I have a story to tell you, and it couldn’t be better if I made it up. Really, I couldn’t script this stuff. Some things that happen here in Japan are simply uncanny, the sequence of events twisting themselves in curly-Qs, leading me somewhere in a moment and then to some other place in the next. I usually don’t know where I’ll end up and often don’t even know where I am at the present. So I will tell you now, after the raging fires of experience have died down to recordable levels yet before the coals of memory fade to ash.
I set out this past Friday night for my friends’, the Sano-sans, ramen-shop restaurant for a meal and a beer. I went on foot since I knew that I would have a drink and even biking after consuming one beer is illegal. It’s about a 20 minute walk, but I’m used to walking and used to travel taking more than a bit of time. When I arrived at their shop in Yui I discovered it was closed. This was strange since it was a Friday. I hadn’t seen them since my parents left, so I was looking forward to spending some time with them that night. At this point I was already pretty hungry and didn’t want to wait another 20 minutes and then have to cook dinner. Luckily, the tiny okonomiyaki restaurant (think pancakes, slightly raw on the inside, filled with lettuce and ham, then topped with a type of barbeque sauce and mayonnaise) across the street was open so I didn’t have far to go. I had never been even though I like okonomiyaki. The Sano-san’s “Porushe” was right there so anytime I was in the area to eat I would stop at their place. Being closed, I was now free to guiltlessly try a new place.
I hopped across the road, ducked under the half curtain and slid the door open. The next step left me speechless. Standing inside the entranceway I found myself simultaneously standing in the middle of the shop, at the end of the counter and in the “group” section. It was tiny. It was tinier than tiny. It’s places like this from where we get the expression “hole in the wall.” It had about the same floor space as a 5-man tent. I found myself facing the shop server (owner? Tenant?) behind the counter and two patrons gaping wide eyed at the pale white ghost who had just floated into their world. After another moments worth of hesitation there were konbanwas (good evenings) all around and the server (I later found out her name was Mi-chan) motioned for me to sit in the only other available seat, squeezed right between the two already eating. This was a little embarrassing as I felt I was breaking up a party, or at the very least moving into the middle of what had been until that point a very uneventful and pleasant evening for everyone. (A party with 3 people, but really they filled the place up.)
I sat there for awhile as the three continued to talk. Mi-chan brought me tsukemono and asked what I wanted to drink. I sat quietly trying to absorb what exactly was happening. The counter was tall and covered with alcohol advertisements and various kinds of ashtrays. The wall behind the counter was covered with shelves and more liquor ads. Mi-chan was busying herself between chatting and cooking up hearts and liver for the man sitting on my right. On the other side of him was a large TV screen glowing blue. Above me and in the corner to my left were two more TVs and behind me was a fourth. This was a karaoke bar.
Now I’ve frequented enough karaoke bars to get the gist for the technology, and this okonomiyaki place topped the list. There were brand-new looking mics, and two handheld electronic boxes that you could search for and enter the title of the song you wanted to sing. As I was eying this, the woman to my left picked one op and selected a song. When the music started I said, “Oh, enka.” And she responded with the specific kind of enka. They asked me if I knew any of the music, and I said no. Then they asked me how long I’d been here and I said 11 months and they were like, “That’s not long enough to learn this music.”
She had a nice voice and the song was enjoyable. I noticed up in the right hand corner of the screen that there was the silhouette of a woman lounging back inside of a pink box. I really couldn’t guess why that was there, but I didn’t have long to come up with an answer before it was revealed to me in its full glory. When the song ended a saxophone let out a provocative call and a Japanese model appeared fully clothed. Then the screen was covered in tiles and a title in Japanese appeared stating, “Your point total is…”
The numbers started spinning, and as they rose the tiles fell away from the screen slowly uncovering a now uncovered girl. The score reached 94 – 3 tiles away from the full monty. “zannen…” the guy to my right said. He shook his head and looked down at his food disappointed.
I couldn’t believe it. It was more the non-chalance that surprised me. The guy picked up the mic for a song this time and also sang an enka classic. Just as before, we watched the numbers spin and the tiles fall, still not achieving a perfect score. I asked if it had any English songs and they weren’t sure. I figured maybe they at least had some Beatles, so I started searching the machine. Sure enough, they had thousands of English songs, probably tens of thousands. I even found Jack Johnson and Hootie and the Blowfish. My first choice was the Neil Diamond classic “Sweet Caroline.” It’s karaoke perfect. I sang it pretty well – I think a 97, but still not good enough to be completely revealing. The others were satisfied with my singing though, and went on chatting a picking out more enka titles.
I had really come for a meal, so now I ordered the standard okonomiyaki. It came filled with cabbage and other unidentifiable things as well as a pile of sliced red ginger on the side. I had asked for low mayo, but there was still a sufficient amount to fill a small jar. Mayo is a staple over here. About this time we get to chatting some more and they were asking me questions about where I was from and what I was doing in Japan. Thinking about it afterward I’m quite surprised these questions didn’t come earlier. Besides the initial contact where both sides were quite surprised to see each other, they had carried on like I was a regular there, encouraging me to sing and going about their routine evening.
True to Japanese first conversations my age was asked. Mi-chan was delighted to hear “24” and went to get her cell phone. She dialed a number and began talking. While she was on the phone she explained to me that she was talking to “Maiko,” a 24-year old hair stylist living in Kambara. Maiko couldn’t come over at that moment, so Mi-chan handed me the phone to be introduced. Now the evening was becoming quite amusing. I exchanged a few lines with the girl, essentially just saying hi and nice to meet you, and handed the phone back to Mi-chan. She told me I needed to come back the following night to meet this girl, but I said I was already going to a friend’s house for a Mexican food party. She told me to come back the next weekend.
The night ebbed on and soon one, then the other patron left the place. I was still finishing my second beer, but it looked like Mi-chan was wanting to close down shop. She handed me a bill for 2500 yen, about 25 bucks. I thought that was a little steep for 2 beers and a plate of greasy, hole-in-the-wall okonomiyaki, but then maybe I was paying for the karaoke too. I drained my beer, paid the bill, slid the door open and stepped out into the night. I really hadn’t absorbed any of this at that moment. I focused my eyes and took the first step towards home.
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