Tune in Tokio

free time really will be your own, and it’s good that you’ll easily be able to fill it.”

And that was that. He said they’d be sending me an official offer of employment in the next few weeks, and he let me go. In hindsight, I think if I’d said my hobbies were reading other people’s mail, collecting used handkerchiefs, and having sex with my viola, I would have gotten the same response. He just wanted to make sure I wasn’t dangerous and could string a sentence together. I fit both criteria and so got the job. My university degree is probably spinning in its frame.

It was the green Yamanote train that carried me to Shinjuku, and against all possible odds in this city of 13 million, I actually scored a seat on it. I got comfortable in my precious foot and a half of Tokyo real estate as people continued to roll into the carriage, a procession that might have lasted days but thankfully ended when the doors closed behind an old, hunched-over woman carrying three heaving shopping bags.

I stood up quickly to offer the tiny obaasan my seat. Cute as a button, she stood about four and a half feet tall, with sleepy eyes, short stringy silver hair sprouting out from under a white visor with a smiley face on it, and a back arched from years of housework, child-rearing, gardening, shopping, and bowing.

She was clearly one of a breed of elderly Japanese women who appear to be approximately 130 years old and, though they still walk around freely, doing their shopping, taking trains, and looking disapprovingly at young people, always look like they could keel over at any moment, uttering their last “sayonara.” Some gaijin folk uncharitably refer to them as Yodas. Usually it is those who have come up against the nasty side of these women, commonly displayed when the so-called Yodas board a train and proceed to elbow and smack out of their way any person younger than they are (pretty much everyone) so that they can get first dibs on the scarce supply of seats. So, because I’m a suck-up (and because I have a soft spot in my heart for old women wearing visors), I stood and offered her my seat. She bowed, smiled so wide I feared she may tear her face, and said thank you before sweeping me aside, wiping off the seat with a handkerchief to be rid of my white-man funk, and plopping herself down. I wanted to ask her to be my grandmother, but before I had a chance to come up with a decent pitch, the train pulled into the next station, she rose with all her bags, swatted her way through the crowd, and hopped off.

I sat back down, adjusted my gaze straight ahead, and gave a startled jump. There, staring directly into my eyes, into my very soul, was a young boy of about four years. He looked at me with an eerie, inscrutable expression, like the one a child forms when he’s about to command the dark forces to descend upon you. He didn’t take his eyes off me; he didn’t blink. He just stared, cute and creepy. I averted my gaze as the train began to move, hoping that he’d do the same. After a few minutes I turned back to him, and his expression hadn’t changed, though he had tilted his head slightly.

To take my mind off the probing toddler eyes, I stared out at the Tokyo scenery rolling past in the fading light. Actually, scenery might be too fancy a word. Explosion of ugly buildings would be more appropriate. As the train sprinted its way through the metropolis, an endless smattering of ashen-hued structures stood together in a desperate display of jigsaw development. No empty space is left unmolested, every extra block of air smashed to bits by the erection of an edifice with an attached arcade, karaoke box, cell phone stand, convenience store, apartment building, police station, flower shop, or Japanese eatery. The buildings aren’t in rows, unless your idea of a row is a slipknot. They face each other according to whichever way completes the jigsaw most effectively. The result is a static architectural orgy, the buildings caressing, groping, slamming, and going down on each other in a manner reminiscent of the last scene in Caligula (minus the money shots).

Eventually I brought my gaze back inside and briefly made eye contact with the staring toddler before noticing the attractive young girl sitting next to me. She was digging through her purse and pulling out mascara, lipstick, tweezers, blush, and an eyelash curler, obviously intent on giving herself a quick touch-up. Then she pulled out a lighter. And next the largest hand mirror I had ever seen. It was the size of your average windowpane and probably afforded her a good view not only of her own cosmetic shortcomings, but mine and the sleeping gentleman’s on the other side of her. She had more tools than a smack-addled surgeon. I watched out of the corner of my eye as she used each one in turn, impatient for her to get to the lighter. Finally she only had two instruments left, the lighter and the eyelash curler. And sure enough, she used them simultaneously, flicking the lighter and holding the tiny flame over the curved metal end of the curler. When she believed it to be hot enough, she put the piping apparatus up to her eye and gave herself a set of shapely, luscious, twenty-four-hour lashes. I feared she’d put her eye out if the train should make a sudden jerk, but even with the rolling and swaying of the carriage, the girl’s expert grip on her tools and the precision with which she performed her tasks continued uninterrupted. Amazed, I looked over at the toddler. He was still staring at me.

