SEEMED LIKE A GOOD IDEA AT THE TIME – the book

In fond memory of Emi –

“A small butterfly

Lovely bright wings, dances past

Flying on the breeze“

(Anon)

—CHAPTER ONE—

In 1906, Japan won a war against Russia. In response, the California Board of Education kicked Japanese children out of Caucasian schools under the “Let the Little Maggots Attend Their Own Schools” initiative. In those days, America took the enlightened “separate but equal, but not that equal” approach whenever it suited us.

No, it wasn’t because the Japanese children were raising the grading curve and the white kids were failing.

In 1907, white people in San Francisco revealed their anti-Japanese sentiment in the usual sublime manner by torching Japanese homes and businesses.

No, losing their dry-cleaning tickets was not a motivating factor.

To reiterate, it wasn’t the American-Japanese War that Japan won. There was no American-Japanese War in 1906. Japan won the Russo-Japanese War.

It didn’t matter.

The Russo-Japanese War occurred over five thousand miles from California and did not affect the United States.

It still didn’t matter.

Why all the imprudent behavior on our part?

Well, we had justification, and plenty of it. None of it was valid, but that hardly stopped us before or after.

At least we’re consistent.

First, we heard the Japanese military wasn’t very pleasant during the Boxer Rebellion.

You may think I’m kidding.

I am not kidding.

This was based on anecdotal information from newspapers owned by the bastions of journalistic integrity, William Randolph Hearst and Joseph Pulitzer.

These two were the same people who, in the name of increasing readership, manufactured the Spanish-American War.

In their defense, Hearst and Pulitzer may not have known much about the Boxer Rebellion, which, among other things, took place in China.

Not Japan.

China.

Japan was not involved in the Boxer Rebellion. I suppose one of them could have checked, but they used the unassailable logic that none of their readers gave a rat’s ass.

Having long ago shed the chains of honesty and ready to pull something new out of their collective fundament, newspaper publishers sobered up long enough to trot out the “Crisis-of-the-Month” dartboards.

The darts landed on Japan and, voilà! A crisis was born. The premise centered on the thousands of Japanese pouring into the West Coast states each day, and we were about to lose California to the seething horde of invaders.

While this was an “L” non-Californians could easily live with, the newspapers assured us that without drastic action, we’d lose our country.

Does any of this sound remotely familiar?

It gets worse. While the news media was, and is, unencumbered by the truth and willing to say anything to get attention, they’re baby poop compared to US politicians trying to get votes. Once those people hopped on the bandwagon, a dazzling outbreak of lunacy, fabrications, derangement, panic, outrage, and spine-crushing stupidity quickly ensued.

And jump on the bandwagon the politicians did in flies-to-horse-manure droves. The masses panicked, of course. What followed was legislation to ban Japanese from entering the country, restrict their ability to buy land, and make every Asian’s life as difficult as possible. Once the flames were fully fanned, angry herds continually assailed Japanese individuals or anyone they thought was from Japan, which included everyone who looked remotely Oriental.

Why did we resort to this mischief?

Well, dammit, they were taking over California. Per news sources, Japanese immigrants accounted for over 50% of the state’s population. The correct number was 1%, but we rounded it up to 50%.

Furthermore, they worked too hard, and we all looked like lazy slobs by comparison. They worked for less money (because that’s what they were offered).

Besides, we thought they looked weird. We heard from our oh-so-reliable newspapers that Japanese people were into polygamy, and we didn’t approve, except in Utah. They didn’t have a proper religion, either. Plus, the food didn’t sound right. “Fermented Tofu.” What the hell is that? And have you tried the Sake? It tastes crappy, you don’t even get drunk from it, and you end up in the bathroom half the night.

Let’s not revisit the atrocities committed against Japanese Americans during World War II. Now, the Japanese military did unforgivably evil things to American POWs. However, we justified our atrocities against Japanese civilians who weren’t in the military with a grown-up and educated response of, “Yeah, but they started it.”

