It was sweaty, smoky, and the song seemed to last about two hours; I was eyeing the doors in case there were any Sinatra fans and I had to make a quick exit.
But the funniest thing was seeing Yoshi sing Celine Dion falsetto – that was before he accidentally headbutted a strobe light. And every time Tara got up to sing, the salarymen were shouting ‘Kitte! Kitte!’ which meant they wanted her to join them – they were literally dancing on the tables when she sang ‘Hit me baby one more time’. I thought the mama-san would have to call the police, but apparently that’s an ordinary night out in Shinjuku and three hours later everyone filed out in good order. So, except for this blog, karaoke etiquette demands that what happens in the karaoke room, stays there.
Karaoke Haiku
Songs without tunes
Words without meaning
More sake will make music flow.
Thank you and good night. Elvis has left the building.
Sayonara!
A knock at Sam’s door pulled him from a deep, dreamless sleep.
He squinted at his wrist watch in the fragile light of dawn: 4.30 am.
“Yeah, who is it?” he called hoarsely.
“It’s Helen. I’m sorry to bother you – can I come in?”
Helen? At this hour?
“Er, hang on a minute.”
He pulled a pair of shorts from a heap of clothes next to his futon, and, dragging a hand through his hair, opened the door.
“Are you okay? What’s up?” he asked, taking in her rather frazzled appearance.
She pulled her dressing gown around her more tightly and frowned up at him.
“I’m really sorry to bother you so early – I couldn’t sleep… I just needed to talk. Can I come in for a minute?”
He opened the door wider and she peered in.
“Oh, I really did wake you up, didn’t I? I thought… well, you usually get up early to swim, so…”
“I’d have been up in another half an hour anyway,” he lied. “Don’t worry about it. Er… do you want to sit down?”
“Thanks.”
She stepped through the door and lowered herself to his futon, leaning back against the wall. Silently, Sam sat down next to her, waiting for her to speak.
“Malcolm is arriving today,” she said. “I’m meeting him at the airport at three.”
Sam nodded. He already knew this; for days now Helen had talked about little else except the arrival of her husband.
She paused and suddenly dropped her head into her hands. Sam froze, horribly afraid that she was going to start crying.
“That’s a good thing, isn’t it, Helen?” said Sam, gently. “I mean… I thought you were looking forward…”
“I am, I am,” she interrupted him quickly, her voice sounding slightly strangled. “It’s just… I haven’t seen him for nearly a year and I feel sort of… I don’t know, nervous. God! I feel so stupid talking about this to you – you’re younger than my son, for goodness sake.”
Sam wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say.
“I was just wondering…” she went on, clearly embarrassed, “I was just wondering, how would you feel, do you think, if your girlfriend turned up to see you?” She hesitated. “What would you do?”
Sam frowned. “Run, probably. Anyway, she’s my ex-girlfriend and we were together for less than six months; it’s not like you and Malcolm.”
“Then why do I feel so… nervous? His last email was so strained…” she said, panic leaking through her voice.
Sam felt horribly out of his depth. He was also wondering why Helen had picked him for marriage guidance.
“Well, I guess… I mean, it’s the longest you’ve ever been apart, isn’t it?”
She nodded slowly.
“If it was me…” he said, carefully, “I guess I’d be worried that… well… that you weren’t going to come back – to come home.”
Helen looked at him, half hopefully. “Do you really think that’s it?”
“Look, Helen, I don’t know Malcolm, but I don’t think many blokes would fly halfway around the world to say they don’t want to see you.”
She almost smiled. “I know, I know. I’m being so stupid. You must think I’m crackers.”
“Yes, but only in a good way.”
She laughed. “You’re such a sweetie, Sam. I’m glad you were awake for me to talk to. okay, so I’m glad I woke you up. I’ll go now and let you get your beauty sleep. Not that you need it.”
Sam stood up and helped Helen to her feet; she groaned as her knees protested.
“Malcolm is going to hate futons,” she sighed.
She was halfway through the door when she paused.
“By the way, what’s with you and Paul? He seems a bit… off with you.”
