The White Man and the Pachinko Girl

by Vann Chow

  “Uh, no.” He tried to explain himself in Japanese, but he couldn't find the words, nor could he find the reason for his clumsiness in words. His mind was a total blank. Even the headache had stopped, leaving more idle mental capacity to self-doubt.

  “Didn't you win a handsome amount of money from us last time?” she asked. “You must really love playing Pachinko.”

  “Uh,” Smith's mind was racing to reasons beyond his cognition. “Pinball machines are different, in America, where I come from.”

  Misa looked around the parlor, scrutinizing the machine and their loyal patrons, checking to see if she was needed anywhere. When her gaze returned to Smith, she shrugged, showing that his affinity towards them was not mutual, having worked beside hundreds of them every day and eventually had achieved the state of sublime immunity for their visual and audial solicitations.

  “A ball goes in; nothing comes out. Sometimes it hits a trigger on the way, but mostly it doesn't.” Misa said. She could not have summed up the game more precisely.

  “You're right,” he said, reminiscing the times he passed during his childhood up until he graduated from college playing pinball. The Pinball machine's playfield was tilted at an angle, while the Pachinkos' were almost vertical and completely up to gravity to do its work. One could score with careful maneuvering of the flippers, sling-shooters, spinners, or even tilting and nudging the pinball machine, while the Pachinkos only allowed one to fire the next marble, which gave an illusion of control. One simply watched luck plays out in Pachinkos, which was, however, t he greatest show on earth.

  “I don't know why I come here,” he said. He knew. He had been having love affairs with the naughty mistress called luck for the last six months.

  “But I am glad you've come,” Misa said. “I really want to thank you.”

  “No, there's no need.” Smith struggled to keep up the facade of unselfish gallantry. He sipped the grape juice from his glass to hide his nervous swallowing.

  Misa darted her eyes around, thinking intently.

  “Let me teach you Japanese.” she decided eventually. “What's your name and phone number?” She pulled out a worn red cardboard address book from the pocket of her white apron and unclipped the pen from the inner page to write the information down.

  “I have many other students,” she added. When she saw that Smith was about to refuse her offer, she flipped her address book to the calendar, marked full with appointments in the afternoons from Monday to Sunday. “Just tell me when you're free. I can do it any day of the week.”

  Her enthusiasm and Smith's desperate need for Japanese lessons had proven to be a winning combination for her case. Smith was only too smitten to refuse again.

  15. A Second Take

  “DaiKe, Smith speaking.” Smith downed his last bite of the dry donut. It slid down his throat and left an unpleasant tickle in there. An eight-thirty phone call. It must be urgent.

  “I have never seen a less committed man in his fifties before! I thought you would have called Aileen or me by now about the first date. You're not young anymore, and you oughta work harder at what you want.” It was Marie Newton, the matchmaker, whose words could pass for his mother's if she were to be alive again. A woman of early thirties acting this way screamed of hormonal imbalance. “Pardon for my honesty. Some truths just need to be heard.”

  “Miss Newton, I am at work.” His face was flushed with red as the word 'first date' reverberated in his ear. He thought he was done with that once and for all when he got married twenty-five years ago. Back then he had moved quickly. He was deeply in love with Debbie. He knew she was the one as soon as he set his eyes on her. Aileen was great, but she was not Debbie, and could never replace her.

  “That's why I am calling you now. – You know; we haven't heard from you for a long time.” We? Smith was unaware that he was capable of hurting more than one woman's feeling at the same time. “I was about to set Aileen up with another man, but she thought you were so very nice and interesting on your last date that she's begged me to give you one more chance before moving on. I must tell you that we make our money through commissions, the more dates and successful matches the better. And your kind, who likes to stall, for whatever reasons even in the case of a wonderful woman who is willing to accept you as who you are is not only bogging our success rate down but is also bad for business.”

  “I am terribly sorry about that.” The last part Smith could understand. Perhaps he had picked up the nasty habit from his portfolio of terrible clients at work. What other great weapons to use if not the most effective one to get a risk-free take at price reduction by stalling? Indecision was a customer's best friend and a sales' worst enemy. Only he did not know if one should bargain for this sort of service.