In the 1980s, there were calls to ban vehicles imported from Japan because Americans chose them over cars manufactured in the US. Japanese companies insisted on producing moderately priced, high-quality, fuel-efficient vehicles that Americans preferred over the poorly made cars being produced in the States. This was hardly acceptable to American car manufacturers who couldn’t sell their Ford Transgressions, AMC Abominations, GMC Incontinentals, and all the other shipwrecks they spewed upon unsuspecting consumers.

Swarms of thugs attacked people from Japan. It wasn’t practical as the swarm, whose collective IQ never exceeded room temperature, couldn’t tell the distinction between Japanese folks and those from China, Korea, Malaysia, Myanmar, Vietnam, Cambodia, New Guinea, Thailand, Taiwan, Indonesia, Mongolia, Pakistan, Sri Lanka, Bangla Desh, and the Philippines. The swarm thought those were all cities in Japan. As a result, they had no idea who they were assaulting.

The attackers would say, “We gonna kill you Japannites!”

The victim might reply, “Wait, I’m from Borneo.”

After a prolonged and bewildered pause, one of the thugs probably replied, “Whatever.”

And the violence continued.

I’ve always had a fondness for Asians, especially the Japanese. My experiences with them have consistently been favorable, at least from my perspective. I can’t say how they felt about it – you’d have to inquire with them. I’ve always been intrigued by Japan’s ethos, cuisine, principles, culture, and connection with nature and art.

My first trip to Japan was in 1983.

Culturally speaking, Japan has many moving parts. Fortunately, I didn’t try to navigate the waters without proper guidance. My neighbor across the hall, Emi, accompanied me. Through the age of thirteen, she lived in Kyoto before moving to New York City with her parents, who, after Emi finished high school, returned to Kyoto. Emi stayed in New York. I believe the name “Emi,” in Japanese, means “picturesque” or something of the sort, although in her case, it could have meant “smarter than you and I will ever be.” She was the Valedictorian of her high school and college graduating classes. She had to settle for Salutatorian in graduate school and was, at the time, working on her PhD in Molecular Physics while I attempted to be a full-time actor.

One of us succeeded. In fact, her dissertation was published two months after she defended it to the university’s committee. I’m not kidding.

Emi wanted to see her family in Kyoto. I wanted to get out of New York City for a while.

Emi and I hit it off. She was an obsessively shy and studious type who rarely spoke above a whisper. However, she had one quirky characteristic: she loved the New York Giants football team. Giants memorabilia covered her apartment. We’d watch the games on TV at her place or at a bar. During each game, she’d bark at the television, guzzle beer, badmouth the referees, and shout unique expletives.

After Emi said she was visiting Kyoto for a week, I mentioned my interest in traveling around Japan someday. To my surprise, Emi suggested we fly together. She even volunteered to reserve a hotel room for me. We agreed to spend a day or two in Kyoto. Otherwise, I planned on touring Japan unaccompanied. It was easier to travel alone. I could drink without thinking I was being monitored, which gives you an insight into my priorities at the time.

Also, once Emi began speaking on a subject of interest (of interest to her, that is), she felt quite unrestrained by anyone or anything attempting to get a word in edgewise. I mean, Emi was nice about it. It’s not as though she raised her voice. She simply would not shut up. When you’d attempt to interrupt her in mid-diatribe, she would speak faster. If you were the poor dumb slob stuck listening to her, then your contribution to the conversation consisted of staccato attempts at asking her to put a lid on it: “wait…,” “stop…,” “shutup…,” “please…,” “shut-the-fuc…”

I wasn’t prepared to spend a week fighting for airtime.

As God hadn’t yet created the Internet, people relied on books containing travel advice while in other countries. The one about Japan was an eye-opener.

There are many rules of etiquette in Japan. I thought you should know that.

For instance, when receiving a business card from a Japanese person, the expected behavior is to take it, hold it with two hands as though it was the Magna Carta, bow the appropriate number of degrees based on professional standing, thank the person a half dozen times, carefully read everything written on the card, comment on its high quality, bow again, express more fucking gratitude and do your best to reveal how unworthy you are to receive this holy and sacred card.

