Drinking in the New Year

For an all work and no play culture, the Japanese make exceptions to let loose in December and January. That’s when bonenkai (忘年会) and shinnenkai (新年会) parties give co-workers and friends reason to forget the old and celebrate the new.

January 14th’s shinnenkai was with Kensuke (last seen on the blog saving my life) and some of his buddies (last seen barbecuing in the park – click on the “Kensuke” label link at right for a refresher). I anticipated an evening of struggling to speak in Japanese and relying heavily on hand gestures oiled by sake, shouchu, and draft beer.

Kensuke and friends seemed subdued, maybe because everyone was off to a shaky start. Kensuke was set to lose February’s income because Master was closing the izakaya and taking a month’s rest – in Hawaii. Working Mondays at a pachinko parlor wouldn’t make ends meet.

Tak, fighting a cold, looked depressed underneath his wool hat. He didn’t even have part-time prospects after his long hair got him bounced from an interview at another pachinko parlor.

After talking about jobs, or the lack thereof, conversation switched to girlfriends, or the lack thereof. Kensuke and Tomo recounted their foray into Kabukicho, Tokyo’s red light district. After 10 minutes of perusing photos, about $125 got them 15 minutes with the Japanese girl of their choice. Except that when the door opened, in walked a Korean, they said with a trace of buyer’s remorse.

The affable grill master from the summer BBQ was noticeably absent, but checked in a few times via cell phone from home where he was studying for a college exam. Such obligations, however, didn’t stop Tomo from extending Sunday’s shinnenkai until 2:30 a.m. Monday. The slim tae kwon do fighter (below) tied a ponytail on top of his head and cursed off a Chinese test looming later that day.

“Not pass,” he said, gritting his teeth. I didn’t disagree, as his Chinese vocabulary was about the same size as mine – four words.

Around the table, lighters sat perched on cigarette packs like poker chips. Kazu blew rings from his mouth. Ailing Tak dragged on a cigarette and blew mucus into a wet wipe. The table began to clutter with empty glasses, discarded edamame pods, and bare plates as fried chicken, raw octopus, and other shareable snacks were attacked upon arrival. I dipped slender shishamo (ししゃも, smelt fish) into mayo and savored its scaly texture. The Japanese have caught on: mayo makes everything taste better.

Quiet Kazu was wearing a long sleeve shirt imprinted with a map of New York City’s subway. I pointed to the dot on his chest where I was born. A barrage of “New York life” questions followed, which were mostly contorted fantasies picked up from watching too many B-movies.

The guys were most interested in black people and junkies; needle in forearm gestures accompanied their questions about the latter. How many black friends did I have? How did I greet them on the street? Were cops not strict about marijuana? Did I use in high school? Did all junkies use wheelchairs? Did the one junkie per block ratio hold true in the City? So as not to completely disappoint them, I pointed to Kazu’s shoulders and said that in those outlying areas you could find what you were looking for.

I might have misinterpreted, but Kensuke then shared a factoid that for every 100 meters between a NYC police station and his hotel, there was a 150% chance that a Japanese person would get mugged twice.

We later moved into a private booth equipped with a karaoke machine. Earlier, sniffling Tak had been eager to know if I could rap. Something about wanting me to do so at his band’s show. In denial that I couldn’t, he queued “Lose Yourself.” I reluctantly picked up the mic, and by the time I put it back down I had new respect for Eminem’s speed. Hopefully I convinced Tak to keep searching for a performer.

We took turns thumbing through a song book the size of a state telephone directory. I knew just where to flip. With sporadic practice over the months, I’ve assembled a repertoire:

Bon Jovi – Livin’ on a Prayer
Zager and Evans – In the Year 2525
America – Horse With No Name
Javine – Surrender
Linkin Park – Numb
Celine Dion – My Heart Will Go On

It’s a nice mix of oldies, rock, and pop that won’t push my limited vocal range. Celine is a shattering exception, but by that point nobody will remember anything anyway.

Despite my spirited first-time rendition of Mr. Mister’s “Kyrie,” quiet Kazu turned out to be the most talented. While the others stuck with Japanese hits, he handled the Red Hot Chili Peppers on key and in clear English.

Aside from memorized lyrics, however, their collective English ability was quite limited. The five of us nevertheless connected. Cell phone dictionaries bridged gaps, such as for gesture-defying words like entrance examination, conscription, and sperm bank.

Although they kept complimenting my Japanese, it hadn’t improved since the BBQ six months ago. I still only know about 10 verbs, half of which I can use correctly. Instead, I spit out a steady diet of nouns and hope people get the picture. Kensuke made an interesting point. Despite not studying, my living in Japan for less than two years has made me more proficient than their six years of compulsory English education.

Kensuke (center) and Tomo

By 10:30 p.m. Kazu and Tak called it a night, but Kensuke, Tomo, and I moved on to a yakitori place that could become my next neighborhood hang out. Staff welcomed me like a regular, and I pulled up a padded beer barrel stool among the lively locals growing louder after every glass. Kensuke kept the sake flowing and ordered skewers of torikawa (とりかわ, grilled chicken skin), tiny bird eggs, liver, and pork slices.

Around 1:30 a.m. a female friend from their junior high days joined us for a final round of sake and skewered entrails. We then parted ways into the chilly January night, 2007 having been initiated Japanese style.