drab and sad and ordinary. And even as I got older, and
better at making myself attractive to men, better at letting them take me out
to dinner and then home to their apartments so they could fuck me—it would
never last. Sometimes it might take a while—a few months, a year, but they’d eventually
figure out my ordinariness—I wasn’t sure, exactly, how I always gave it
away—and then they’d move on to someone more glittering.
“Are you alright?” said Jack, cutting off my bleak nostalgic
exercise. I looked at his face, so intelligent and tender, and hated imagining
the moment he would finally find me ordinary, too.
I nodded, afraid if I spoke my voice would give away all the
sadness I was swallowing.
“Hey,” he said, reaching down and weaving his fingers into
mine, “if you hated that job so much, I’m glad you quit.” He squeezed and I
squeezed back. “We’ll figure something out for you—something better.”
We , he’d said.
I quickly turned and kissed his ear, and for a long, sweet
moment I stayed there, stilling the grateful sobs that wanted to pour out of
me, breathing the clean scent of his hair. Our hands stayed linked, tight.
10.
I had never been to a place as completely foreign as Tokyo and I was glad to be arriving with Jack, who either knew or gave the illusion of
knowing his way around. We walked out to our car—still “our” car, though it was
a tasteful compact sedan—and after the attendant finished loading our luggage
into the back Jack bowed and thanked him in Japanese.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I said, once we were in the
car and the doors were closed.
“What?” he said, innocently.
“You know what,” I said. “You speak Japanese ?”
He laughed. “A little. Please, thank you, where is the
bathroom. And of course, ‘how much will you accept for this technology’?”
“Promise?”
“Swear. Much as I’d love to impress you, most of our
business is conducted in English.”
“I’m frankly relieved,” I said, “maybe you’re human after
all.”
“Most assuredly,” said Jack.
I gazed out at Tokyo through the windows. It was neon and
concrete and orderly. The people walked purposefully along its crowded
sidewalks. But I had also read of this culture’s seedier side—the sex clubs and
geishas and tentacle porn, the schoolgirls’ underwear in vending machines. I
couldn’t imagine what our game would be tonight.
Our car turned down an alley where, in a long stretch of
garage-like spaces, craftsmen were turning out furniture: planing and
polishing, sanding edges smooth.
Jack rolled down the window and told the driver to slow
down. In the car I could smell the wood, and the lacquer.
“Here,” he said suddenly, and the driver stopped. “Come on,”
he told me, and I climbed out—that familiar feeling of delicious apprehension rising
up in me.
He conferred with an old man carefully buffing a gleaming bench
made of mahogany. The man nodded, and gestured for me to approach.
With a quietly proud gesture he yanked a sheet from where it
had been draped over a tallish something. The furniture revealed was nothing I
could decipher. There were two levels of what seemed like tabletop, suspended
over a long, built-in seat. It reminded me a little of a child’s school desk,
if such a thing had been built to accommodate a child sitting in it with his
legs straight out, and strangely high off the ground.
This man spoke only a tiny bit of English. The bi-level
“tabletop” was hinged, and he now lifted it and gestured for me to climb in. I
was intended to sit in this thing. I started to climb up—the seat part was
bar-stool height. He stopped me, though, and pointed to my head.
“This… here,” he said, pointing to the lowest part of what
I’d thought was the seat.
Jack nodded for me to follow his direction. I climbed in and
lay on my back,
better at making myself attractive to men, better at letting them take me out
to dinner and then home to their apartments so they could fuck me—it would
never last. Sometimes it might take a while—a few months, a year, but they’d eventually
figure out my ordinariness—I wasn’t sure, exactly, how I always gave it
away—and then they’d move on to someone more glittering.
“Are you alright?” said Jack, cutting off my bleak nostalgic
exercise. I looked at his face, so intelligent and tender, and hated imagining
the moment he would finally find me ordinary, too.
I nodded, afraid if I spoke my voice would give away all the
sadness I was swallowing.
“Hey,” he said, reaching down and weaving his fingers into
mine, “if you hated that job so much, I’m glad you quit.” He squeezed and I
squeezed back. “We’ll figure something out for you—something better.”
We , he’d said.
I quickly turned and kissed his ear, and for a long, sweet
moment I stayed there, stilling the grateful sobs that wanted to pour out of
me, breathing the clean scent of his hair. Our hands stayed linked, tight.
10.
I had never been to a place as completely foreign as Tokyo and I was glad to be arriving with Jack, who either knew or gave the illusion of
knowing his way around. We walked out to our car—still “our” car, though it was
a tasteful compact sedan—and after the attendant finished loading our luggage
into the back Jack bowed and thanked him in Japanese.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I said, once we were in the
car and the doors were closed.
“What?” he said, innocently.
“You know what,” I said. “You speak Japanese ?”
He laughed. “A little. Please, thank you, where is the
bathroom. And of course, ‘how much will you accept for this technology’?”
“Promise?”
“Swear. Much as I’d love to impress you, most of our
business is conducted in English.”
“I’m frankly relieved,” I said, “maybe you’re human after
all.”
“Most assuredly,” said Jack.
I gazed out at Tokyo through the windows. It was neon and
concrete and orderly. The people walked purposefully along its crowded
sidewalks. But I had also read of this culture’s seedier side—the sex clubs and
geishas and tentacle porn, the schoolgirls’ underwear in vending machines. I
couldn’t imagine what our game would be tonight.
Our car turned down an alley where, in a long stretch of
garage-like spaces, craftsmen were turning out furniture: planing and
polishing, sanding edges smooth.
Jack rolled down the window and told the driver to slow
down. In the car I could smell the wood, and the lacquer.
“Here,” he said suddenly, and the driver stopped. “Come on,”
he told me, and I climbed out—that familiar feeling of delicious apprehension rising
up in me.
He conferred with an old man carefully buffing a gleaming bench
made of mahogany. The man nodded, and gestured for me to approach.
With a quietly proud gesture he yanked a sheet from where it
had been draped over a tallish something. The furniture revealed was nothing I
could decipher. There were two levels of what seemed like tabletop, suspended
over a long, built-in seat. It reminded me a little of a child’s school desk,
if such a thing had been built to accommodate a child sitting in it with his
legs straight out, and strangely high off the ground.
This man spoke only a tiny bit of English. The bi-level
“tabletop” was hinged, and he now lifted it and gestured for me to climb in. I
was intended to sit in this thing. I started to climb up—the seat part was
bar-stool height. He stopped me, though, and pointed to my head.
“This… here,” he said, pointing to the lowest part of what
I’d thought was the seat.
Jack nodded for me to follow his direction. I climbed in and
lay on my back,
Similar Books
