Tune In Tokyo:The Gaijin Diaries Read Free Page B

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