Sam frowned, suddenly finding the floor of great interest. “It’s nothing.”
“Hmm,” said Helen. “Well, it didn’t look like nothing at the karaoke evening; he barely spoke to you.”
Sam sighed and looked up. “He thought I was hitting on Tara; I wasn’t. He got the wrong end of the stick. That’s it: end of story.”
“Oh dear. I thought it must be something like that. Do you want me to have a word with him?”
Sam grimaced.
“Well, perhaps not,” said Helen. “Thanks again, Sam.”
Chapter 8 – July
Helen and Malcolm had gone to stay at a hotel for a few days.
The small, swarthy Welshman hadn’t stopped smiling since he’d arrived, and Sam had felt relief as Helen’s fears had vanished like summer mist.
Yoshi was often absent, muttering mysteriously when anybody asked him what he was doing. Tara had flown out to Okinawa for some beach time and was catching up with a couple of girlfriends on a round-the-world trip.
Sam’s Japanese classes were coming to an end for the summer and he found himself with more free time, but fewer friends to spend it with.
Dropping his books on the desk, he kicked his dirty laundry behind his futon and decided to head into town. He felt restless and irritated with himself and his own sour mood. He grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair and walked out.
Paul’s door hung open and Sam could see him standing at the window, a bottle of beer in one hand.
Sam hesitated, then rapped on the doorframe. Paul turned round, a frown on his face when he saw who it was.
“Drinking alone?”
“What does it look like?” Paul replied in a surly tone.
Sam shrugged and turned to leave. “Just asking.”
He was halfway down the corridor when Paul came hurrying after him.
“Sorry, buddy. Bad week.”
“S’okay,” said Sam, accepting the apology easily. “I thought I’d head into town: get something to eat, have a couple of quiet beers.”
“Sounds good,” said Paul. “Want some company?”
“Yeah, as long as it’s not the kind I have to pay for,” said Sam, raising his eyebrows.
Paul smiled. “Naw. No hostess bars – I’m tapped: just a few beers then.”
The streets were heaving with people: salarymen in their ubiquitous dark suits, crowds of Goths glowering darkly at each other and their own reflections in shop windows, taxis, commuters, shoppers, evening strollers and huge video screens on every building blaring out tinny music by the latest J-pops boy bands.
Paul pointed towards a tangle of alleys illuminated with neon signs advertising the local Asahi beer, and they headed toward it. The streets were so narrow, it was almost possible for them to brush both walls with their shoulders simultaneously as they passed by. Tiny beer halls bloomed like mushrooms, many smaller than the average front room.
A sign that advertised both ramen noodles and beer seemed a good choice.
They settled onto a pair of stools at a tall counter and flipped through the menu. A sullen-looking girl in a micro miniskirt took their order and swiftly returned with two mugs of beer and the usual sachets of hand wipes that were served w
ith every order, no matter how small.
Paul took a long drink, then stared into his glass.
“Sorry I’ve been such a jerk. The whole Tara thing. I know you weren’t… I mean, she told me you hadn’t…” He took a deep breath. “When I finally got the balls to ask her out, she totally blew me off. She was real nice about it, I guess, but she said she just wanted… to be friends. Yep, she made that pretty damn clear – friends.”
Sam winced in sympathy. The whole ‘let’s be friends’ get-out clause usually accompanied a painfully humiliating scenario of rejection.
“Sorry, mate,” he said, quietly.
“The thing is,” Paul went on, looking broodingly at his now nearly empty glass, “I kind of figured that’s what she was going to say.”
He looked at Sam and sighed. “It’s pretty obvious that she digs you, though.”
Sam was silent.
“If you want me to butt the hell out, just say so,” said Paul.
Sam shrugged. “Tara’s great. But…”
“But what, buddy? I don’t get you.”
It was hard to put into words. “It’s just that this is… all so temporary. Five, six months and I’ll be going back to London and she’ll be back in Oz.”
Paul blinked. “And?”
“And nothing… that’s it. What’s the point?”
