WARNING
No girls are allowed to take customers from this club to anywhere you can receive commission. (For example: American Bar, VIP room) because we received complaints from customers and some of them have reported this to the Police Department. We are now under surveillance. If you disregard this rule, you will be fired with no salary.
From the management
‘Hey, Abie, what’s that sign on the change-room door about being fired?’ It was nearly 11.00 pm and as the two newest additions to the fleet, we still hadn’t been seated with anyone. It was only my second night, and Abie had been at Greengrass for a little over two weeks. She gave me a blank look. ‘C’mon then,’ I pulled at her forearm, ‘I’ll show you.’
‘Oh, shit! When did they put that there?’ Abie gasped. The paper on the change-room door was yellowed, with dog-eared corners. I guessed it had been some time ago.
‘They’re not letting us take customers to the American? That’s bullshit. Where are we supposed to go? I’m not drinking with the fuckers for free,’ she spat resentfully. Hmmm. The thing with little Israeli Abie was that while she looked docile as a mouse, she often expelled artillery, hard and bitter, at a pace more rapid than the machine gun from her days in mandatory service. ‘Whatever,’ she sighed, ‘we can still catch them on the street.’
Confusion must have shown all over my face. ‘Ohhh, you don’t know about bottling yet, do you? Well ...’
Bottling /’bat(e)ling/ v. to identify and approach a man of apparent wealth — usually indicated by his watch (Rolex, Carrier, TAG Heuer) and shoes (shiny, new and expensive) — to entice/ask/demand him to buy you a drink (in this case $200 wine, $600 Moët, or $850 Dom Perignon, by the bottle) and reap 40 per cent commission on every bottle until he stops paying, the bar closes, or you get too tired or drunk to see straight and have to go home. Game over.
According to Abie, bottling may not be the most honest way to make a quick buck, but the only reason anyone came to Roppongi was for the money anyway, right? It wasn’t an exchange program, and it was hardly Mecca for young women looking for a good time. It was a dirty, filthy, bloodsucking hole, full of men with disposable cash for the taking.
‘I mean, at least with bottling you can afford to buy a goddamn apple. Who gets off charging $5.80 for one fucking apple? Crazy Japanese. I don’t care if it’s perfect, it’s still just a stupid apple, and those rich motherfuckers can buy as many goddamn apples as they want. They might as well pay for me to buy a few, whether they know it or not.’
Holy smokes. Abie really was a very charming girl.
My cheeks hurt. My gums hurt. Even my teeth hurt. I’d been smiling like an overzealous Miss Universe contender for so long now I was afraid that my face might actually get stuck, just like my mother had warned my five-year-old self when I’d occasionally stick fingers up my nose, bulging my eyes out in delight.
I felt a strong urge to pull my best out of the archives right now. I needed to know I wasn’t dreaming. This was mental exhaustion, brain-drain of the first degree. For two hours and counting I’d been actively engaging in a conversation with the staff of General Electric, and I was about to S.C.R.E.A.M. They were like the machines that assembled their products. Monotonous. Repetitive. Overworked. They were aged specimens of the Japanese post-World War II school of thought, where leisure and play were simply synonyms for work with your colleagues outside the office.
I wanted to be interested; if they’d only talk about GE’s renewable energy program in Aomori Prefecture, but no such luck. They were drier than the Atacama Desert. My eyes kept closing. Maybe I was dreaming, endlessly mixing drinks and lighting cigarettes in a karaoke twilight zone. The men had already incinerated three packs between them. I had reason to wonder how long the fluid in my lighter would last. Or how long my lung tissue would.
When were they going to leave? The only clock I had was on the phone in my purse, and I wasn’t going to look. I’d get another cut-throat sign from Soh, who was watching me like a hawk. Soh was Tehara’s subordinate, and he was from Burma. Only the fact that he refused to call it Myanmar allowed me to overlook his transgressions — which happened to involve picking on me, the new girl, silently scolding me when ashtrays accrued more than two butts, for drinking pineapple juice too fast or for letting a customer’s drink fall too low. Then again, some customers weren’t much better. I poured too much whisky and too little water. There was too much ice. There was not enough ice. Well perhaps you should mix your own f%#@ing drink then, kind sir. I wanted to say that. I probably could have said anything so long as I smiled.
When they asked me to guess their ages, I nailed it like a one-minute multiplication drill. After I correctly stated the fourth man’s age, they were astounded. Did I have psychic abilities? Nope. Was it keen observation? No way. To this man there was only one obvious explanation. ‘Have you spoken to my wife?’ Hilarious.
It was 1.00 am by the time we bowed the men off into the elevator, red eyed, waving and giggling. I was slowly becoming accustomed to seeing Japanese men giggle. It helped remind me of what a different social realm I was in. Tee-hee-hee. That was my signal, Toto. I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas any more.
Back inside, Tehara threw his arms across his chest into a big X to signal that work was over. The Big X and I were already acquainted; we’d been introduced in a store when the phone that I’d wanted was unavailable. It was an ingenious sign, and extremely effective in getting one’s point across. I loved it, and had already started plotting how I could use it when I left Japan. ‘Hello, how are you today? Do you have a minute for Greenpeace?’ The Big X flies up.
Abie and I circled Roppongi, sizing up anyone who passed. The streets were congested with taxis. People in an advanced state of intoxication crowded the sidewalks, but they were mostly young party animals on a budget looking to get laid, and not prime candidates for bottling. We’d be lucky to get a bottle of Moët out of any one of them; it was Saturday night and the men with bank accounts for that were at home with their families. Abie didn’t protest when I finally said maybe next time. I’d lasted ten minutes. I needed to escape to the empty backstreets of Moto-Azabu and try to make it home without getting blisters.