When conducting a business meeting in Japan, arrive thirty minutes early. If your meeting is scheduled for 9:00 and starts at 9:01, consider yourself done, as you’ll be branded a loser for the rest of your life. When someone shoves a cup of green tea in front of you, accept it with astounding gratitude. Even if it tastes like raw sewage, take it. Compliment everyone back to the Stone Age. Pretend to be humble and never utter “no,” regardless of context.

Ever.

A Japanese person in your meeting might say, “Let me sleep with your wife.” Do not reply, “No.” Your response should be something along the lines of, “This will, perhaps, be difficult to arrange.” Because that sentence means “no.” “We will think about it” means, “Hell, no. Are you out of your mind?”

In the Japanese world, words are the frame. It’s up to you to paint the meaning of those words on the canvas.

Bring gifts. Unique gifts—no snow globes. Gifts are crucial, but how the gift is wrapped is of greater importance.  Never let me wrap the gift. Get my wife to do it.

Do you like wearing plenty of perfume or aftershave? Well, don’t.

Are you one who enjoys showing off your flashy jewelry? Do not do that, either.

Those with shaved heads must grow some hair quickly or get a wig.

If you have a moment when you don’t know what to say, shut up. Or, as we often advise people new to the corporate world, do not think with your mouth open.

Small talk? No.

I mean, “That will, perhaps, be difficult to arrange.”

Don’t ask, “How ‘bout them 49ers?” None of this, “Hey, Stud, how’s it hangin’?” Just bow, sit down, and shut up.

Most folks from Japan are not keen to shake your hand. Well, not just your hand. Anyone’s hand. Bow, instead. Men bow with their hands at their sides. Women do the fig leaf maneuver. Bow with your torso anywhere from 165° to 120° to the floor, depending on context. Unless you’re attempting to apologize, 150° works.

However, if you have grievously sinned and have stepped on many toes (by saying “no,” for instance), your upper body might need to be parallel to the floor.

Remember, feigning humility can mitigate many transgressions. So, do that.

Often.

Those are some of the rules while doing business in Japan.

Concerning day-to-day life outside work, there are a few considerations relating to, among other things, table manners, removing your shoes, putting your shoes on, entering the bathroom, using the bathroom, sitting, waiting for the train, getting on the train, getting off the train, standing, taking pictures, how to speak, when to speak, when not to speak, using a smartphone, showing affection in public (hint: don’t), bathing, leaving a tip at a restaurant (hint: never), shaking hands (hint: still no), disposing of trash, walking, saying hello, saying goodbye, stating someone’s name, and smoking a cigarette (hint: quit).

Before leaving the States, Emi reviewed more behavioral expectations. Not wanting to embarrass her while in her home country, I wrote them down and memorized them. She taught me several things to say so I could be friendly to the natives.

We didn’t have seats together on the flight to Japan, so I spent the time sleeping, drinking shot bottles of Bourbon, while trying, and failing, to pronounce the simplest of Japanese words. Thankfully, the family seated to my right took pity on this poor, dumb, low-rent, pinhead slob and came to my aid. As Emi walked me through the contortions of the immigration process in Tokyo, she meekly (even for her) asked, “Would you like to, um, meet my family?”

I wanted to say, “No.” Sorry. I wanted to say, “I am not certain how this could be accomplished.”

Instead, I replied, “I don’t want to get in your way. I’m sure they want to see you, not me. I’d be intruding. Especially if no one knows I’m coming.”

The real reason? I’m not anxious to sit in your house in total silence while your entire extended family stares at me, wondering why some random knuckle-dragging, low-brow is bringing his filthy Western ways into their living room.

“I told them I had a friend, um, coming with me. Not a boyfriend. It is not like we are always together. Just, um, friends. I do not have time for a boyfriend.”