Paul stared at him in disbelief. “So, what you’re saying is that you’re not going to ask out this totally hot babe who’s made it pretty plain that she’s really into you – because in half a year you’ll be going home? Your mom drop you on the head when you were a baby or something?”
Sam smiled and ran a hand through his hair. “And my friends bet me that I couldn’t do it – stay free of women.”
Paul’s shout of laughter made the other customers look up from their drinks. He was almost choking.
“That… is the stupidest… the most dumbest thing I ever heard!” he snorted. “You need your head examining, buddy. What kind of friends you got that make you take a bet like that?”
Sam paused. “Er, well, actually her name is Julie and she’s a lesbian: the bet was with her.”
Paul laughed so hard he nearly fell off the bar stool and Sam had to prop him up.
“It’s not that funny!” said Sam, smiling in spite of himself.
Paul couldn’t speak. He just shook his head, tears running down his face.
When he could finally breathe again, he used the hand wipe provided by the gloomy waitress and managed to sit up straight on the stool.
“Your priorities are seriously screwed up, my friend,” he said, at last.
Sam grinned. “Thanks!”
“Seriously, buddy. Can you look me in the eye and tell me you don’t like her?”
“Yeah, but…”
Paul waved away his objections. “You should get your head checked, bro, that’s all I’m saying.”
He mimed locking his lips and throwing away the key.
Sam felt relieved. The conversation had gone far enough.
Suddenly a voice screeched across the room.
“Samantha!”
“Oh, hell,” muttered Sam.
It was Jerry – in glorious high definition. He came fluttering across the room dressed in a pair of white jeans and eye-wateringly bright shirt. Sam had never, ever, seen anyone look less like a funeral director.
Jerry bore down on him, kissing Sam enthusiastically on both cheeks.
“Darling! You look divine, as ever. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your interestingly hirsute friend?”
Sam took a deep breath.
“Jerry, this is Paul. Paul, this is Jerry.”
“Enchanted!” trilled Jerry.
“Er…hi,” said Paul, who looked a little confused and a lot less enthusiastic.
“So what have you been up to since our last little tête-à-tête?” said Jerry, draping a proprietorial arm across Sam’s shoulders.
“Not much: working mainly,” said Sam, truthfully. “You?”
“Oh! I’ve been doing everything – and everyone!” Jerry laughed loudly.
Paul stared from one to the other. “Where did you two meet?” he said, a curious expression passing over his face.
“On the plane coming out here,” said Sam, uncomfortably.
“Yes, and you never called me, you naughty boy!” said Jerry.
“I can’t imagine why,” said Paul, under his breath.
Just then two more of Jerry’s friends arrived: one of them pouting jealously as he saw Jerry’s arm still draped across Sam’s shoulder.
The newcomers were Japanese: one short and skinny, the other rather large. Both were dressed in tight denims and white T-shirts, almost like a uniform.
Jerry spoke to them rapidly and then introduced Sam and Paul in English.
Sam replied in his slow, careful Japanese and the two men’s faces relaxed several degrees. They were delighted to find that Sam was trying to speak their language – at least that’s how it seemed.
They settled themselves comfortably at the bar and began asking questions about the gay scene in London, which Sam did his best to answer, although as he knew more about the lesbian scene from Julie, his answers weren’t completely satisfying. When he couldn’t find the word he needed, he threw in an English one, much to the men’s enjoyment.
By the time they had finished their beers and Sam and Paul’s noodles had been and gone, Jerry’s friends extended an invitation to join them in a nearby private club. Paul’s face was a picture of horror and he declined at once.
“No, thanks,” said Sam. “We’re going to head back now.”
“I expect they want a quiet night in,” said Jerry to his friends, his voice rich with suggestion.
Sam reddened, and he turned to leave.
“Sam, dear,” called Jerry, his face hiding a kindly smile. “I really couldn’t let you leave without passing on a little tip. Well, you’ve been such a sport, entertaining my friends – not like your rather uptight, hairy friend. The thing is dear boy… you speak Japanese like me.”
Sam was puzzled.
