by Tim Anderson
“Oh, you’ve had a haircut,” I said, pointing to her head with one hand and mimicking a pair of scissors with the other. “It looks really nice!”
She smiled and said thank you. She looked pensive, though, as if she wasn’t ready to move on to a different topic. As if what I’d said was deficient in some way.
I started to worry that maybe I had not complimented her enough. Perhaps “nice” was too neutral an adjective.
“Thank you,” she began, “but…is it cute?” She slapped her hand over her mouth as soon as she said it, perhaps realizing the inherent ridiculousness of a woman her age asking such a question. Or maybe she was afraid of the answer. Or thought she was going to cough.
“” I said with a big smile. “It’s really cute!”
At hearing this, she relaxed and we walked to the station together, the initial awkwardness dissolved by the magical “c” word.
I should have a very strong appreciation for that which is cute. My country invented Mickey Mouse, after all. And the Snuggle fabric softener teddy bear, which never fails to give me an ice-cream headache. And I do like cute things. My best friend when I was a kid had been my Snoopy doll, but that was less because he was cute and more because he was the only one in the neighborhood who didn’t throw things at me. As far as I’m concerned, though, when the eyes get too large, when the heads become too round, the smiles too aggressive, the voices too squeaky, and the bodies too puffy and squeezably soft, this is when it becomes a problem for me, and I struggle to turn a blind eye.
At the same time, in spite of myself, I have been won over by some of the cute ephemera around me. When McDonald’s recently sold stuffed Hello Kitty dolls dressed in pink kimono for two hundred yen with the purchase of a combo meal, I took the bait. Twice. Hello Kitty needed a friend, and who better for her to share her time with while lounging on my bedspread than Dear Daniel, her male counterpart dressed in an adorable blue yukata robe? And yes, when Mister Donut launched a campaign where customers could get miniature bed pillows with precious dog and cat faces on them with the purchase of two-dozen donuts, you bet I bought two dozen donuts and took them to work just so I could have those pillows and take them home for Kitty and Daniel to cuddle up against. Who wouldn’t? And, looking down at my phone, OK, I do have a cute little pudgy blue elephant hanging from a little chain connected to the antennae. And, well, yeah, I guess I do have on a T-shirt with a perfectly round monkey face that says “Everything Ya-Ya.” So? Oh, and I suppose you’re going to ask me about the little Miffy figurine I have on my keychain, and the Pikachu stuffed animal I bought for my nephew but then kept for myself because everyone needs a little stuffed Pikachu to help them sleep at night. And I can’t forget the Hamutaro hamster toy that has the cutest little nose and a smile to melt the heart of the devil himself and OH MY GOD WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO ME?!!
I have crossed over. I’ve never wanted cell phone accessories before, never needed daily calendars with smiley-faced mice and rabbits on my desk when I was of sounder mind. I recently bought a shoulder bag so small that the only thing I can fit into it is a paperback and my iPod. Why did I buy it? Why do you think? And, oh dear Lord, look, I’m carrying it right now. And you know, if I’m really being honest, I’m more likely to buy one bag of rice over another if there’s a dancing koala vouching for it on the label. My world has changed, and I’m just now realizing it. This has got to stop, and now.
