First Contact

by Karin De Havin

  “Next Saturday, Shinjuku, seven o’clock.”

  Wow, he sure moved fast. “Deal. Now tell me where the club is—now!”

  “Alright. I see you’re in a hurry to meet mister right. Just head back down Matsuri and look for a tall black building with a giant Suntory whiskey sign on top. Have fun.”

  He clicked off. Could he be a tiny bit jealous? No time to think about Kenzo. I needed to find the club. I raced zigzagging through the young trendy crowd as I looked anxiously for the tall building with the Suntory sign amid the endless advertising. Finally, after backtracking for blocks, I hit the curb next to the building. Fudo paced back and forth in front of the huge entrance doors.

  He spotted me and ran up and gave me a big hug. “I am so glad you found me. If you did not come soon, I was going to call the police.”

  Leaning into Fudo’s chest, I realized I’d never noticed his conservative shirts concealed a very muscular body. I broke his hold, remembering his knockout girlfriend. “I’m glad, too.”

  Good thing he hadn’t notified the police. I had a bad habit of not taking my foreign identity card with me. Funny, I guess it was because I no longer felt like an outsider. Well, at least until the next time I got lost.

  Once inside the building, we crammed into a packed elevator the size of a coat closet and zoomed to the tenth floor. I had one girl’s head practically wedged under my chin the whole way. The doors opened and everyone rushed forward. I took a deep breath and stood staring at the neon sign hanging above a purple door that said, “Plum Toe.”

  I started to laugh.

  “I know. A stupid name. The owner thinks it is cool. Japanese do not care what English words mean just what they look like. That is Janglish for you.”

  That was the best explanation I’d heard so far. We sat down close to a ridiculously small stage. The bands instruments were already set up. Muki headed our way and leaned over and said something to Fudo.

  Muki looked great in his skintight black leather jeans. His T-shirt said, “Stud.” He seemed a lot taller. He walked away wearing platform boots with heels at least six inches high. He flicked his long mane and swaggered like a total “rock star.” The announcer screamed Monkey Breast as the guys ran up onto the stage.

  What happened next could only be described as a musical disaster. The band was beyond terrible. Their music sounded like they hadn’t tuned their instruments for a year. The keyboard player, whose outfit could only be described as sausage-like, played so badly I swore he’d never taken a single lesson.

  Fudo gave me a curious smile—set up once again. He knew they were terrible. Maybe he just wanted to kill my crush on Muki. It was working marvelously. If Muki thought his band was headed for fame, he needed to get a clue. Still, he was super cute.

  I decided to grin and bear it with the help of my fingers in my ears—the instant earplug of choice. The lead singer’s voice sounded like an animal dying. This was not the J pop I heard on TV, all sugar coated and warm and fuzzy. The guitarist played so fast the sound seemed like a crazed chicken running back and forth across the strings.

  My torture lasted for exactly twenty minutes. I had nothing else to do but watch the time. Finally, the set ended. We waited for Muki to come out after breaking down his drums. I didn’t have the heart to tell him his timing was one of the worst I’d ever heard, and I grew up hearing some pretty bad garage bands.

  I turned to Fudo. “Tell Muki not to give up his day job.”

  He didn’t know what I was talking about at first, then a grin came over his face.

  “Very amusing. I will tell him you liked it very much.”

  I gave Muki a huge smile as he called the lead singer over. “You big American fan.”

  I was grateful he could speak English. “Oh, yes, totally.”

  The singer reached out his hand. “Norio. Good meet you.” He pointed to my bulging cleavage. “Nice.”

  Norio and Muki sat down next to me. Muki put his arm around me and the groupies’ glares felt as if they were burning holes through my clothes. “So happy you see band.”

  I wished I could say the truth. “You were awesome.”

  He nodded his head, apparently believing his own hype. “We make record. You come see?”

  Normally I’d be beyond thrilled. “I’d love to, but I don’t have the time.”

  He looked confused. Oops. I didn’t mean to be rude but sometimes I’m just not that good at hiding my feelings. My mouth gave me away every time.