I was single, too. A few days earlier, I high tailed it out of a relationship that lasted a hundred days. We met while taking part in a Calvin Klein modeling shoot. (This was in 1983. I was young and cute in 1983.) Things between us were working fine until we tried our hand at having a conversation. I can’t remember who started it. One of us is to blame. The result was that our indelible, lifelong relationship crashed and burned in a matter of hours.

Truthfully, we didn’t stand a chance in Hell. No room is big enough to accommodate two fashion models at once. Besides, rotting corpses were much more emotionally available than I ever was. And, well, she was a bit self-absorbed. During orgasms, she called out her own name. Then, before we could continue our tryst, she had to reapply her makeup, scan her body for defects, and, although there were none, discuss the devastating effects these hideous defects would have on her career as well as her worth as a human being, verify her body fat was under 0.4% (it was), check her answering service (no mobile phones in 1983), snort four long lines of cocaine, review, in chronological order, the very long list of subtle insults she suffered at the hands of her mother, advise me that her faith in God was contingent on Him getting her a spread in Vogue Magazine (God needed to get her three pages before she’d be sure He existed, but if He got her five pages then she’d even consider going to church), pop four Valiums because the stress of living was awful, wonder aloud if her sister was the biggest bitch in the world and advise me that she required my continued unwavering emotional support even though I had provided none to date.

By the time she finished, I had already run some errands and picked up breakfast.

After considering Emi’s invitation to meet the family, I gave an awkward shrug. “I’m not sure. I don’t want to impose.”

“Mother and Father speak English. They are happy. Happy that I am coming here with, um, a friend, and they want to meet you. Maybe, um, for dinner? Maybe?”

Hmmmm. Okay. Friend? Friendly, maybe. Do you have so few friends? And they want to meet me. Why? I’m just some slob who lives in your building. Tell the family, “Don’t get your hopes up.”

I didn’t make much of a commitment to her dinner offer.

Tokyo’s airport was unlike any I’d stumbled across.

By 1983, I had navigated airports around the world. Almost all exhibited varying levels of disorganization, messiness, chaos, confusion, destruction, terrible communication, and illogical or inconsistent directions for travelers. Plus, the toilets were all clogged, and the trash cans hadn’t been cleaned in over a decade.

In Cairo, the airports resembled a giant pinball machine with five hundred pinballs (who looked like travelers) frantically bouncing in random directions. The best you could hope for was to be bounced around the terminal until you flew through an exit along with ten pounds of debris.

The delicate art of slam dancing, where audience members at punk rock concerts crashed violently into one another, is believed to have originated in late 1970s England.

This is categorically untrue. It began in 1977 at the Mexico City International Airport concourse when hundreds of passengers collided in futile efforts to catch connecting flights. If you weren’t trampled to death and made it to the gate only to discover your flight left twenty minutes earlier, you had to slam-dance your way across the airport in a futile attempt to hop on the next plane.

Assuming you weren’t killed in the process, you’d quickly die from smoke inhalation as everyone in the airport over the age of two was a chain smoker, and the government had outlawed ventilation systems.

The airport in Tokyo was spotless. Absolutely no litter. The floors were pristine. Airport employees gave directions with notable severity on which line to stand in, as everyone was expected to wait in an orderly line. There was no milling around allowed. The lines moved briskly. People did not speak while standing in lines. Everyone had the necessary documents or money and was ready to provide as needed. In one of the lines, I felt the pressure from those behind me.

Yeah, I know all of you are thinking, “Now that he finally pulled his untenanted head out of our no longer pristine toilet, a flatulent American miscreant has cursed us with his malodorous, feeble-minded, languid, syphilis-ridden, malignant, cringe-worthy, purposeless, IQ endangering presence, our orderly line will crash as this piece of Yankee excrement will not be fully prepared with the requisite documents to complete the transaction in the standard 27.5 seconds, and we shall devastate him with our most frigid and condescending smiles of contemptuous scorn!”

That’s how they talk in Tokyo.

Well, watch me. I can do this. I shall be a magnificent model of a modern major general. I’m proudly at the ready with my paperwork to show that we Americans from the good ol’ USA of America have it together.

