Tokio Whip

by Arturo Silva

  –Hiroko.

  –Hiroko?

  –No not our Hiroko, Hiroko Yakushimaru.

  –Whatever happened to her, by the way?

  –I think she got married. Maybe to some pop star, and then she sort of faded away. Like most idols. She was near the heights for a while, but just couldn’t sustain it.

  –So what about her?

  –Did you ever see her first film? Some gangster thing, and she was in high-school. Maybe her father was a yakuza or something, but anyway, she joined in the gang, in the mayhem.

  –That’s another example – that yakuza series where the gang is ruled by the old oyabun’s wife.

  –Yes, with that great actress, you know, the sister of Tora-san’s sister. Anyway, the poster for the Hiroko Yakushimaru movie was of her in sailor suit, holding up a machine gun, and a trickle of blood flowing down one round baby cheek. Very sexy. I have a copy somewhere around here, I’ll dig it out for you later.

  –This is better than talk TV. High-school will never be the same again. And it’s so appropriate too, don’t you think? This country has to wake up to its sexual selves, it’s been in denial for too long.

  –?

  –Well, maybe not.

  –Time to have fun! Puberty’s sure going to be even a lot more fun.

  –Puberty, fun?

  –Oh yes. I had a great time.

  –Mine was awful, I had no idea what was happening to me, no control.

  –Yes, I’ve heard that can happen. It doesn’t have to, though. But, we’re going to redress the nation! Now what about the salary-men and office ladies?

  –Ugh, what a challenge. No cross-dressing there.

  –Right, let’s deal with them later. I do like sushi chef’s uniforms.

  –Me too, they stay the same.

  –I know: elevator girls.

  –Yuck, those awful hats, Matsuya, Takashimaya, each department store trying to out-awful the next. The gloves, the gestures.

  –I see them in lingerie.

  –I’d like to, too, but … let’s see … why uniforms at all? Why not just dress as they like, except for something that identifies their job – like a belt, or a scarf, or even a hat? But something really striking, let them maintain a shred of self-respect.

  –You have a gift, Arlene.

  –I may have a calling. Who’s next?

  –Uhm … taxi-drivers!

  –Oh, those blue suits. Doesn’t that material prevent the circulation, or kill brain cells, or something?

  –It must, they never know where they’re going. How they qualify for their jobs, I’ll never understand.

  –I think it’s because they keep the city clean, they’ve been mistakenly classified, you know, those long feather dusters they’re always wiping their cars with.

  –And gloves again!

  –And doilies!

  –That country groveling again, too.

  –So what do we do with them?

  –You mean after they come out of the getting-to-know-the-city class? Well, hell, again, why uniforms at all? The cab itself is uniform enough, and that little ID that’s always on the dash board.

  –But why uniforms at all?

  –What do you mean?

  –Only that maybe there is a reason for all those uniforms after all.

  –Think so?

  –Sure, after all, the whole country agrees on them, no one complains about it. Have you ever stepped into an elevator and seen an elevator girl complain about her uniform, her hat and gloves, her very role?

  –No, but then I’ve never seen an elevator girl with anything that resembles a human emotion.

  –But maybe that’s it?

  –What?

  –Well, that it is just a role, and the uniform, no matter how awful, is your costume for that day’s performance. Let’s say you’re an elevator girl for two or three years, or selling towels or doilies in Mitsukoshi, well, those two or three years are how long your show runs. You have the same costume and you say the same lines, that’s a play. And you know as well as I that those same elevator girls without human emotions as you say, or those salesladies or office ladies or salary-men all have lives outside the … well, when they come off stage.

  –Hmm … Maybe. Then my calling is all in vain?

  –No, not necessarily.

  –Why not?

  –Well, the elevator girls and taxi-drivers and all the others are all adults. They’ve chosen their roles. High-schoolers have not, and they’re at an age where their roles, sexual and otherwise, haven’t yet jelled –

  –You mean solidifed, concretized.