  Muki looked at me and frowned. Then he turned his back to me and started talking rapid-fire to Norio. So much for my rocker fantasy. Guess I better step up my game with Kenzo.

  Fudo looked at me sheepishly as we got up and waved good-bye. “I should have told you the band was terrible, but I knew you wanted to see Muki again.” His tone sounded a little jealous, but his smile looked like he was gloating.

  “Look, Fudo, he’s cute and I wanted to hear his band, but that’s all. I’m here to study.” Talk about lying.

  Fudo looked at me, but said nothing. We got on the train and he remained silent. I stared out at the city lights. Tokyo was a funny city. During the day she sulked gray and ugly like a worn-out old lady. In the evening she became a showgirl in a flashy gown sparkling with the colors of the neon signs.

  He touched my shoulder, tearing me away from the kaleidoscope view. “Erin, I am going to get off at the next exit. I need to visit a friend.”

  Wait a second. Was Fudo’s English continuing to improve? “Okay. I know the way. Have a good time.” I thought he might be going to see his girlfriend because he felt guilty about taking me out. I was probably flattering myself.

  Fudo left me alone to contemplate my rotten luck with guys. Still, my odds were looking a bit more promising in Japan. I’d met so many guys. One of them had to work out. Maybe my relationship dry spell would finally end. It’d better if I wanted to cross off number one on the list.

  At the next stop, the doors swung open. I couldn’t believe who got on—a young Sumo wrestler. He had on a traditional black kimono and wore high platform sandals called geta. His broad shoulders grazed the door as he came in. No mounds of blubber in sight. In fact, he looked in great shape and had the most striking cheekbones. He seemed more like an American muscle-bound WWE champion than a Sumo wrestler. Well, except for his hair, which was styled just like in the Samurai movies. For some reason that didn’t seem like the only thing otherworldly about him.

  The passengers spoke in hushed tones as they gazed at the huge kimono-clad figure. Two young boys walked carefully up and held out paper and pens. He smiled down at them and scrolled his signature. The boys giggled and raced back to their seats. Standing next to him, fame oozed out of his pores. He also had the same charm and confidence as Kenzo. There was a distinct aura around his body—he almost glowed. I wondered if all successful people had such a powerful energy. Not like I had many chances to meet them in Magic Valley Idaho.

  I tilted my neck back to get a better look at his face. He gazed down at me and gave me a big smile. Not wanting him to think I was a crazy American stalker Sumo fan, I smiled back. I wondered if Tori would let me change number one on the list to a famous sports figure instead.

  We rode together for a couple of stops, smiling back and forth at each other. Suddenly he leaned over, reached into his kimono sash and pulled out his business card. “Name’s Shiro. Call me.”

  Chapter 10

  Oops—I Missed the Last Train

  September 17, Noon

  The Hello Kitty clock meowed twelve times, warning me I’d barely make it to meet the Sumo wrestler for our one o’clock coffee date. What happened to my fifteen-minute power nap? A bigger question is why did I take the plunge and give Shiro a call? Simple answer—anything to get out of the Mori house.

  Luckily, I only had to take six stops towards Tokyo to get to our meeting place. I approached the Starbucks look-a-like coffeehouse right across from the station and couldn’t miss my date. He towere
d over the window display and wore the same traditional kimono from our first meeting. What a pair we were going to make. I promised myself I’d resist the temptation to ask him a bunch of cliché fan questions even though I was dying to know how they tied the fancy loincloths they wore.

  Shiro waved as I crossed the street. “Hi. Nice to see you.”

  I stood in his shadow amazed at the sheer size of the man. Somehow the rays from the sun made his aura glow even brighter than the first time I saw him. “Great to see you, too.”

  We walked into the coffeehouse and the customers whispered and pointed in our direction. Several stood up and took pictures. Shiro sauntered up to the Formica counter and the barista gasped. I don’t know if she even heard us as we placed our orders.

  “Please, sit here.” The sumo wrestler pointed to a fake wood table right by the entrance.