  “Why, what happened? Do you not like her? Were you offended by something she said? Tell me what's on your mind.”

  Questions requiring self-explorations and emotional response, highly improper for business settings. Must...get...out...of the situation , he thought.

  “No. She was great. I will schedule an appointment with her as soon as I ...”

  “Don't you try to bullshit me. Let me pencil you two in for Saturday night. Seven PM. Same restaurant, and with a relationship expert.”

  No, I wasn't bullshitting you, and yes, Saturday was great, Smith answered, adamant to end the call right there. He hoped that it was still too early for his secretary to eavesdrop his conversation.

  As soon as he put the mouthpiece down, the phone rang again. The obnoxious and repetitive ring tone bounced off the walls of his office and strained his tolerance. He picked up the miniature rubber football with his left hand and gave it a forceful squeeze. It jumped out of his tighten grip and disappeared under the black leather couch by the wall. – A perfect excuse not to pick up the call – Smith crouched next to the couch and slipped his hand under, sweeping for any obstruction in the thin space between the couch rails and the carpet while he let the ringtone go unanswered. Under the couch, he had found the football and extracted it out after a few attempts. And up he stood, panting, he came face to face with Mr. Tanaka, who had watched him tethered up the way old men did in amusement.

  “We need a few more shots of you.” He cut to the chase.

  “You called?” Smith straightened his tie in the presence of the unexpected company.

  “You heard it?” Tanaka crossed his arms.

  They smiled at each other.

  “I can't do it,” Smith said. He was reluctant to allow his colleagues the pleasure of further taunts by making acting his second career. “As much as I like you and your projects, I have to turn you down. It's been, um, affecting the working atmosphere. I need to set an example for my staff instead of taking afternoon getaways with you guys.” He padded Tanaka on the back and in the same gesture guided him towards the door. Tanaka turned around and planted his feet at the threshold, refusing to go away.

  “That includes playing football in the office.” Tanaka made it clear that he had seen the object in his hand.

  Smith gave the ball a squeeze, this time making sure that it did not slip from his fingers. “It's a stress ball.”

  “Hmm...” Tanaka did not seem to find meaning in the words 'stress ball'. He had certainly seen them, hadn't he, Smith thought. “How about this Saturday? It's not during work hours.” Tanaka suggested. Tenacious, he was.

  Smith reminded himself that the man's last name was also T-A-N.

  “I'm busy this Saturday.” Already two appointments lined up for his Saturday. He was not terribly excited for the third.

  “Let us film you, follow you around as you conduct your normal Saturdays, may be interacting with the locals here and there. It will make a good story. We might be able to get a few good candid shots of you like last time.”

  “Using your editing magic again, huh?”

  “Mr. Smith, you have a meeting on the 15 th floor in two minutes.” His secretary Cheryl had entered the room with an agenda for the da
y from the door connecting their offices. “Oh, excuse me.” She said when realizing that she had intruded. Smith liked that she never said sorry, unlike the local grown Japanese who abused the word shamelessly. Thank God, there was Cheryl to keep him in his right mind. “As I have said, you have a meeting in two minutes. That's all you've gotten.” and she smiled hintingly at Tanaka, who needed to go. Everything his American secretary would have said and done in the same situation. She was a Godsend.

  “Don't let me down, Smith,” Tanaka said, folding in multitudes of meaning into his simple words. Could Smith pretend that he did not get them?

  “I have a one o'clock on Saturday. By two fifteen, I assume...” He simply could not be mean to nice people.

  “I will go where you're and stay in the background. You won't even notice I am there.”

  “Mr. Smith. One-minute left.” Cheryl said, retreating into her office, closing the connecting door behind her. She was right to be anxious. The Japanese were punctual animals.

  “The cafe in Metropolitan Art Space. Punto Incotro is the name of the cafe. I am meeting my Japanese teacher there.”