I successfully navigated the lines without incident and gained favor by rapidly shoveling false humility.

Our subsequent line was for a train. There were a series of orderly conventions to observe when getting on the train, which was when the order stopped because we were shoved into the train by people whose job was to shove people into trains. The last people on the train enjoyed the sliding doors crashing on them every second, during which the people pushers would continue shoving until most of the body parts were in the train.

That part of the trip didn’t do much for me. I stood there with Emi’s face pressed in my armpit. Children, most of whom were under four feet tall, surrounded me. On a scale of one to ten, my level of discomfort was just over eight hundred thousand, mainly because a girl’s head was pressed against anatomy of mine that’s uniquely male. We were squeezed in so tightly that no one, including me, could move.

Oh, ick. Ick, ick, ick.  This’ll make a fantastic headline in the local newspaper: “Large, Dishonorable, Wooden-Headed, Round-Eyed American Dog-Wipe Has Escaped Police Custody After Officials Attempted to Castrate Him with A Chainsaw Based On Proximity of Pig-Dog’s Male Parts to the Daughter of the Chief Of Police. He Is Wanted: Dead. In Response, We Bombed Pearl Harbor. Again.”

I put my hands over my head and in very plain view. Emi, whose face was still in my armpit, may not have appreciated it. The girl couldn’t have cared less. She was busy giggling with her friends over this big round-eye next to her.

Thankfully, we weren’t on that train for long before jumping onto a “bullet” train bound for Kyoto.

Bullet trains in Japan move fast. I thought you should know that. As the crow flies, it’s nearly 275 miles between Tokyo and Kyoto. The train ride took under three hours, which, in 1983, was impressive.

For the first hour of the ride to Kyoto, Emi reviewed her grave concerns regarding the New York Giants’ recently hired head coach. While she spoke in a whisper because that’s how you speak on trains in Japan, it was easy to see that she was unhappy. In her view, the Giants were doomed. This new head coach was a man without a clue. She was confident that he didn’t grasp the basics of the game, setting the team back a decade, alienating its best players, firing competent assistant coaches, creating tension and chaos among all the players, and losing every game that season, after which he would be let go.

The coach’s name is Bill Parcells, and yes, I reminded her of this conversation minutes after the Giants, led by Parcells, won their first Super Bowl. If she had been with us the day Bill was inducted into the National Football League Hall of Fame, I would have called, emailed, texted, posted on every available social media platform, and faxed her all at once.

In 1983, Japan’s economy was in the early stages of extraordinary growth with an asset price bubble that would make your eyes water. Property values in many cities tripled in the following five years; the Japanese stock market exploded, and the country’s currency dominated the world. Consumer demand flew through the roof. The growth in the 1980s is referred to as an economic miracle.

It wasn’t a miracle. It was an uncomplicated process with an inglorious history throughout the world. It goes like this:

1. The government drops interest rates to 0% (or as close as possible), prints tons of money, and flings it in every direction.
2. Banks fall over themselves to increase reported assets, so they start lending money to anyone not nailed down.
3. Companies and consumers invest all this loose cash into real estate, thereby grotesquely inflating its value.
4. Using the exaggerated real property as equity,  companies and consumers approach banks for more loans.
5. Banks, now lending money to infants and house pets, happily oblige.
6. Companies and consumers take that additional money and leap into the speculative trade market because why not?
7. Rinse, repeat, and observe the house of cards grow until the inevitable day arrives when the house collapses, leading to the next excruciating decade spent trying to put the spilled milk back in the bottle.

I used to believe the Japanese were an austere bunch, but during this bubble, the citizens of Japan took advantage of their good fortune by losing their collective minds. The old saying is, “Too much money makes you stupid.” Well, it’s not that old because I just thought of it.

Local governments were taking the tax windfall and spending it on ridiculous projects. In one case, the money was used to build a large marble public bathroom with a self-playing piano.

I’m not making that up.