  –Right. So, anyway, they’re at an age where they’re still open to, well, open to every possibility. Society demands them in uniform. We just change uniform, change the look; the kids’ll take care of the rest.

  –Sounds good.

  –Sounds promising.

  –Got a sketchbook?

  –Yes.

  –Boy or girl first?

  –Boy-girl, girl-boy.

  ***

  Oh, city, oh you – you have become home – for now – perhaps for me and Lang – could he ever accept – but in the meantime – the balance of it, one roof – ah, what you’ve given me – this unexpected unsuspected rediscovery – for the moment then – this city oh city you!

  ***

  –And from Akihabara you get to Kanda, and from Kanda –

  –Oh, from Kanda you can get to Tokyo, sure, but from anywhere you can also get to anywhere else, that’s the beauty of it –

  –Part of it – of the beauty.

  –And that the Yamanote doesn’t contain the city; it’s just a convenience to stay inside or outside the loop –

  –The lasso –

  –The great wheel –

  –Sounds like a game show –

  –It is!

  –After all, more of the city is outside than in.

  –Ok, so what’s on the other side of Ueno station?

  –Asakusa, for one.

  –Four or five wards.

  –Two more rivers, one frontier after another.

  –That’s it, isn’t it? Frontiers on either side –

  –No, frontiers all over, what is it to walk even here in Ueno but adventure –

  –The unknown!

  –No man’s land!

  –Everyone’s!

  –Almost literally – Saigo as the Statue of Liberty welcoming the huddled masses.

  –Pretty huddled for sure.

  –Pretty unpublicized.

  –Our drunk, our homeless, our own accursed.

  –Driven from Ueno –

  –Driven from Harajuku –

  –Driven from Shinjuku –

  –And back to Ueno –

  –And driven again.

  –Something’s gotta give.

  –Here.

  –Here.

  –Look there – do you see what I see?

  –Uhm –

  –Too late. Gone.

  –Kazuko, are you alright? Shall we take a rest?

  –No, no, I’m fine. I was just thinking about home, about Kyoto, about – no, let’s keep walking.

  –Sure?

  –Yes.

  –Straight on?

  –Is that possible?

  –Or shall we take a detour, see the river, reminisce?

  –Which river? Reminisce about what?

  –I don’t know, I thought that’s what rivers are for.

  –Amongst other things.

  –And then what, head back, back to Chuo Dori, on to Akihabara and past –

  –Kanda –

  –Full circle.

  ***

  –If I stay?

  –Go then.

  –And if I go?

  –I stay, regardless.

  –And if I go?

  –You’ll return.

  –And if I stay.

  –I’ll be here, Lang.

  ***

  –Hey, doesn’t anybody want to
dance? Why’s this party so dead? Hey, does anybody hear me?

  –Hiromi, it’s 3AM, comeon. Let’s go home.

  –So early? I wanna dance som’more.

  –If we go home, I promise I’ll fuck your brains out.

  –You did that this afternoon.

  –And this morning. I didn’t hear you complaining. In fact I heard you asking for more. I also heard –

  –That was then, this is now. And besides, I dance even better than I fuck.

  –True.

  –?

  –…

  –I mean I like dancing even better than fucking.

  –Oh?

  –Well, proper things at their proper places.

  –Proper?

  –Oh, you know what I mean.

  –Ok, one more, and then we go home.

  –Oh, you sweetie.

  –But what if I’m too tired when we get home? What if you exhaust me on the dance floor?

  –Don’t worry about that. Hey, where did everybody go?

  –You mean working people who have to get up early in the morning?

  –Ok, ok. I’m ready to go.

  –But I gotta finish this last beer.

  –I thought you wanted to fuck?

  –I also want to finish this beer I just paid for.

  –You’re so mercenary.

  –And cute – you told me so.

  –Did I say that?

  –Yes, you did. Gimme a kiss.

  –Not here, not in public.

  –What? You talk – you shout out loud in a disco about fucking, and then you can’t even kiss me?

