mitch. She was spending most of her free time with Tak now and needed a change of clothes. Unwilling to face Mitch, she had returned to the apartment at a time she knew he wouldn’t be home. It was a shitty thing to do. Elle knew she hadn’t been—and wasn’t being—a good friend to Mitch, but she rationalized it was okay. She was going to make it up to him on his birthday. She had a plan.

  Back in their apartment, Elle’s unslept-in futon was still hopefully pushed up next to Mitch’s. It was a sad reminder of how much their relationship had changed, so she tried to avoid looking at it. Rummaging around for some clean clothes, Elle saw a light blue envelope with red and blue stripes and the words AIR MAIL/PAR AVON on it. Intrigued, she reached over to inspect it. The letter was addressed to her.

  Michelle Simpson. Elle didn’t like to see her real name. She preferred not to think about the bad memories associated with that person.

  Elle didn’t recognize the handwriting. Curious, she opened the envelope and two 10,000-yen notes fell out onto the floor. Elle found this odd but ignored the money; she was anxious to read the letter. The writing was in the large, loopy handwriting of a child, or perhaps someone who was old and had a hard time holding a pen.

  Dear Michelle, This is your Grandma Jean.

  Her grandmother! Elle hadn’t seen or heard from her since she was a little girl.

  I hope this letter finds you. We had a terrible time trying to figure out where you were at.

  Elle chafed at this sentence. Her mom frequently made the same grammatical mistake, ending a sentence with “at.” It was embarrassing, a reminder of her mom’s lack of education and sophistication, like the way she didn’t know how to pronounce hors d’oeuvres and thought that wine came in only two varieties: “the red or the white kind.” Slightly put off, Elle continued reading.

  We finally seen the Christmas card you had sent your mom and it had this address on it. Lord knows if this will ever reach you. Why you would want to go halfway around the world, I’ll never know, but I suppose you are trying to find yourself or something.

  Elle found this remark a little snarky and backhanded, especially coming from someone stupid enough to write “we finally seen,” but then again, what did she expect? She barely remembered her grandmother.

  As you probably know, your mom and me didn’t always get on the best. She never did forgive me for thinking that her and your dad had something to do with little Jimmy’s death. How could you blame me? He was a no-good drunk, and in my day, no one had ever heard anything about this Sudden Infant Death Syndrome.

  At the mention of her little brother, Elle became angry with her grandmother. What a bitch. What did she know about Jimmy? Her instinct was to throw the letter away, but Elle decided to continue reading. It would be satisfying to keep track of all the grammatical mistakes and take note of what a dumbfuck Grandma Jean was.

  Anyways, I tried many times to work it out but she wouldn’t have nothing to do with me. I would sometimes hear about her through people in town and she seemed to be real happy. She was seeing Candy Lynn’s nephew Bruce, who everyone said was a real nice man. I don’t know how to tell you this, so I’ll come right out with it. Your mom and Bruce was in a motorcycle accident. It was on March 19th (Three days before her 43rd birthday). It had rained real hard that night and Bruce must have lost control of the bike. Anyhow, they hit a tree on Main Street. We were told she died instantly, so know that she wasn’t in any pain. (Bruce died two days later in the hospital. He never did come to.)

  Wait, what? Elle had to reread this section several times. Her mom had been in an accident and was killed?

  Elle couldn’t believe it. It wasn’t possible.

  She skipped through the rest of the letter quickly. It tal
ked about the funeral, presided over by Pastor Bob; about how her mom was reunited in heaven with little Jimmy; about how she was returning the Japanese money; and how she wished she knew Michelle more—she would keep her in her prayers.

  Elle sat down on the futon, numb. Shouldn’t she feel something? Sure, she had never been particularly close to her mom, yet this news was gut-wrenching. Why was she not crying?

  Elle picked up the two 10,000-yen notes and looked them over. Had her mom touched them? Shown them to Bruce? Bragged to him about her successful daughter living in Japan? She placed the money against her cheek, her hand involuntarily shaking.

  “. . . In my day, no one had ever heard anything about this Sudden Infant Death Syndrome.”

  Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. SIDS.

