Hokkaido Highway Blues

of its parts. And as I sat, chewing and sighing (often at the same time), I reflected on how happy, how very very happy I was to be spending the equivalent of nine dollars for a piece of bread topped with a puddle of tomato sauce, a gob of cheese and four thin, semitransparent slices of pepperoni. (Essence of Pepperoni, I called it—meat that was somehow sliced one molecule thick. A remarkable feat.) My bank account was getting dangerously low. I had already exceeded my budget threefold since setting out, and the pizza toast I was now consuming reminded me of this. Which is to say, I blame the pizza toast for what happened next.
    By the time I had finished my “meal” (note the ironic use of quotation marks), dusk had settled upon the city. The lights began to flicker on as I followed a small river south into the heart of the after-hours zone. It was an exceptionally bright area, even by Japanese standards of nightlife, where the motto is, “Energy crisis? What energy crisis?” There was less neon in Akita and more bulbs, giving it the appearance of a prima donna’s dressing-room mirror gone mad.
    The lights and laughter echoed across the water. The river looked more like a canal, with its many small indecisive bridges hopping back and forth across the water, and the buildings built flush against the reinforced banks. I waded into the crowds, followed the flow past pachinko parlors and noodle shops, then cut down a narrow alley until I came to a cul-de-sac bright with bulbs. This was definitely a naughty nook in a larger cranny. Side-door cabarets and soaplands beckoned. Touts in cheap tuxedos hovered near the doors in predatory holding patterns waiting for the first wave of salarymen to wander in. (Again, because I was undoubtedly reeking of AIDS, no one approached me.)
    No matter. I backtracked to the main street where couples were promenading. Crowds were milling about amid sudden, unprovoked bursts of laughter. Signs in lurid pink fair dripped with innuendo and false promises. A cinema featured posters for a movie depicting the love between a young lady and her vacuum cleaner. Another poster showed two terrified office men being threatened by a whip-wielding nurse in stilettos.
    Tattered red lanterns swayed on the wind, and bands of young office ladies shouted and sang songs as they strode down the street. Equally animated bands of men rolled by the other way, and the street resembled a slow-motion pinball game, ringing with bells and whistles and strobe-light bursts. By now I was thoroughly impressed with Akita, a city where the women were beautiful and the nights were brimming with rivers of light.
    Rather than return to the Hotel Hawaii, I decided instead to make a deeper foray into the city’s nightlife—in the interests of journalistic integrity. I wanted to interview, firsthand, some of the city’s famed Akita bijins. This would be tricky; I would need introductions. And this in turn would cost money for drinks, snacks, and karaoke.
    This is where the pizza toast comes in. Still stinging from my undersize, overpriced dinner, I decided to cut my costs. I wanted to explore this gaudy world and I definitely wanted to meet some beautiful ladies, but at the same time, I didn’t want to spend a month’s salary on the venture. Which is how I decided —how I actively sought —to become kidnapped. I followed a likely target: a group of men in navy-blue suits who were stumbling down the street. They went into a small pub. I waited outside for a few moments and then, quietly, made my entrance.
     
    * * *
     
    You haven’t really lived until you have seen a Japanese salaryman sing the Frank Sinatra ballad “My Way.” It is one of those quintessential sad sights that seem to define Japan. What an odd and yet common spectacle: a tousled salaryman, living a life of bows and stifling conformity, a man married to the company, a man who—in the thousands every year—works himself to death for the sake of the corporation, a man who has to eat shit and smile every day, a man who fuels the economic engine yet remains unsung, unacknowledged, and often openly mocked. A man like that, standing up and singing in heartfelt English: that the record should show, he took the blows and did it his way! This is something you don’t soon forget.
    The men were crowded along a plush couch, toasting themselves with whiskey-tinted water as they cheerfully ignored their colleague up on stage, who was quavering away about how