Standing there on the Shibuya street, I see an advertisement in a store window replete with a smiley hamster, a mouse, a chicken, a duckling, and a few other small furry mammals I can’t identify. My eyes widen, and I involuntarily smile at the sight. Then the most unexpected thing happens: one by one, each jumps off the advertisement and onto my shoulder. The hamster snuggles into the nook between my neck and shoulder and starts cooing. The chicken and duckling hop onto my head and start juggling the smaller furry tufts of fluff. The mouse scurries over to my other shoulder and pecks lovingly at my neck. I stumble back, look over, and what should be approaching me from in front of the HMV but a gaggle of girls from anime movies, all bending down with their hands coyly on their knees and blowing kisses at me. There are about twenty of them, and they are coming for me. (“One of us! One of us!”) There’s a schoolgirl with long brown hair swept back and held by an ungainly green bow. She’s dressed in a sailor suit top and a short skirt that keeps billowing up à la Marilyn Monroe. There’s a white-haired sorceress in a body-hugging black gown carrying a wooden scepter that she keeps pointing at me with a wink. There’s a blue-haired cutie-pie in what appears to be a female stormtrooper uniform, and, most bonechilling of all, a girl in a blue leotard, long pink leggings, blue and white space shoes with robotic wings attached to her arms, and, swinging from those arms, a furry white mammal giggling and occasionally jumping up to her shoulder to whisper something in its mistress’s ear. All of these cloyingly cuddly cartoon hotties have eyes the size of American footballs and are fixing me with their red triangular smiles. They hop closer and closer, giggling and clucking, ready to pounce and drown me in the pools of their gigantic and horribly cute eyes. The hamster nestled in the space between my neck and shoulder has his claws dug into my skin and is purring up toward my ear. Oh my God, he’s so precious! No! Not precious! Manipulatively adorable! Get thee away!
As the cute anime sluts come nearer, I grab the hamster and toss him at them. I shake off the mouse, the duckling, the chicken, and their furry little friends and start running for my life. I run past game-center arcades with electronic images of teddy bear/bunny rabbit/kitty cat mascots dancing blissfully around the sign at the entrance; past amusement park advertisements like the one saying “Let’s Summer!” showing a cute little girlie surfing with a cherubic snowman and a toothy squirrel with a Mohawk amid lots of pastel pinks, oranges, and blues; past the Tsutaya CD and video store, on the steps of which a group of round-faced girls dressed in what look like Tiger Lily costumes are smiling, waving, and handing out promotional packets advertising the new SMAP album. As I near the Shibuya Crossing intersection in front of the station, Astro Boy, the first-ever anime character, shoots out of the sky and fires the cutest little laser beams out of his fingers toward me. I duck and dive and run across the street and am almost to the threshold of Shibuya Station when who should block my path but Hello Kitty herself, standing before me, fixing me with her static gaze, staring into my very soul.
She’s much taller than I would have thought (seven feet at least) and, I gotta say, I see a most beguiling, loveable evil in her small black eyes and li’l yellow nose. She smacks me in the face. Her open hand is sooooo soft. She smacks me again and again, alternating slaps with soft caresses of my face and, wow, honestly, it’s like being made love to by a giant feather pillow.
“Hello Kitty, I wanna be your dog!” No! No! Must…be…strong! Think of un-cute things: Evil clowns! The Cuban Missile Crisis! Ann Coulter being interviewed in a bikini on Larry King!
I click my heels together three times, open my eyes, and Hello Kitty is gone. I discover I am in absolutely everyone’s way as they push and shove me aside to enter the station. I come back to myself, look around to make sure I’m no longer being followed, and step into the station.
On the Chuo Line train home, I keel over in my seat, my hands clutching plastic CD bags. I begin to sink into sleep, ready to dream of more exquisite abuse at the hands of Miss Kitty, when my sinking eyes catch a glimpse of a familiar English word on the T-shirt of a woman sitting opposite me.
She is an elderly woman, maybe sixty-five, with a stoic and inscrutable face, sleepy eyes, and a faraway gaze. She is dressed casually in high-water slacks and a Bermuda hat. Her T-shirt says “Bitch.” I swear to God.
She looks adorable.
# of glass elevators taken in that look like space pods: 5
# of advertisements seen using English word “happy” with at least one exclamation mark after: 49
A chapter that pits teacher against teacher in a thrilling and blood
y fight for job security.
I have recently come into possession of a videotape with very dark powers. This video could wreak unspeakable havoc if it fell into the wrong hands, which it did when I got it from Rachel the other night. We were sitting around on the floor of her small flat in Ogikubo desperately trying to get stoned off some really, really weak weed and talking about things we missed about our homeland.
“Pop-Tarts,” I sigh.
“Antiperspirant,” she coos.
“Squeeze cheese.”
“Jon Stewart.”
We look at each other wistfully and say, in unison, “Mexicans!”
“You know what?” Rachel starts, sheepishly. “I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I really miss Survivor.”
