Dancing Silhouettes

…Continued from previous entry.

“Where are we going?” I wondered aloud. I use this alley to access the side entrance of the supermarket. Nothing special ever stood out among these now darkened restaurants. “Third floor. I’ll show you,” Jerry said with a wink. The sign read: Silhouette. My mind translated: hostess bar.

Fingertips tingled as elevator doors opened. Jerry guided me into uncharted territory. A Filipino woman in a kimono spun around. I gawked back at her. What non-Japanese woman dresses in a kimono? Apparently one who makes a lot more money than I do wearing a suit and tie in a classroom.

¥4000/hour ($38) buys a table with a hostess pouring unlimited watered-down Suntory whisky. Karaoke and flattering conversation are also included. That Jerry was still in a generous mood made this an even merrier occasion. On a teacher’s salary I could afford about 15 minutes of this “debauchery.”

Heads turned towards the odd couple. Two white men – one middle-aged, paunchy, and with a shaved head and his young sidekick – needed pairing up. Sensing a covetous look in their stares, my self-consciousness waned at feeling out of place. Bored with the routine of chatting up drunken Japanese salarymen, these women viewed us as objects of fresh conversation, and perhaps ones who could relate to being outsiders in Japan.

Although whisky ranks just above embalming fluid on my preferred drink list, it was the only beverage included in the set price. Fortunately, it was watered down enough to suppress my gag reflex. Monica (her stage name – she has a day job reputation to maintain) plunked ice cubes with grace. “Do you want something to drink, too?” I offered. That wasn’t included either, but Monica didn’t seem disappointed. On her next rotation in 20 minutes a new client would buy her a drink she didn’t want.

These Filipinos spoke better English than every Japanese person I’ve met, and were far more complimentary. “Your high nose is perfect!” Monica lied. They are paid to dispense alcohol and advice, and listen to you ramble about your wealth, power, lackluster sex life, problems at work, or headaches at home, where your family soundly sleeps while you flirt late into the night.

These professional are also paid to sing karaoke. In practice, however, Sindy, 19, stood silently beside me. Unbelievably, for three months in Japan, I had yet to try karaoke. In fact, I had never sung aloud before, except privately in the shower or in gridlock on the Merritt Parkway. In my first live performance, I belted out all the wrong songs, which were either beyond my octave range (Stacie Orrico’s “There’s Gotta Be More To Life") or didn’t really have lyrics (Daft Punk’s “One More Time”).

I learned my lesson. On a follow-up visit two weeks later with a treating Japanese businessman I met at Daruma restaurant, I entertained with a tone-deaf performance of Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ On A Prayer.” A wave of patriotism swelled up inside as let everyone know that, like Bruce Springsteen, I, too, was “Born In The USA.” A little more practice, and I’m sending a demo tape to American Idol.

Salarymen sat in dark corners in darker suits numbing their minds with whisky. An American half their age sang on stage in track pants, t-shirt, and Tevas. The owner, with hands in his hair, calculated what effect I would have on future business. Was I an amusing novelty or irritation to his clientele? Or would nobody remember a damn thing the next morning anyway?

I was beginning to forget myself. Monica slipped me a ¥1000 bill and whispered something in my ear, which promptly went out the other. How was I getting tips in a hostess bar? The next thing I knew I was dancing with other men’s paid companions. And then with the men themselves. A girl half my size kept coming over for scandalous hip shaking. She was Japanese, which made her someone’s girlfriend, not a hostess. Was I going to get jumped in the alley on the way home?

Freestyle dance ended and Céline Dion began. “That’s our song!” I grabbed Sindy and rushed to the television screen’s scrolling lyrics. I ripped the microphone cord from its taped position and riled up the audience who had stuck around for the 3 a.m. closing. I poured my heart into the song until I couldn’t go on anymore. During the last verse, I dropped to my knees, flailed my arms, and dragged out the final refrain. Céline herself would have been proud.

Like Daruma earlier that night, Jerry and I closed down Silhouette. Outside in the alley, I happened upon my midget dancing partner. She was sitting with her not-so-miniature yakuza boyfriend. Would dance floor antics come back to haunt me? I casually joined them on the curb in the shadows of the supermarket.

They didn’t speak English, but after enough Japanese whisky I was fluent in their tongue. I think they said they were going to drink more at another bar, but at 3 a.m. on Tuesday they must have been headed home. “Ja mata,” I chirped as we parted in opposite directions along deserted Kiyosumi-dori.

I woke up with a bruised tailbone. My mouth tasted like Suntory. “My Heart Will Go On” looped around in my head. Since when did I drink whisky and like Céline Dion? Never again I told myself, crawling into my sandals to make an emergency run to McDonald’s. With comfort food reviving distressed organs, I e-mailed Jerry thanking him for a good time.

Glad you enjoyed yourself. It is fun to be a guy in this country and in Asia in general.

Stay well,
Jerry