one.
“Watch the language. You’re speaking to a man of the cloth now,” Adam says, yellowy fingers pressed together in prayer.
“Cheese cloth,” says Ines.
“That’s right. I’m a minister at New Otani Wedding chapel. Six services every Sunday. Five grand an I-do .”
Japanese girls love the spectacle of the Western wedding. The meringue-like dresses, the wedding march, the quaint little chapel, the fake minister. Any balding white-skinned male will do.
“Inherited the job from a mate of mine—he got deported for drunk and disorderly. Called me from the airport this morning and told me ‘Get ye to the altar.’ Give me a week and I’ll be shagging bridesmaids left, right, and center. I love this bloody country.”
Ines reaches over, takes the giant plastic toy mallet that’s hanging on the wall, and plonks Adam over the head with it. Her way of saying “congratulations.” Jiro screws up his face to stifle a laugh. Then, like a parent’s bellowing voice disrupting a coven of noisy children, a small earthquake shakes the room, knocking the framed photo of John Lennon to the floor. For a moment, the four of us are silent. Eyes dart to eyes. Waiting. The moment is framed. The earth stops moving. Adam rubs his head and mumbles, “ Bloody hell .”
Jiro does a little hop and shifts from his frozen pose, and, like a toy whose batteries have been replaced, begins to skuttle around, righting overturned bottles, picking up the menus fanned across the floor. He ticks his tongue as if to scold Mother Nature, grabs his broom, and cleans up John Lennon. His composure is betrayed only by a small blot of sweat, visible when he lifts his arm to straighten Ringo.
Ines gazes into her cleavage as if she’s dropped something down there. “If you think of them like amusement park rides, they’re almost fun.”
“Tits?” I ask. I’m still confused. I still don’t trust the walls and ceiling to stay where they are. Jiro has the bar back to normal at least—grubby but neat.
“Earthquakes. I actually quite like them now.” She sighs, rests her elbows on the bar, her chin on the bridge of her hands, and winks at Jiro. “And tits too, I suppose.”
“Big one coming ne ?” Jiro says.
Ines lights two smokes and hands Jiro one. “Promises, promises.”
“Fucking nutters we are—staying here.” Adam’s still rubbing his head. I’ve been hit by the plastic mallet a dozen times. It doesn’t hurt. “Earthquakes. Typhoons. Fucking squat toilets.”
I give Adam a little pout. “You just said you love Japan.”
“Hey you should be agreeing with me, you two. Word is white girls are disappearing.” He nods his head slowly. Meaningfully.
“White girl Adam. Just one.” I’m on that drunk edge.I’ll either get belligerent or lovey-dovey. It’ll happen soon.
“White slavery if you ask me. Yakuza.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Belligerent it is.
“Then there’s that nutter going around on a shopping bike, braining gaijin birds with a baseball bat.”
I sigh. Adam is ruining my buzz. “You’re making that up,” I say.
Adam holds his palm up. “Swear it’s the truth. Nearly killed an Aussie girl in Yoyogi Park.”
Ines claps her hands. “What we need right now is a little smokey-smoke. Adam? Will you indulge us?”
“Bloody hell. Do you know how hard it is to get this stuff?”
“Of course we do, darling. Shall we retire to the lounge?” Ines already has Adam off his stool and halfway out the door, her hands on his back, pushing him along.
Adam turns back. “Brought it back from Bangkok.” Raises his eyebrows and lowers his voice. “ Internally .”
“Oh God,” I say, pulling the sliding glass door shut. “Did you have to mention that?”
“Does it matter?”
The street is wet from a shower we missed. The slick black of the road reflecting the neon. Sidewalks buzzing with people who have somewhere to go. People with neat little lives. Paper shopping bags sheathed in plastic by
“Watch the language. You’re speaking to a man of the cloth now,” Adam says, yellowy fingers pressed together in prayer.
“Cheese cloth,” says Ines.
“That’s right. I’m a minister at New Otani Wedding chapel. Six services every Sunday. Five grand an I-do .”
Japanese girls love the spectacle of the Western wedding. The meringue-like dresses, the wedding march, the quaint little chapel, the fake minister. Any balding white-skinned male will do.
“Inherited the job from a mate of mine—he got deported for drunk and disorderly. Called me from the airport this morning and told me ‘Get ye to the altar.’ Give me a week and I’ll be shagging bridesmaids left, right, and center. I love this bloody country.”
Ines reaches over, takes the giant plastic toy mallet that’s hanging on the wall, and plonks Adam over the head with it. Her way of saying “congratulations.” Jiro screws up his face to stifle a laugh. Then, like a parent’s bellowing voice disrupting a coven of noisy children, a small earthquake shakes the room, knocking the framed photo of John Lennon to the floor. For a moment, the four of us are silent. Eyes dart to eyes. Waiting. The moment is framed. The earth stops moving. Adam rubs his head and mumbles, “ Bloody hell .”
Jiro does a little hop and shifts from his frozen pose, and, like a toy whose batteries have been replaced, begins to skuttle around, righting overturned bottles, picking up the menus fanned across the floor. He ticks his tongue as if to scold Mother Nature, grabs his broom, and cleans up John Lennon. His composure is betrayed only by a small blot of sweat, visible when he lifts his arm to straighten Ringo.
Ines gazes into her cleavage as if she’s dropped something down there. “If you think of them like amusement park rides, they’re almost fun.”
“Tits?” I ask. I’m still confused. I still don’t trust the walls and ceiling to stay where they are. Jiro has the bar back to normal at least—grubby but neat.
“Earthquakes. I actually quite like them now.” She sighs, rests her elbows on the bar, her chin on the bridge of her hands, and winks at Jiro. “And tits too, I suppose.”
“Big one coming ne ?” Jiro says.
Ines lights two smokes and hands Jiro one. “Promises, promises.”
“Fucking nutters we are—staying here.” Adam’s still rubbing his head. I’ve been hit by the plastic mallet a dozen times. It doesn’t hurt. “Earthquakes. Typhoons. Fucking squat toilets.”
I give Adam a little pout. “You just said you love Japan.”
“Hey you should be agreeing with me, you two. Word is white girls are disappearing.” He nods his head slowly. Meaningfully.
“White girl Adam. Just one.” I’m on that drunk edge.I’ll either get belligerent or lovey-dovey. It’ll happen soon.
“White slavery if you ask me. Yakuza.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Belligerent it is.
“Then there’s that nutter going around on a shopping bike, braining gaijin birds with a baseball bat.”
I sigh. Adam is ruining my buzz. “You’re making that up,” I say.
Adam holds his palm up. “Swear it’s the truth. Nearly killed an Aussie girl in Yoyogi Park.”
Ines claps her hands. “What we need right now is a little smokey-smoke. Adam? Will you indulge us?”
“Bloody hell. Do you know how hard it is to get this stuff?”
“Of course we do, darling. Shall we retire to the lounge?” Ines already has Adam off his stool and halfway out the door, her hands on his back, pushing him along.
Adam turns back. “Brought it back from Bangkok.” Raises his eyebrows and lowers his voice. “ Internally .”
“Oh God,” I say, pulling the sliding glass door shut. “Did you have to mention that?”
“Does it matter?”
The street is wet from a shower we missed. The slick black of the road reflecting the neon. Sidewalks buzzing with people who have somewhere to go. People with neat little lives. Paper shopping bags sheathed in plastic by
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