  –They’re two different things.

  –Are they?

  –Yes.

  –Well, I suppose, but –

  –But nothing. Kissing is … kissing is … it’s like a sign, it’s tender, it’s a –

  –And fucking?

  –Well, fucking is something else.

  –Some people call it making love.

  –Yes, some people.

  –And you?

  –Well, it can be that. But it can also be something else.

  –And with me?

  –It’s something else!

  –Uhm, thanks.

  –Don’t mention it. Did everyone really go? So early? Why?

  –I told you why.

  –Oh yeah. Mmm, this is good, what’s it called?

  –Brandy Alexander.

  –Like the Greek? I studied history, you know.

  –No, I don’t know. Comeon, Hiromi.

  –Comeon what? Wanna kiss me?

  –I thought it wasn’t proper?

  –Everything in its place and time.

  –So, can we go home?

  –Is that proper?

  –At 4AM, I think so.

  –Will you fuck me again, properly?

  –Improperly.

  –Promise?

  –Promise.

  –Ok. Remember, you promised.

  –I promised.

  –God, what a dull party.

  ***

  Oh you’re true, and you’re duplicitous too, Tokyo. I have your number – and I have hers.

  ***

  SCENE TWELVE: RESTAURANT

  A restaurant in Yanaka, three storied, wood, Taisho Period – really, a monument to that era, here in shitamachi, what an older Tokyo resembled – kushiage, everything on sticks, good if a bit monotonous, not cheap. All of the private rooms are taken (a fashion magazine party; a tryst; a sealed deal). There is a “waiting room-cum-coffee/tea shop” next door. A row of tables, a thin aisle, a three-tatami kitchen, and so unlike the restaurant in its minimalist décor, quiet mood. They are a pair, big sister and little, trad girl and modern, tea and coffee with cream.

  But this is her last photo, her last chance to meet her man.

  But it is also too late.

  In slow motion – like something out of Jean Epstein – we see the woman enter the now empty restaurant – how had she missed the departing customers? – except for an attractive woman, the shop’s kindly owner – apologizing, explaining that they have closed, is something wrong?, can I help you? – and then she sees the portfolio in the Woman’s arms, even seems to recognize it: “Oh, I believe this belonged to that nice gentleman who just left. Is he a friend of yours? He mentioned that someone might be coming by to pick up a package for him. Here, he left this for you.” And she hands the Woman a portfolio filled with color photographs of twelve different buildings in Tokyo. “He said you would know where to find him.”

  END

  As the credits for the film roll by, behind them we see footage of van Zandt’s original film, the one that caused the rupture between he and his once closest friend Roberta.

  We see the legs of the man, going up a flight of stairs. We hear a door slam. We hear a muffled argument between a man and a woman. We hear a door slam and a man’s steps rushing down a staircase. We then see the Woman rushing out of an elevator on the same floor where the argument occurred. Too late.

  Marui in Shibuya. We see the great escalator system, the shoppers like ants or bees bringing their food – blouses, skirts, accessories, bags – back home. She rushes in. A crowd of young shoppers. The sound of the man’s rushing steps. She stops and buys an accessory – cheap, kitsch – on the first floor.

  A helicopter shot of Shinjuku that circles in on the station building. We see the woman get off the Seikyo Line – why has she been north? Interior: She climbs a flight of stairs but it does not lead to any exit, rather another mall of shops and fast-food stalls; she goes down another flight, turns left, no not that way, doubles back, finds at least a place to turn her ticket in, but still no station exit. This goes on and on, the woman rushing towards what appears to be an exit but in fact is not and only leads to many more false leads, banks, copy shops, cafés, and so on. It is – Roberta was right – almost a parody of Kafka. At the end of this sequence, she half kneels in exhaustion, hiding her face in her handkerchief – as we see the man’s legs pass directly in front of her.

  Two cars approach as two pedestrians approach. A screech, a scream. A moment of silence, a siren.