  It had been Elle who, lonely and wanting company, had gotten up in the middle of the night and taken Jimmy out of his crib. She been the one who put him in bed next to her and surrounded him with stuffed animals. She had been the one to place her pink blanket over him so he wouldn’t get cold. She had been the one who let him sleep on his tummy. She had been the one who had done all the things that were risk factors for SIDS.

  If only she had left Jimmy in his crib. Or turned him over on his back and taken away the pink blanket and all the stuffed animals. But she hadn’t, and he had died.

  And now her mom was dead, just like he was.

  Elle stood, closed her eyes, and vigorously shook her head. She didn’t want to think about any of this. Not now. She couldn’t.

  Resolute, Elle took the letter and the yen notes and stuffed them into her large green army duffle bag. She picked up her change of clothes and left the apartment. She would go back to Samantha’s for a few hours before she had to go to work. Partying with Tak and the band Sugar Puss would be just the distraction she needed.

  It was amazing, really, Elle’s ability to not think about things she didn’t want to deal with. She seemed to be getting even better at it since living in Tokyo. Perhaps it was because the Japanese seemed to have already perfected this skill. They were adept at hiding their emotions and were impossible to read—you certainly wouldn’t find any of them blabbering about their issues on a couch to Oprah. Was Japanese stoicism rubbing off on her? Elle hoped so; she didn’t want anyone to recognize what she was hiding.

  Now, hours later, smoking on the street after being fired from the Big YAC, Elle still didn’t want to think about her mom’s death. But she wasn’t Japanese enough. With all the traffic whizzing by, she couldn’t not think of her mom.

  Her mom on a motorcycle.

  Bobbie wouldn’t have worn a helmet and her lemon-yellow hair would have flown wildly around her face. She would have been in high spirits, enjoying herself. She loved motorcycles and the men who rode them. Elle imagined Bobbie clasping her arms around Bruce, leaning in to him tightly with every turn. Maybe she was even laughing her deep, throaty laugh.

  Then, her mom hitting a tree. Her mom dead on Main Street.

  Elle hoped that Bruce had been hopelessly in love with her mom. She hoped that there hadn’t been too much blood, and that the ambulance had arrived quickly. She hoped that her mom had had been wearing long pants and a coat. Elle wasn’t sure why, but it seemed crucial that she be covered.

  Tears welled in her eyes. She didn’t want to think of her mom sprawled out, dead on hard black asphalt. She had never understood Bobbie. She had resented her inability to provide her with the life she thought deserved, but Grandma Jean’s letter had provided clarity. Elle had only ever considered how Jimmy’s death had affected her. She hadn’t ever considered her mom’s feelings.

  Bobbie had lost a child. Only twenty-three years old herself, she had accompanied her still baby in an ambulance, desperately hopeful even when the driver had turned the sirens off. She had come home from the hospital and taken her son’s unwrapped presents from under the Christmas tree and given them to the pregnant woman in the apartment next door. She had purchased a teeny tiny casket, arranged a funeral, and watched with despair as her sweet, innocent, beautiful baby boy was buried in the cold December ground.

  It all made sense now. The emotional distance, the lack of interest or involvement in her daughter’s life. Elle was nothing but a bitter reminder to Bobbie of everything she had lost. Perhaps she even blamed Elle for Jimmy’s death, just as Grandma Jean had blamed her.

  It was no wonder her mother couldn’t love her.

  Elle couldn’t fault her; she would have reacted in the same exact way. It was, after all, in her bed, on her watch, that Jimmy had died.

  Elle rubbed her hands against her eyes to stop the tears. She was on the verge of a complete breakdown, perilously close to turning into a heaping mess of tears and snot. She couldn’t let that happen.

  No. Elle would get it together. She would be Japanese.

  “Erre-san!”

  Elle looked up and saw Sato, the lawyer she had done the blow with a few nights before, waving his hand to her through the open window of a black town car. Elle pretended she didn’t hear him and made a show of searching through her purse. She wasn’t in the mood to deal with Sato. She needed to get to Samantha’s.

  “Erre-san!” Sato emerged out of the car, still waving.

  Shit. She wouldn’t be able to ignore him now.

  Elle tried to appear casual, nonchalantly pulling out a tube of red lipstick from her purse and carefully applying it to her lips. Although she had worn light-colored lip gloss in college, on Tak’s suggestion, Elle had taken to wearing brightly colored, bold lipsticks in Japan. Fire engine red and hot pink.