“Oh, Rachel,” I respond, shaking my head with profound disappointment.
I’ve always considered myself free of certain curious traits shared by a good number of my fellow Americans: a high tolerance threshold for precocious children in television commercials, sitcoms, and movies; the biological need to wear baseball hats; the tendency to order sandwiches bigger than one’s head—these kinds of things. And I know for a fact that the same would be true of the need to see people fighting tooth and nail, embarrassing themselves, putting their lives in danger, and offing each other one by one on prime time.
It’s not that the idea of people flung together on television to make each other’s lives miserable doesn’t appeal to me. Of course it does. I am human, after all. Humiliation television is a staple of Japanese TV, and I’ve enjoyed watching some of the late-night shows that deal with this very issue. I can’t really understand what’s going on, but I’m able to catch on with the help of Akiko, my roommate and interpreter. One of the best I’ve seen gathers together a different group of four or five up-and-coming female teen “idols” every week—always cute models or pop stars—and makes them choose who among them is a) the bitchiest, b) the least talented, c) the ugliest, and d) the stupidest. The announcer reads the results of each vote, people cheer, and the camera zooms in on the unfortunate winner, who does her best to save face and laugh it off, bowing her head repeatedly.
“She just voted ugliest girl,” Akiko would explain, completely straight-faced.
One time there was one girl who won all four. All four. Yet when the camera zoomed in on her face, she may as well have just been told she would have to wait thirty minutes for a table by the window. She nodded, looked a little disappointed, and quietly waited for the camera to leave her the fuck alone. Then she probably went home and threw herself belly-first onto her pink sword with the satin trimming on the sheath.
I guess the reason I enjoy watching the Japanese get up to all this foolishness is because they’re generally so pathologically shy, their reactions to such awful circumstances as being hung upside down by their toenails and whipped with udon noodles or forced to mud-wrestle a businessman who happens to be wearing only Speedos and a wristwatch make for compelling viewing. The contestants, who often appear to have found themselves on television by accident, nod answers to questions and explain slowly and thoughtfully their feelings about what has happened to them as the sadistic laughter of the audience and panel of hosts roll in. Americans, on the other hand, believe in the manifest destiny of stardom. We’ll do shocking things to get noticed, we relish the spotlight we’re given, and we don’t really know when to shut up once we have it. We love to talk about absolutely nothing important and to cry while doing so. We enjoy the attention way too much. The Japanese just seem to endure it.
“Oh, please, don’t be such a snob,” Rachel chides. “It’s really cool and totally addictive. It’s like a drug, I swear, especially when you have a tape and you can watch them all back-to-back.”
The two magic words: addictive, drug.
“Oh my God, you have a tape?!” I shout, tapping my arm, looking for a vein.
She reaches into the cupboard under her television and pulls out an old-school videocassette labeled on the side, “Survivor Season 1: Chronic.” She hands it to me, and I can feel myself already surrendering to its sweet, sweet oblivion.
You see, I know my tendency to get sucked in by appalling television shows. I get my emotions tangled in their ridiculously threaded and highly unlikely plotlines and find it impossible to tear myself away. I watched one Friday episode of General Hospital when I was thirteen and ended up addicted for three years. I take the videotape home to Koenji and slide it into the VCR.
Though I try to keep an emotional distance from the proceedings, it’s not easy, what with my attachments and aversions to certain people quickly forming and the hand-wringing uncertainty of the outcome. It’s frightening, but I quickly find myself seduced by the show. All my previous dismissals of it fade more and more with each new immunity challenge. I am an expatriate obsessed. And I am able to indulge my obsession uninterrupted, for I have the entire series on video, from start to finish. No commercial breaks, no waiting long weeks to find out who will be the next to be crushed under the weight of all the backstabbing, allegiance switching, and general inhumanity. It all happens in an action-packed, two-day holiday from work. By the end of the videotape, my eyes are swollen and blood-red, my mouth is covered with potato chip crumbs, I’m inadvertently blowing drool bubbles when I exhale, and I’ve lost the ability to move my toes. I stumble bleary-eyed out into the kitchen and out the front door. I don’t know where I am or how I got here. I catch a reflection of myself in the neighbor’s kitchen window. Wow, I look horrible. Like a ninety-year-old woman. Then I realize it is a ninety-year-old woman I’m staring at. Grumpy old Miss Ueno, doing dishes, gazing out the window, and giving me her obligatory daily look of suspicion and disapproval. I wave to her and quietly vote her off the island.