  The steps of a station. All feet rushing. No faces. The rush of feet; the Man’s feet; the Woman’s. Doors shut before the Woman can get in.

  We see a car stop, a door opens, a hand appears, shoes are handed out, laid on the ground, feet and legs emerge and fill the red leather shoes. The car takes off. Are they the Woman’s leg’s? This last is repeated and varied over the remaining credits, in increasingly closer shots on the woman’s feet and shoes until the colors of flesh and leather merge into a blur that resembles a photograph of … the first building.

  ***

  So today they asked me what I think of his idea of loving the whole city? Do those idiots really expect me to take away from the company’s and my valuable time to respond to such an absurd question? Absurd for what I should think would be obvious reasons. First, you don’t love a city, you live in it and work in it. If you make enough money, you can enjoy more parts of it than I can. If you don’t, well you enjoy what you can afford, a few friends, a few bars and restaurants, maybe a park if we had any. You don’t even love your home, you take care of it, like your family. If not, then you’re out. Second, can this even be considered a city? It is a monster, it’s unnatural. It would take an unnatural love to love this thing. I can’t waste my time on this, I have work to do. (“Kaoru! We need you for a minute.”) If he wants to “love the whole city,” let him do it without bothering me any further.

  ***

  She walked pigeon-toed at an angle that put her face before her feet, as if she were forever about to stumble, as if she had learned to walk going down a flight of stairs.

  And when she sat she would put the toes of her two feet together and stare at her two-tone, round-toed shoes, wondering why both those boys van Zandt and Lang wore pointy-toed shoes, “points,” they called them. Points? She didn’t get it.

  She wondered if she woul
d forever be doomed to walking the streets unrecognized; why did fame elude her?, where were the hordes of screaming fans outside the city’s television stations that were her birthright?, why was it that she so often spent time – alone – in cafés, gazing at the passing crowd, flipping through magazines and comics and only looking at the ads and the nudes? And speaking of the crowd, what was that word van Zandt had taught her, agoraphobia?, at least it was easy to pronounce, and reminded her of one of her favorite Spielberg movies. Why, when she preferred the cheap and good coffee at Doutor, Pronto and the other chains, why did van Zandt prefer Rilke in Shimbashi or Poem in other places, for that matter why did he get his hair cut at Dante? His style of doing things was certainly not that of her usual crowd of friends. Would she ever understand him? And if she did, would that lead to fame? Would he ask her to be in one of his films? And if she did achieve fame that way, would she then have to share it? Could she?

  Her eyes really did look as if they had been formed thanks to a short, quick slice of a razor; barely emergent, like some small beast’s, one looked more at the slit than the feeling or intelligence behind or within or wherever it may be.

  When she worried, like that guy in the Richie film, she rubbed her nose.

  She was incontinent – just a small trickle – when she was sincere.

  And she would squeal: at the zoo (the sight of a panda); the first tinklings of the glass chimes attached to the blue and white banners announcing an ice cream stand on the first day of the summer heat; at the sight of a handsome foreigner.

  And what was it Lang had told her when she had told him that she liked hiking, day trips outside of Hachioji and around Mount Takao? What was it he said about he being a hiker too – that there was Dogenzaka (cigars at Tokyu), Kudanzaka (North Indian food), Nogizaka (a detour), and a “Rat Slope” and others with weird names, and one that reminded him of how much he loved Roberta, and all the other slopes worth hiking up – that he was an urban hiker? She just could not understand Lang like she could van Zandt, if she could go so far in saying.

  ***

  R’n’L!!!!!!!!!!!!

  The day my first single got into the Top Ten – with a bullet! – and then the day it went platinum!

  How about disconnecting everything, see what happens, see even if it can be done (maybe not)?

  Just got a copy of The Locket. (Flashbacks within fl’backs w/in ...) Wanna come over and watch it with me? (“Yes, we do ((we do (((we do))) )),” as the Shangri-las sort of said).