  “Erre-san. I so happy see you.” Sato extended his hand to help Elle stand up off the curb. “You go work now?”

  “No, I’m not working here anymore.”

  “Ah . . . so . . . you no work here anymore?” Sato dropped his shoulders. “I many sad, I come here see you.”

  Elle debated bringing up the coke. She was sure Sato had said something about it to Mae-san, even if inadvertently. She considered the lawyer. Although he wasn’t what she would call handsome, he was well put together in the way of someone with money. Perfectly tailored suit, expensive haircut. He wasn’t as old as the other clients at the Big YAC, and his teeth weren’t too bad.

  Elle decided it wasn’t worth mentioning. Perhaps Sato could give her a ride to Samantha’s. It would be worth saving the taxi fare. She nodded her head toward the town car. “Could you do me a huge favor and give me ride into Roppongi? I need to meet some friends.”

  “Hai. Hai.”

  Why was it the Japanese insisted on saying yes twice? Elle got it the first time. She tried to hide her irritation as Sato guided her into the town car with outstretched hands.

  As they sat down, Sato scooted over, his thigh touching Elle’s. It made her uncomfortable, so she leaned forward and away from him as she gave the driver directions to Samantha’s. Traffic was still heavy, so it would be at least a thirty-minute ride, maybe longer.

  “Ah . . . so, I have present for you.” Sato reached into his suit pocket and took out a small red silk purse, similar to something jewelry would be put in.

  Elle was receptive—it wasn’t unusual to for clients to buy her jewelry. She held out her hand expectantly. She hoped it would be earrings. Pearl ones. They would be easy to sell.

  Instead of handing her the purse, Sato opened it, revealing a baggy full cocaine. “You want share?”

  Elle wasn’t disappointed there was no jewelry. Some coke was precisely what she needed. It would help erase her shitty day. She crouched down and snorted a line over Sato’s lap. As the drug entered her system, Elle’s mind became free. She forgot about her guilt over letting Mae-san down. Over letting her mom down. Over letting down her helpless baby brother.

  Thank God.

  Elle wanted to tell the driver to turn up the music, but Sato had asked him to put up the partition. Satisfied with the effects of the first line, she leaned across Sato to do another one. As Elle finished, he gently pushe
d the back of her head down into his lap. Her nose touched against his dick. It was hard.

  Elle tried to lift her head, but Sato pressed down on it again. Not exactly forcefully, but he certainly wanted to keep her head in the general area of his crotch. He reached into his pocket, took out several 100,000-yen notes and placed them on his lap.

  Elle should have been outraged, incensed by his proposition, but for the second time that day, she felt nothing. The numbness had returned. Elle lifted her head, looked Sato in the eye, and shook her head no. She should have protested more, but it didn’t seem worth the effort.

  Sato returned her gaze. He didn’t seem angry or even disappointed. His eyes conveyed acceptance, maybe even a hint of understanding, like he knew Elle was fragile and should be handled with care. Sato pulled her close to him and kissed the top of her head in an avuncular sort of way, more paternal than sexual. Elle rested her head back against him, relieved. He did understand.

  They drove this way for several minutes. Elle waited anxiously for the second line to kick in, for her feeling of contentment to be heightened. Instead, she had an image of her mom dead on the street. And then Jimmy, eyes open and cold next to her in bed.

  Elle shook her head. She needed this to stop. It would be better once she got to Samantha’s. The band would be playing and she could lose herself in the music and dancing.

  The town car stopped. They were stuck in heavy traffic. Should she get out and walk the rest of the way? Elle turned her head to the window to see how much farther they had to go. Sato took her hand and led it to the bulge in his pants. He moved his legs apart and gently rubbed her hand against his stiff penis.

  Once again, Elle should have been offended. She should have objected violently, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t do anything but close her eyes and hope the excruciating visions of her dead family would disappear. Paralyzed, Elle didn’t move her hand away. Not even when Sato unzipped his very expensive pants and led her hand through the opening in his silky underwear. She held his dick, throbbing and hard in her hand. Still, Elle felt nothing. All she could think was how different Sato’s penis was from Tak’s. It was smaller, chubbier. Sato turned toward her and reached his hand between her legs. Elle didn’t resist. It just didn’t seem to matter. Any of it.