Onna Hirona

I’m glad August is over. It’s just not my month. Last August, Krazy Katherine (a.k.a. India Girl, where I had met her on vacation) descended upon Tokyo for what would be my most unpleasant week that year. You won’t find a blog about it. I tend not to write about romance or disaster. But just days after I wrote about both, my heart would ache again. I figured the best way to forget about dating disaster girl would be to hit the clubs and find a new onna, or woman.

Hirona and I had made eye contact earlier, so I moved in when I saw an open seat on the couch next to her. Her friend was passing out on a pile of bags on the other side. I know enough Japanese for the first three minutes of any conversation, but I quickly reverted to English to verify what I thought I heard.

When she said she lived in Omiya (50 minutes north of central Tokyo), I added that’s not far from where I teach. Then she said the name of her former high school. It sounded familiar. It was my school! She woke up her friend and former classmate to share the news. His English was good, too. I speak with authority when I say they that didn’t learn it in high school. We both graduated in 1998, but it seems like some old timers have been teaching since the school’s inception in 1947 (and dressing like it, too). We played the “do you know so-and-so sensei?” game, and one rang a bell.

“Hey, do you still have your school uniform?” I suddenly asked.

She looked at me and smiled. Then I looked down and frowned. What kind of perverted question was that? I’m not into that. I mean, I’m a teacher. I can’t be into that.

“You must be very popular at school,” she said.

“Well, sort of. With the high school girls a little bit. But my junior high kids could care less about me. In fact, a few girls openly dislike me.”

I told her she should come for a reunion. Then I had a better (read: worse) idea. Displaying affection at school is strictly forbidden. In fact, displaying affection anywhere while in uniform is strictly forbidden. Last year two junior high students were suspended because they were seen touching lips in town.

“On the last day, I want to kiss you in the middle of the courtyard at school,” I said. “Bring your friend, too.” It would be a legendary sayonara moment, and the final affront to what has been a less than pleasurable teaching experience.

Wanting to speed up that moment, we danced with the help of several gin and tonics. Things got a little blurry. She kept checking on her friend. And I kept loosing her in the dark crowd until I thought they had left.

I flipped open my phone and scrolled to “H.” Hidomi…Hika…Hillary…Hiro…Hirona (X). I use that designation to remind myself never to call someone with whom I politely traded numbers. But I was totally into Hirona. Then I remembered I had met a different Hirona earlier that night.

“You’re the most beautiful guy I’ve seen in Japan,” she had said at the bar. She obviously didn’t get out enough, so I walked away after she asked for my number.

I couldn’t believe that I had spent hours with the good Hirona and forgot to get her number. All I knew is the region where she lived. That gave me one chance.

I pushed out of the club, and made a beeline to Shinjuku station. I bought a ticket for a train I would never take. The time printed on the stub was 04:45. I went up the platform, eerily silent and hazy just before sunup. It was still too early for service, but I wasn’t going anywhere for a while. I planted myself at the foot of the stairs to the two tracks with trains bound for Omiya. She would have to pass through here to get home, or so I hoped.

My phone buzzed with a message. It was Hirona. Hirona (X). I kicked myself, and maintained a vigil. The trickle of partygoers passing by went in and out of focus. I kept anticipating a purple and white striped shirt would come bouncing along. She was just a normal girl, nothing outstanding other than our high school connection, but the thought of another lost opportunity made me hold out hope. The odds of finding her in the world’s largest train station were slim to none, but that hadn’t stopped dating disaster girl’s ex-boyfriend from randomly spotting us together outside of it.

Two-toned pinging noises from the ticket turnstiles increased with frequency. The station gradually revved to life. Takao, 6:35, track 7. Utsunomiya, 6:42, track 4. Shin-Kiba, 6:44, track 5. Chiba, 6:51, track 11. Announcements flashed for trains fanning out from the world’s largest metropolis. At 7:00 I conceded defeat.

The station attendant looked at me. Yes, I had bought a ticket from the same station that I was now leaving. It was a long story, and didn’t feel like breaking out my survival Nihon-go and asking for “money, please.”

Walking home, I began murmuring the “Somewhere Out There” song. It had been playing in Jonathan’s restaurant (think Denny’s) where I had eaten alone just prior to clubbing. Alone again under the pale sunlight, the evening had come full circle.

Time to climb another mountain....