Over one-half of a consumer’s disposable income was spent on alcohol, which explains some of the buying decisions. College students wore Rolexes. Construction had started for over one thousand new golf courses. With demand exponentially exceeding supply, people paid five times the market value for luxury items.

Armed with corporate credit cards, businesspeople spent hundreds of thousands of dollars in bars and restaurants. Cups of coffee sprinkled with gold dust sold for $500 per cup.  

At one point, the Tokyo Imperial Palace, covering approximately 3,800 square feet, was valued more than all of California (456,355,468,800 square feet or 120,000,000 times the size of the Imperial Palace).

Naturally, like all worldly miracles, it didn’t last. In the 1990s, Japan’s economy was in the gutter. 

Fortunately for us Americans from the good ol’ USA of America, we learned from the Great Depression and the misfortune suffered in Japan. We took reasonable and rational measures to avoid a similar downfall, except, of course, we didn’t.

Hence, the crash in 2007.

By 1983, Japan had already introduced the world to video games, cars that didn’t disintegrate when you gave them a mean look, compact discs, Walkmans, and Puc-Man, which quickly changed to Pac-Man because all the Western kids replaced the P with an F.

Then there was anime, which already had a presence in the Japanese market. The production values were basic by today’s standards. They were, and still are, similar to morality plays without the God element. A protagonist struggles for redemption amidst moral ambiguity, unethical behavior, evildoers, and a nihilistic society. Difficult decisions must be made, sometimes resulting in unfortunate consequences.

We didn’t have that in the States. Our animations featured cartoon shows focused on flatulent male rodents sexually harassing female rodents, perverted cavemen sexually assaulting female rodents, and female rock bands facing sexual harassment from male rodents and cavemen.

After she completed her monologue concerning Bill Parcells, Emi reviewed her expectations of my visit with her family.

The one I tried to evade? The one I never agreed to? That one?

Yes, that one.

Emi announced, in her quiet way, “Tomorrow night. Um, it is best, um, not to discuss religion. Religion causes, um, trouble.”

“Damn, I was planning on converting them to Hinduism. I thought most of Japan is Buddhist.”

“Um, well, 70% are, um, Shinto. Maybe 60% Buddhist…”

I winced. “Right. Higher mathematics suggests 70% plus 60% is over 100%.”

Yes, Emi agreed. She said many people are both as a way of avoiding cognitive dissonance.

Well, that stopped me in my tracks. “Uh, right. Doesn’t adopting two religions create piles of cognitive dissonance? Not a lot of Islamic Christians to be found these days. Are you Shinto and Buddhist?”

“Um, Christian. But my, um, parents do not know. I cannot tell them. It would make them unhappy. Many Japanese think Christianity is, um, a fraud.” She pulled a small, gift-wrapped box from her suitcase and gave it to me. “It is customary for a dinner guest to, um, provide a gift to the, um, host.”

I hesitated before accepting the box. “Emi, I don’t know about meeting…”

She went on. “Dinner is at 6 pm. Ring the doorbell twice at, um, 6 pm. Jeans are a poor, um, idea. Please do not wear running shoes. Um, do you have loafers? Ones that, um, are shined? When Mother opens the door, bow and say, ‘Konbanwa ojamashimasu.’  She will say, ‘Douzo.’ Wait for her to say ‘douzo’ before you, um, walk in, but…”

I interrupted, “Stop. What?”

Emi, looking worried, replied, “Remember. Please do not enter until Mother says, um, ‘douzo.’ Please…”

“Can you stop for one mo…”

“It is important for her to speak before you enter. Please remove your loafers in the gankan so they are pointed outward. This is…”

“What’s a gankan…?”

She didn’t answer as she was on to her next point.

“Then bow to her.” She will lead you to, um, the family room. Father, Junko [a sister], Naoki [a brother], Mitsuko [an aunt, I think], and Grandmother. Bow when Mother introduces them. Everyone speaks English, but they will expect you to speak a few Japanese phrases. When you meet Father…”

“Can I just say one th…?”

