Hokkaido Highway Blues

disagreed, but the topic wasn’t pursued. Instead, the conversation, having delved into such popular topics as ‘America and What’s Wrong With It” now moved, predictably, to “Japan and Why It Is So Wonderful.”
    “Japan is a small country,” said one man. They all agreed.
    “A poor country.” They agreed.
    “A poor, small country.” Again, unanimity.
    Japan is a poor small country. From which they deduced that Japan is therefore “the number-one country in the world. Japanese companies are very strong. Japanese products are the best in the world.” It is an odd syllogism, especially that rather tricky leap from premise to conclusion, but it is nonetheless a world view that was heartily endorsed by my hosts.
    “Japan is unique,” said one man, and again they concurred. “Yes, yes— unique.” And they nodded their heads up and down in that unique way Japanese have, as if to say, “I agree,” and then they straightened their unique neckties and adjusted the collars on their unique white shirts and drank unique whiskey on unique rocks. It was all very unique.
    True, in many ways Japan is a unique country, but like a woman who knows she’s beautiful or a man who knows he’s handsome, it can be bloody annoying.
    An older man elbowed his way in and grinned at me. Teeth. Bad teeth, like broken China. “Japan is not perfect,“ he said, without much conviction, “but it is good that you are here. The thing about Japan,” he said. “The thing is—what you have to understand—the thing is—” He had lost his train of thought. He tried to sort it out as the conversation proceeded, then came back in with a sudden declaration: “The thing is—you can never understand Japan. Never. You’re a foreigner, see? And foreigners can never understand Japan. You can’t. You just can’t.”
    Certainly not when you’re pissed to the gills.
    “Japanese beer,” said one man. “Number one!” Which precipitated an endless list. “Japanese cameras. Number one! Japanese automobiles. Number one!” And so on. It was rapidly becoming tedious. Having drunk my fill and entertained the troops, I got up to leave. A hand clamped down on my shoulder and forced me back. “We are not through.”
    “Yes, but—”
    It was like Zorba all over again. “Look at his biceps,” they cried, squeezing my arms like fresh bread. “The gaijin is strong. How much do you weigh? What is your blood type?”
    I set out to find Akita bijin and I end up boxed in between drunk salarymen. Could the evening have gone more awry than it had? By now I was sloshing my consonants so badly, all I could produce was a silly “I hafta go” type of noise which everyone ignored.
    They had, by this point, decided that I was their new best friend. (The Vice Supervisorial Whatsit was convinced that I worked for the company as well, which didn’t help. Mind you, he did promise me a raise next year, which I found very encouraging.) There were more drinks, more songs, more back slaps and endless, pointless handshakes. I tried to leave several times, but every time I did, I was dragged down, liquored up, and mauled some more. They drank beer from mugs the size of rain barrels, they smoked fistfuls of cigarettes, they pried open my jaws and poured gallons of whiskey down my gullet. When we left, I staggered out as though fresh from a pummeling, ears ringing, head spinning, eyes raw red from tobacco fumes.
    “Well,” I gasped once we got outside. “Good night—”
    But they were just warming up. They grabbed my arms and marched me down the street like a prisoner caught trying to escape. “Help me,” I said weakly to people I passed. “In the name of God, help me.”
    My tormentors led me through a series of bars, each smaller and seedier than the last, until we found ourselves scrunched together in a piss-soaked packing crate wedged into a closet that was stuffed into a bread box. The karaoke machine, naturally, had a microphone and an amplifier. Even worse, because they were all in a very patriotic Japanese-salaryman sort of mood, the bars they chose had traditional tatami-mat floors and low tables, which aren’t a problem if you have space to sprawl, but with half the Akita male population crowded in around me, I was forced into contortionist positions, my elbows in and my legs folded up in a pretzel-shaped figure eight, much like a Yogic flyer. And oh, how I wished I could have levitated out of there. By now they were ordering Japanese