  “Nishi-Ikebukuro. Will do.” Tanaka raised his thumb and forefinger above his fist, and shoot him with his finger handgun while winking at the same time – a strange gesture Smith had seen Japanese men do a handful of times that did not seem ill-meant – then he swiveled on his heels and disappeared.

  When Smith got into the elevator with eleven seconds left to his 9 AM meeting, he found a sticky note on the button for the 15 th floor.

  “Smith, do wear a suit,” it said, signed by Tanaka.

  16. Daughter

  The internet did not do him a great deal of help. If it was designed to aggravate non-Japanese speakers, then it had served its goal indisputably. First, he was unable to access the American, or any English versions of Google, Yahoo, or Bing. Something about his computer or network's address was being used to determine that he must either learn Japanese or quit. And entering the string 'Japanese language teacher rate' into the default Google Japan search bar triggered a list of websites in the nature of rating scantily clad Asian women in teacher's costumes – something he would have sacrificed a lamb in gratuity for at the age of seventeen perhaps, not fifty-five. Smith thought he had a stroke of genius when he translated the same string into Japanese with Google translator, and tried again with the translation ' Nihongo kyoshi no wariai ' in the search engine, only to be hit in the head by what seemed like an entry in a Japanese-Chinese-dictionary for robots. Apart from the bullet points, there was no signal succeeding in telling the heads or tails of the search results that Google had brilliantly populated the page within 0.0000028 seconds. Nevertheless, Smith clicked into the first top search result, only to be confronted with more proof of his ineffectual integration in Japan, printed in the Google-patented blue and white, not only in real life but also in the cyberspace.

  How much should he pay Misa?

  Too much would seem condescending. Too little would be taking advantage of her gratuity. The only reference he could draw in this regard was when he was moonlighting as a Math tutor for grade school kids when he was in junior high. That was in the sixties, and the minimum wage was still a dollar. He had asked for a dollar sixty for an hour. That amount today could hardly buy Misa a mechanical pencil from the Muji store. – He had been introduced to one of those darn things from Muji by Cheryl, his cheery secretary and compulsory portal to Japanese teenagers' lives. What was even the minimum wage in Japan? And how could he find that out without knowing Japanese when the army of search algorithms and IP address locators were turned against him? – Smith needed help.

  If it wasn't for the fact that Andy had offered to teach him colloquial Japanese that involved vulgar street slangs and hip buzzwords that mismatched his age, and to induct him into his colorful and R-rated world of Japanese culture which Smith had decided earlier on was best to avoid for nothing but the sake of his health, he would have gone to Andy for help.

  “Hey! Princess. How're ya?”

  “Dad?” Debra answered the phone on the first ring, whispering.

  “Yes, are you doing well?”

  “It's eight fifteen, dad. The kids are sleeping!” she hissed. “You will wake them up.”

  “Oh, I am sorry.” He had forgotten to check his watch again. The one tucked away in the bathroom cabinet that was never adjusted to remind him of the Central Time. To her legitimate complaint, knowing that his one and three years old grandchildren could be a bit of a handful for Debra, he felt extra guilty for calling, not to check up on them but to ask for information.

  “What do you want?” Debra hissed under her breath. Her less-than-friendly attitude had made it easier for him to forgive his impertinence.

  “I'm getting a Japanese teacher, and I don't know what to pay her. I just thought you might have some idea.” He asked his daughter. Debra was a kindergarten teacher and was always aware of the tax rates, pay scale and raise schedules that sort of thing. She would know the answer to his question.

  “What is she?” Debra asked.

  Smith did not see that question coming. Does it make a difference? He wondered.

  “Mm... she’s, uh...” he stuttered to come up with a description of Misa that would put her in a more appropriate light for his daughter. “My neighbor introduced her to me. I think she's a student.” Why did he think Misa's current identity would seem 'wrong' in his daughter's eyes? That thought scared him.

  “Oh, a university student.” his daughter's own conclusion saved him from over-thinking. “Was Japanese education or Japanese language her major?”

  “Um...no, I don't think so,” Smith answered, wondering himself if Misa was old enough for tertiary education. “She can speak pretty good English, which helps.”