“Give Father the gift. You do this with, um, two hands. Please do this with two, um, hands. Bow the way I showed you. Please. All you need to say is, ‘Tsumaranai mono desu ga.’ Then, um…”

“Please shut up…”

“Father will show you where to sit. Please remember to let him know how nice the house, um, is. They will be self-conscious because you are, um, tall. This is important so…”

“Shut the fuh…”

“I wrote down the phrases for you.” Emi showed no sign of relenting. “My family will want to ask you what you do for work. Please do not tell them you, um, model underwear. You can say you do commercials but, please, they cannot know about, um, underwear…”

“Just one…” We were on the bullet train where thou shalt not speak above a whisper. Otherwise, I’d have been less elegant.

She continued but at a faster pace. “Remember to sit up straight. Sometimes, you, um, slouch. They will find this disrespectful. You are self-effacing, and this is, um, good. Please remember to do this. Um, do not blow your nose. Please do not blow your, um, nose…”

“Please, shut up, please, shut…”

“Please. They will give you a gift. Just bow and take it with two hands. All you need to say is, ‘Arigatou gozaimasu.’ This can be said, perhaps, uh, more than once. Before we eat, wait, um, to be seated, then…”

“Stop! The power of Christ compels you…”

Emi stormed ahead. “Once we start dinner, please do not wipe your, um, face with the hand towel. If Father offers you a toast, then you must, um, be grateful. It is good to please offer a toast, too. This can be done in English….”

“Argh, shut the fuh…”

“Just remember to tell everyone you are, um, honored. This can be said many times. More is, um, good. At dinner, we sit on a tatami mat on our heels, with our legs tucked under our, um, bodies. This can be, um, uncomfortable. Try not to adjust your posture to be, um, more comfortable. After we are seated, do not forget to…”

“Oh, death. Where is thy sting…?”

“Say, ‘Honjitsu wa omaneki itadaki arigatou gozaimasu.’ That is before we begin eating. You are a neat eater. This is, um, good. Please say to Mother, ‘Oishii.’ This is done, um, frequently during the meal.”

“Mongo jump off train now…”

“You can drink. Do not drink, um, as much as Grandmother. Um, please. Please do not, um, do that. That can be a poor idea.” She continued increasing her pace.  “Please eat almost everything on your plate. Leave a little food but not too much. Mother is not a very good cook, so this can be, um, difficult, but…”

“No way out, no way out, no way out…”

“Please do this. When you are offered anything, then please, um, take it but hesitate at first. Pretend to be, um, humble. After dinner, it is necessary to tell Mother, ‘Gochiso sama deshita.’ This will not be easy after the effects of Mother’s, um, cooking…”

“Goodbye, Cruel World. Let this be my last will…”

“Please ask to help with cleaning the dishes. This can be, uh, repeated. Try to be humble some, um, more. It will be easier for her to, um, decline. We will go to the family room to sit after dinner. After sitting on your heels for dinner, this can be, um, comfortable. It is good not to slouch…”

“I leave my record collection to…”

“And be respectful. Father will ask about your family.” Emi barged ahead with her eyes wide shut. “Please speak well of them. He will find this, uh, good. It is best if you allowed him to, um, dictate the subjects of the conversation. Religion, um, must be kept away. If he finds out I am a Christian, he could be a little, um, violent.”

“Violent? Oh, that’s great…”

“It is best not to ask any, um, questions. He will not enjoy being interrupted while giving you advice…”

“Are there loaded guns in the house..?”

“Consider these opportunities to display, um, sincere gratefulness. Once he stops, um, advising you on your personal life, this is a good time to, um, leave. Say, ‘Arigatou gozaimasu.’ This can be said often with, um, humbleness when you leave…”

“Are we talking homicidal…?”

“Make sure to use slippers when going to the bathroom. There are cleaning tools you can utilize after using, um, it…”

“Cleaning tools? What the hell goes on in your bathroom?”