Roppongi was overwhelmingly claustrophobic. I needed fresh air, but where could I find that in a city of twelve million? That was a stratosphere away. I’d had enough cigarette smoke blown directly into my face to slap on a nicotine patch and start the ten-week program. I hadn’t eaten in five hours, except for all six of the rice snacks and Hershey’s Kisses meant for the customers I’d been sitting with, who hadn’t noticed because they’d been too busy repeating themselves.
I wondered where Matt was among all this insanity. I had so much to tell him, but it was doubtful he’d be back at our apartment. We’d found the modern, space-efficient techno box that we now called home only the day after our arrival, and we counted ourselves lucky. Nestled in the serene, affluent streets of Hiroo, it was a sanctuary, albeit at $1500 a month. When faced with a choice between going out and staying in with a television with no English channels and eighteen square metres of space for company, though, I knew what Matt would have picked. The man was a lion: you couldn’t cage him, and I had no idea where he might be.
Since we’d arrived, he’d worked one night as a bartender to keep himself amused, but quit after the twelve-hour shift earned him less than a hundred bucks. It seemed every temporary job for a white male was slave labour, so instead he’d spent the last two nights at Lexington Queen, getting smashed for free on account of being a model. I wanted to see my husband, but I was uninterested in going to a nightclub to hang out with the praying-mantis crowd. He’d be home sooner or later. I was tired, I was hungry and I was going home.
At least that was my plan ...
‘Excuse me!’ A widespread hand thrust itself haltingly into my face. ‘But which country do you come from? Are you from England, New Zealand, Australia or America?’
‘None. I’m from Canada.’ I gently lowered the hand from my face to reveal an unusually tall and robust Japanese man in his early thirties. ‘From British Columbia.’
‘Even better! You can be my English teacher. I will pay you thirty dollars per hour.’
‘He wants you to be his girlfriend. He thinks you’re sexy,’ piped up a shorter, younger version of my new student, who was promptly smacked on the back of the head.
‘Don’t listen to him. He is an idiot. I am Taka. I need to practise my English. How long will you stay in Japan?’ Was this the standard method of finding a teacher?
‘He wants to know if you’ll marry him.’ Another, harder smack. I held back a laugh.
‘I’ll probably stay three months, I think, but your English is already very good. Why do you need a teacher?’
‘He needs someone to teach him how to fuck.’ Wham! Taka’s briefcase collided with the other man’s head and both of them, clearly intoxicated, stumbled from the impact.
‘I apologise for my brother. He is very drunk, and before that he is already a very foolish man. I need to practise my conversation skills. They are very poor. I will give you my card.’
I reached to accept, but Taka snapped it back, darting a look of suspicion from head to toe. ‘For what reason are you in Tokyo? What is your profession?’ he demanded.
‘I’m a model. A fashion model.’ It didn’t seem like the time to say ‘hostess’.
‘Okay. You will find my name, email and phone number on this card. Please contact me when you are available. I am sorry we cannot stay, but we must go home. We have drunk too much.’ How disappointing. With a handshake and a bow, Taka staggered to the waiting throng of taxis, pulling and shoving his foolish brother all the way. As I watched them head off into a traffic jam, I thought I’d be free to continue home, but no.
First a dishevelled old man accosted me outside a noodle shop, firing familiar questions from some kind of Standard Japanese First Acquaintance Manual. When he engaged me in an awkward pedestrian waltz and refused to let me pass, I studied the glowing Coca-Cola slogan of a vending machine just beyond his head, and then the thirty or so beverages inside, including a dubious, murky electrolyte drink called Pocari Sweat. Where else could you find such a refreshing concoction ... but on every street corner in Japan?
As in no other country, the humble vending machine is an iconic, ubiquitous necessity providing the masses with affordable convenience in an urban jungle of skyrocketing prices. For the serially time-deprived, they even stand guard outside convenience stores, waiting to dispense beer, cigarettes and sundries at the drop of a coin. The Japan Vending Machine Manufacturers Association claims there is one for every twenty people in Japan — that’s over six million nationwide — and looking down the street I could believe it. It was aglow with them.
When my amusement with the badgering old man fizzled out, I forcefully crossed my fingers and gave him a miniature X. ‘Please stop! I do NOT want to drink any wine, okay? No wine!’ Taking advantage of his surprise, I gently pushed around him but threw in a quick parting bow just for the hell of it. I’d hardly moved on when yet another man closed in.
‘Would you like to drink?’ he asked. Oh my God! What was happening? Since when did strangers line up to ask you for a drink at 3.00 am?
I felt like running away, but the salaryman shyly swooped his bangs aside with a heavily Rolexed wrist. He waited patiently for my answer, clutching his briefcase, white knuckled. The Rolex reminded me of Abie, diligently circling the streets in search of customers. Everything she’d told me crowded into my brain. Were her claims of an easy hundred bucks gospel?
I decided to see what happened. This was Roppongi, entertainment district of Tokyo, and drinking with men for money was my current job description. What difference did it make where or how we met? We’d still be in public, and funnily enough I found myself feeling strangely compassionate towards this man, with his overt loneliness. His was a harmless request, and one that would be mutually beneficial: he needed company and I needed to stock up on yen, because cash could run perilously low in Tokyo, the world’s most expensive city.
‘Okay, sure,’ I agreed with a genuine smile, and the stranger’s face lit up. ‘Do you know the American Bar? It’s not far from here.’