  “I would suggest seven dollars and hour. Nine tops if you really like her. No more.”

  “Great.” Relieved now that his question had been resolved, he searched for the proper thing to say for a typical father-daughter talk.

  “'kay, I've got to go,” Debra said before he came up with a line.

  “Thanks. Send greetings to...” Smith's last word was returned by a click followed by a succession of short blips. “...the grandchildren for me.”

  In his mind's eyes, he reverted to the Christmas celebration a year and nine months ago in their Rose Hill home. Everyone in the family was there, the wife, the daughter, the son-in-law, the son, the daughter-in-law, the two grandchildren, all but the now one-year-old Nathan, who had not even been conceived yet. He had not had the pleasure to meet the trooper yet, being born in the year of Tiger, destined to be a fighter and perhaps a little bit like his grandfather. Smith shut his memory down from that Christmas celebration on, pulling the plug violently as if the thread of memory was a power cord to a plasma television. It flashed in agony before turning into a surface of dark tranquility, a realm where he chose to conduct his daily life in. He needed not to be reminded of the tragedy that happened next, not today.

  ***

  “Arai, take off the baseball cap. You're attracting attention.” Tanaka said in a hushed voice.

  “ Taihen moushiwake arimasen ! My mistake, Mr. Tanaka! I thought...” Arai bowed at him in a 30-degree angle in apology.

  “Shhh! Shitsuka ni shite kudasai! ” Tanaka grunted and pulled Arai's baseball cap over his face. The boy did not see that coming but managed to catch his cap in front of his chest before it rolled off him to the ground and shoved it quickly into his Reebok backpack.

  “You'd like to see paparazzi in operation, don't you? Then stop acting like an idiot. You're ruining our cover.” Tanaka said under his breath. Even in an oversize Adidas tracksuit made up of too glossy a synthetic fiber, something that the renowned aristocratic dresser Ryuuji Tanaka, who was always spotted in a slim fit suit over a black turtleneck that had stayed fashionable since the nineteen seventies, would never wear, his boss was still as stoic as he was without the monkey suit. Arai had trouble deter
mining what was permitted and what was not on Saturdays' working hours, the gray area, the nebula of corporate hierarchy. Was he regarded as an equal on Saturdays? Should he keep the honorific after Tanaka-san's name? Was he allowed to take breaks as he pleased? Could he be making mistakes on these extracurricular assignments that would affect his career? Just what would Confucius do? – He mused.

  “Just pretend we are father and son.” Tanaka's command had solved the puzzle in Arai's head. And without forewarning, “Two Americano,” he said, to the waitress passing by their table. She rolled her eyes at their impatience but quickly resolved to smile, nudged on by the dictum painted on the cafe's wall, 'We treat strangers like friends. ' She smiled so hard that Arai thought her cheeks might hurt, a possibility that Arai had only considered for the first time in his life.

  Arai could not get himself to drink the coffee. First, he never drank his coffee plain. And second, his hands were too shaky to raise the coffee mug without making a nervous rattle. One less move was always one good move made when one was nervous, which he definitely was. His heart was pounding as one o'clock approached. Perhaps Smith's teacher was already here right in their midst. Tanaka-san had told him, to be quiet as a Hebi , a snake and quick as a Kitsune, a fox, the two cardinal rules of being paparazzi. The image of the fox baring its shiny fangs and the slithering snakes colored this line of photography work that he admired with a darker, more sinister shade than he would like, but they also made it ever more appealing. He glanced up from his coffee at his mentor, who had now assumed the convincing appearance of being fully absorbed into the middle of Takiji Kobayashi's monumental book about Communism sitting opposite to him, with his back towards the entrance. Arai, as he was instructed, pulled out the tricked out cell phone with high-resolution camera, and extended out the retractable keyboard to type commands into the control menu so it would start recording, when he saw the familiar Face of DaiKe, Mr. Smith appeared at the sliding glass door entrance of the Punto Incontro cafe at the Metropolitan Art Space.