Emi, for the first time in her life, sustained eye contact with me. “Would you mind if I made a, um, suggestion on your use of humor when you are talking to Father?”

“Yes, actually, I would…”

“For a positive outcome, you, um, could delay the use of humor until you have left, um, for the evening.”

Emi presented me with neatly typed pages of all she had reviewed. All the words and phrases were defined and phonetically spelled. Looking downward again, she asked, “Will this be okay with you?”

No. This is unquestionably not okay. It’s a dumpster fire. Dead on arrival. This is the Hindenburg bursting into flames after landing on the Titanic that just hit the iceberg after Apollo 13 crashed into it. I want no part of this. Also, I never agreed to go to dinner, and I have no desire to participate in what is bound to be an unmitigated shit-show.

I replied, “Sure.”

Well, it seemed important to her. Plus, from the sounds of it, this would be a traditional Japanese dinner. I was keen to have the experience.  

We sat in silence while I read her extensive and meticulous instructions. Emi kept her eyes glued to the floor.   

I asked if the instructions resulted from things going sideways with previous guests.

After a brief delay, Emi said, “Um, no. It’s good to be, um, prepared. So, you can enjoy dinner.”

Ah, I do see. She’s never invited anyone to a family event, dinner included, in her entire life. Why not? Why buck precedent now? And why, of all people, me? I’m just a dipshit who lives in the same building. And why is this so important that she felt the need to write a visitor’s manual?

I didn’t have the heart to ask these questions, but I wanted the answers. I tried a more delicate route. “This is making you nervous. As he proves his firm grasp of the obvious.”

A minute later, Emi replied, “Um, yes. My family makes me nervous. Um, sometimes.”

“I know that feeling. I can’t remember inviting anyone to meet my parents.”

After another long silence, Emi finally looked up. “Um. No. This will be new. Too.”

Well, let’s drop the subject. I think you’ve had enough fun for one day.

We didn’t speak again for the rest of the train ride.

By the time we set foot in Kyoto, it was getting dark. The hotel Emi booked for me was southeast of the Kyoto National Garden. By then, I had seen a few Asian cities, but nothing like this. Somehow, Kyoto was spared the worst of World War II, and it looked, from what I could see through the darkness, the way I suspected most provincial Japanese cities looked before 1940.

We arrived at the hotel after stopping to grab some food from one of the fifty convenience stores on the block. We were too exhausted to think straight. Emi’s family lived half a mile away. She picked up my room key, handed it to me, and said she’d walk home.

I was surprised. “Are you sure you want to walk alone at night? Does that not qualify as living dangerously? I can go with you.”

For the first time that day, she laughed out loud.

“This is not New York. It is always safe. I will call you in the morning.”

We exchanged proper Japanese bows, and she left.

I asked the hotel clerk how much I owed for the room. He said, “She pay okay for you. Stay long you want.”

What? Okay. That’s weird.

I stumbled into my beautifully decorated room, which was twice the size I expected. The bed, which amounted to a futon, wasn’t. Having devoured the convenience store food, which was fabulous, I fell onto the bed. My head, hands, and feet slopped over all sides.

I was looking forward to seeing Kyoto the following day. The family dinner loomed, of course.

As I drifted off to sleep, I reflected on Emi’s eagerness for me to visit Kyoto, her heartfelt invitation to dinner, the immense pressure she placed on herself to impress her family, and all the time she dedicated to composing her family etiquette guide.

Emi is nervous for a reason. Several reasons, maybe.

What’s the story with the father? Her fear of him is overwhelming. Is he a monster? Is he psychotic? She’s scared to tell him her religion. His approval means so much to her, and I doubt she has received a shred of it from him in her entire life. And, evidently, prone to violence. That’ll be fascinating.

What we have is a grown, intelligent, independent, overachieving woman who can go, do, and say whatever she damn well pleases. Yet, she chooses to come to the one place where she can’t.

This dinner has “cataclysm” written all over it. Tomorrow night could get weird.

For one of the very few times in my life, I was right.

—END OF CHAPTER ONE—

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