Bertha and I seemed live on trains in Japan, moving in little circles around the Kansai areas of Kyoto, Maibara and Nara, inciting small children to cause trouble while making plenty of our own. We eventually made it back northward to the Kanto regions of Yokohama and Kawasaki, finally ending up in Shinjuku, where our evening began at a little donburi dive near the train station.
We spent our time exploring Japan without the aid of any guide book, taking recommendations from strangers or simply walking into clubs. Our strategy already landed us in gay discos, outside the doors to a nightclub featuring the Japanese version of Herve Villechaize, a horrible tabasco and deep fried and breaded spare rib restaurant in Tokyo and into a Yokohama karaoke bar where my cousin forced us to sing “Bridge Over Troubled Water”. The little donburi dive seemed worn down with its old 60’s style chipped counter, tattered seats and unadorned interior. We sat next to a tall, blonde guy our age who told us that he was a popular American celebrity’s younger brother on a modeling assignment from Japan, then listened as he recounted his less than exciting tales of meeting other Americans in Japan. He invited us to a late night party where we could meet other beautiful and confused Americans living abroad, but Bertha and I opted to join the teeming thousands of other Japanese who were aimlessly walking through Shinjuku.
Bertha was 18 back then, a beautiful half Japanese/half Hawaiian who seemed to attract so much attention for her exotic looks and height that made her stand out as a foreigner. All of this seemed to manifest two-fold once we were in Tokyo, where gentlemen exiting the Shinjuku bars and clubs were renewed with Dutch courage after being plied with alcohol and teriyaki chicken wings. Men stared at Bertha, noticing the long legs beneath the short skirt. They soon began to follow.
We stopped at a corner waiting for a street light to change. A tall Japanese man wearing a smart business suit stepped next to Bertha, giving her the once over with a raised eyebrow. He wore a brown business suit and carried a briefcase, another Tokyo salaryman.
“I want you. I have money to pay,” he declared to Bertha, loud enough for several people us to hear. Bertha looked at me, then turned back to the Japanese man.
“I am expensive,” Bertha replied.
“I have money to pay,” he told us, along with the rest of Japan. He was far too arrogant for someone with his lack of charm and physical appeal, and I wanted to smash his toes with my heels.
“I only accept American dollars,” Bertha replied, with an added air of condescension.
“American dollars? Oh…”
The man seemed to become lost in his thoughts, perhaps trying to find out how to access American dollars on a late Tokyo evening. We never waited for a response as the light changed. We laughed out loud and behaved as young, siilly women are prone to do, turning around and relishing the frustration on the businessman’s face.
Bertha and I had been warned of the male cavalier attitudes towards American woman. We had already witnessed this when a group of paunchy middle aged businessmen oogled the sight of our bare legs peeking out from beneath skirts as we climbed the step ladder stairs at the Maibara Castle. While I was never taken for anything other than a fellow Japanese woman, poor Bertha was the unlucky recipient of far too much unwanted solicitation.
The same sort of things happened in bars and discos, where men stared and sauntered towards her. Bertha played it off very well, looking for humor in everything rather than bear their continued insults. She exchanged their crass comments with comedic sarcasm, something she had been doing so since we had become fast friends when she was still 9. She filled our childhoods with so much laughter and troublemaking, especially during our teenaged New Years Eve celebrations where we boozed it up on Mogen David in her living room and acted out episodes of “Kung Fu”.
On one of our final evenings together in Japan, Bertha was approached by an old guy, again at a another plain Shinjuku street corner, as we waited for the light to change. His fingers played around deeply into his pants pocket as he gave Bertha a toothy grin.
“I like sex!,” he yelled at Bertha..
“Do you like boogers too?,” asked Bertha. The man, who probably blew all his English on his enlightening opening sentence, looked confused. He could not make out her words, and Bertha laughed as we crossed the street, merging into a thick traffic of people, her head above the rest of the crowd.
Happy birthday, Bertha!
(c) 2014 Slow Suburban Death. All rights reserved.
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