The train pulled into Shinjuku Station, through which two million people pass in a typical day. I wasn’t sure which exit I should go for, but I realized it wasn’t up to me when I found myself eased down the nearest staircase by the sheer force of the crowds tugging me like an undertow. They decided I would go out the south exit. That would be fine.

So here I am, staring at a giant television screen full of wide-eyed, dancing preteen cherubs and wondering (1) if Japan has its own Britney Spears, and (2) if she’s a cheap dime-store floozy like ours. I hope so.

As a large portion of the two million Shinjuku-goers hustle past and slap me with their shopping bags, I wonder where to go. I have no plan, no idea where anything is. I just want to see some local color. I continue walking ahead and through a concrete courtyard directly in front of the exit. Lots of young folks are hanging out, strumming guitars, playing bongos, simply posing, leaning against railings, comparing wacky hats, and so forth. Up ahead, people sit and slurp at a steaming mobile noodle bar right next to a punk rock band thrashing it out on the sidewalk, surrounded by a dedicated horde of twelve-year-old girls offering their support.

The sounds of Shinjuku-spoken advertisements over loudspeakers; pop music from the Tower Records TV screen; the clinking, buzzing, and whirring of the pachinko parlors and game centers; the piercing recorded voices beckoning you into this shop or that one-whoop and holler around me as I walk. I enter this swirl of activity, feeling like one of those wide-eyed, big-headed aliens seen occasionally in Utah or Nebraska.

I pass a horde of young girls with bleached blonde hair, fiercely tanned complexions, panda-like eye makeup, foot-high platform shoes, and miniskirts of a cut that would make Paris Hilton stand back and go, “Oh, honey, cover that shit up a little!” A cute high school couple-wearing matching kilts and carrying the same handbags, made out of what looks like poodle fur-walks by hand in hand. Not to be outdone, a tall guy wearing Buddy Holly glasses and sporting an afro for the ages walks determinedly behind them, his black shirt screaming in white lettering, “So Fucking What?” Local color-check.

As I look around for something else to gawk at, a friendly looking middle-aged woman wearing flats and a skirt that is, thankfully, knee-length, approaches me.

“Excuse me,” she smiles. “You speak English?”

Not waiting for me to answer, she continues. “It’s nice to meet you. I am Miho Johnson.”

You’re who? I think. Her English is Japanese-inflected, but her last name most definitely is not.

“May I ask, where are you are from?” she continues. She sports a matronly bob, her bangs cut straight across and hanging just above her thin, painted-on eyebrows. Though she has a smile on her face, it’s tempered with a constant look of concern. Also, she never seems to be looking directly at me. When she asks where I’m from, she appears to be reading from a cue card placed above and a little to the right of my big head.

She has made no assumptions about my nationality, so I am tempted to adopt a strange accent and say Greenland or Siberia while gently taking her hand and rubbing my nose on it, the traditional greeting in my country.

“You are from America?”

“Yeah, actually. How did you guess?”

“Oh, just thinking. How long you are being in Japan?”

I tell her I’ve just arrived, and at this her pensive face brightens. “Oh, that’s nice. I want to tell you about my church…”

Your what? Church? They have those here? Hmm. I was actually hoping she’d be able to give me directions to a good ramen shop, a decent record store, and/or a news agent that sells English- language magazines. Perhaps I’m expecting too much.

“Church? Your…church?” I stammer, trying to think of a means of escape.

“It’s lovely place, everyone accepted. We have many meetings and enjoy. Jesus there. It’s near to here. Please, let me take you to there.”