Jerry sighed. “You really shouldn’t be let out on your own, you know, you’re just too delicious for your own good… dear boy, I shall make the huge but not erroneous assumption that your Japanese language teachers have all been women – am I correct?”
Sam nodded, growing more confused by the second.
“Then perhaps I could suggest that in future, you need to take lessons from a more… masculine source.”
“Jerry, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Sam, frustration and the desire to make a quick exit clear on his face.
Jerry sighed again. “I’m sure you’ve been taught that Japanese doesn’t use male and female personal pronouns very often. Correct?”
The tiny bar seemed a bizarre place for a lesson in Japanese grammar.
“Well, then,” continued Jerry, “one of the reasons for this is that men and women in Japan speak quite differently. Women speak more hesitantly, continually asking for their thoughts and suggestions to be qualified. The English equivalent would be to add ‘don’t you think’ or ‘wouldn’t you agree’ to the ends of sentences. You do it all the time in Japanese – it’s a very feminine way of talking – and it makes you sound gay, dear boy. And much as I regret it and would simply adore to convince you otherwise, I can see that you’re disgustingly heterosexual.”
Sam was mortified.
“A little tip between friends,” said Jerry, blowing him a kiss.
Sam and Paul stumbled out onto the street, their faces stricken.
Sam thought back to every conversation he’d had with shopkeepers, every time he’d bought a cup of coffee, every occasion when he’d tried to practise his Japanese on a native. He closed his eyes, trying to drive away the suddenly humiliating memories.
“We never speak of this again,” muttered Paul.
Sam’s Blog
Hi everyone!
Greetings fro
m the land of a thousand burning pavements.
You probably don’t want to hear this whilst summer in England is being cancelled due to rain – but Tokyo is hot! The hostel has the aircon on for about an hour in the evening; the rest of the time we just sweat. If I get through this summer without getting trench foot, it’ll be a miracle.
So I’ve been spending more time than usual in bars (ok, not as much time as you, Keith, but more than usual). Another reason is that school has finished now and I’ve only got a couple of evening classes left before the long break. Not six weeks like at home, but at least it’ll be a whole month off with no work to mark. I thought I’d spend time seeing more of the city before going off to see some of the islands, or maybe further north into the mountains. I haven’t decided yet, so watch this space.
So, back to those bars. I was walking through Shinjuku, which is quite near the hostel – but cooler, looking for a place that had aircon, when I saw a familiar face: Yoshi was sitting in a café by himself so I wandered in to join him. To say he looked shifty doesn’t even begin to cover it: he blushed redder than an English post box – actually, he was redder than me after that incident with the air stewardess on the Easy Jet flight – Keith, you know what I’m talking about!
It took me about three seconds to realise that I was gate-crashing a secret date. Did I do the gentlemanly thing and leave him to meet the woman of his dreams in private? Hell no! I wanted to see who she was so I sat down, ordered a beer, and waited. And waited. And waited. During all this time, Yoshi’s phone kept beeping when a text message came in, but he didn’t read any of them. Every time a message came in, he looked like he was desperate to read it, but then he ignored it. He sat there, drinking O-cha, ignoring every message that came in, at about the rate of one every couple of minutes. It was weird! He seemed remarkably cool for someone who had either been stood up… or was standing someone else up.
In the end he couldn’t help himself and he started reading his messages. I was momentarily invisible. He looked terrified and said that his girlfriend was furious with him for ignoring her – no shit, Sherlock!
So I got him to tell me all about her. Her name was Manaka which means ‘a loving woman’, so I was already suspicious. (Joke!) He described how they chatted by phone during the day and were going to meet at the café and then go for a walk holding hands. It was kinda sweet. He said he’d been dating her for two months and she got really annoyed if he was late for a date or slow to return his text messages – hence the flurry of texts, while he sat there ignoring them. She loves tennis and baking, apparently, which seemed like an interesting combination, and he was planning on taking her to Atami (a few hours’ drive from the city and famous for hot springs) for a short holiday. Way to go Yoshi, I thought.
The New Samurai Page 15