“I need the next tape!” I say to Rachel calmly. “Give it to me! Where is it?!”
“I knew you’d love it,” Rachel sings.
“I don’t just love it. I need it. Please tell me you have another season on video.”
She doesn’t. I gasp.
“You know what, though?” she offers. “Just watch the same season again. It’s really fun because you know when everyone’s going to be kicked off and you can look forward to it.”
So, like any junkie, I go back for sloppy seconds.
I again watch the episodes straight through in a marathon effort that tests nothing more than my ability to sit down for long stretches of time. But it is only in the following weeks that I realize the huge impact that Survivor has made on my life.
The world around me has become my own personal tribal council. I am now fixated on the idea of voting people who are in some way undesirable out of my life. On the train late on a Saturday night, sitting next to a drunken salaryman keeling over into the about-to-throw-up position, I find myself looking around to see who might be encouraged to join in an alliance with me to get him voted off the train.
Or standing in line at the invariably long lunch-hour ATM line at the bank, the machines already occupied by customers engaged in every form of banking transaction possible by machine in Japan—withdrawals, bankbook updates, transfers, deposits, movie tickets, laundry, pap smears, and so forth—all taking up precious time. “The tribe has spoken,” I grumble to myself, gazing at the tiny lady who shows no signs of giving up her position at the machine.
And of course in class, on those days when a student—for example a young female university student named Noriko, eyelashes curled, lip gloss immaculately applied, mobile phone ringing repeatedly—is too scared to speak to me, too embarrassed to speak to her partner, yet too dedicated to say “screw English” and walk out, I relish the idea of being able to just close my eyes, cast a vote in my head, and exterminate the weakest link from the room.
Soon I start to think about the English teachers here at Lane and how the Survivor rules could be applied to us. If for some reason we were forced to vote other teachers out of the school, who would be the ultimate survivor?
“It would totally be me,�
�� my roommate Eric says without a moment’s hesitation. I admire his self-assurance, but I smile at the thought of voting him off at the tribal council just to thwart his plan and take him down a few pegs. To the camera, I’d say, “Eric, you’re a good guy and a great roommate, and I love listening to you and your boyfriend have sex upstairs, but your overconfidence is a real drag.” This all given I haven’t been voted off yet.
“’Twouldn’t be me,” Will from South Africa imagines aloud. “Jdddiengkcmd wowiuet cuirtios oourdke todlsh mwlekeri, and dkeiwpo wojdap wieorot woeikd ih sowheiwo rowierhs.” I’m not sure what reason he’s giving, but I tend to think it has something to do with the fact that no one can ever understand a goddamn word he is saying. Ever. No, it ’twouldn’t.
So who would it be? Definitely not Brodie and his mullet. No reasonable teacher would allow that hairstyle to survive and prosper at this school. And what about everyone’s favorite ex-military man McD? He has the deltoids and abs to survive in the real Survivor, certainly. But that will get you nowhere here. Recently he put a sign on his shelf reading, “THE STUFF ON THIS SHELF IS NOT PUBLIC PROPERTY. HANDS OFF,” which I think somehow alienated the majority of the other teachers. It was completely unnecessary, since none of us want his Listerine, razors, cologne, or collection of muscle tees, and we definitely aren’t interested in pilfering his lesson plans, which we imagine contain multiple-choice exercises like:
Please write the correct choice on the line. If you circle the answer and don’t write it on the line, the answer is wrong. Sorry. I can’t help you if you don’t follow directions. Pay attention next time.
1) McD gave his girl a dozen roses and took her out to Applebee’s ____________(to celebrate/for celebrating) their one-week anniversary.