  I got the feeling the paparazzi might not be far behind, as a group of teenagers circled by the window where we sat. Would I be on the cover of a Japanese celebrity rag by tomorrow?

  The waitress’ hands shook as she handed me my latte. “You sure have a lot of fans,” I said eyeing the ever-growing crowd that included two guys with their cell phones at the ready. This time I didn’t freak out. YouTube and Japan were a reality I couldn’t escape.

  Shiro smiled and waved at the ever-increasing crowd. “I won, so they like me now.”

  I stuffed back a laugh. “I hope you keep winning.”

  Shiro took a big sip of his double espresso. “Me too.”

  There seemed to be a disadvantage to having a celebrity date. Sometimes as a blonde girl, I attracted a crowd, but my date attracted a horde. I couldn’t think of anything clever to say, as I didn’t know Sumo lingo. “Nice weather today.”

  He gazed out the window. “Yes. Sunny but cool.”

  This had to be ideal weather for him. The hot humid summers must be unbearable for someone his size.

  Shiro eyed the crowd, which had now doubled. “How you like Japan?”

  This was the number one question I was always asked by the locals. “I love it. The place is everything I read about and more.”

  “I like Japan, too, but I am from Fiji.”

  I thought there was something different about him. Underneath the glow of his skin lurked an awesome tan. Funny, it never occurred to me the ancient sport of Sumo would have foreign players just like basketball and baseball back home. “Well, at least you’re still on an island.”

  As he laughed, his tiny belly rhythmically jumped up and down. “Yes. Island people are special.”

  “I know. It’s another thing I’m learning being here.”

  He reached across the table and stroked my hand. “I like you. Hotel down the street.”

  I almost spit my mouth full of latte all over the table. This was one fast moving Sumo wrestler. “I usually wait at least until the third date.”

  “You don’t like me?” He actually looked hurt.

  “I don’t know you.”

  “I am great lover.”

  Now I got the picture. He must have been used to women throwing themselves at him. I liked my dates to move a lot slower. “I’m sorry. I’m not that kind of girl.”

  Shiro stood up and almost knocked his chair over. “Too bad. I’m large everywhere.”

  I watched him walk away and called out, “I hope your loin cloth falls off in your next fight.”

  On the way home to cheer myself up, I decided to put Fudo’s version of O-B-N into action and do a little grocery shopping for the Moris. I picked up a carton of milk, four boxes of Little Pockys-chocolate covered pretzels that were Aki’s favorite treat, and a big bag of tangerines for the ancestors. This morning Okasan had been complaining how her ancestors were big eaters. With my busy life, I had actually forgotten about my unusual sighting in the shrine room on the night of the laundry disaster. Mostly because there had been no more close encounters since that night. Although I admit the constant disappearance of the abundance of tangerines in the shrine bowl every week did make the hairs on the back of my neck quiver. Okasan seemed not to be surprised.

  I shook off my ghostly imaginings and picked up the pace as I walked the mile home. It felt good to do something nice for the family. Not that I expected them to truly appreciate my effort. I put the milk in the tiny fridge and felt glad I had thought to double book. I still had my date with Kenzo. He had promised to take me to see his favorite band to prove Japan actually produced some decent rock musicians. I looked forward to a fun night with my goateed man.

  The buzz of the impending mahjong game in Hiroshi’s room filled the house. I recognized all the guys. Thankfully, I didn’t see the fake rock star Muki. Maybe he was actually practicing his drums.

  Fudo stood in the hallway, looking handsome in his blue button-down shirt and razor pleated navy trousers.

  “Hey, Fudo. How’s it going?”

  He looked pleased to see me. “I heard you have a date tonight.”

  “How did you know?”

  Fudo gave me a quick smile. “Oh, the whole town knows.”

  I let out a sigh. “Did Hiroshi put it in the papers?”

  “No. He put it on his Twitter feed. Along with a link to your YouTube videos. I see you are dating celebrities now. Shiro Inagi—impressive.”

  Goosebumps formed on my arms. How did Hiroshi know about Shiro? I never even told Gina or Setsuko. Did he have a bug set up in my room?

  “Great. So, the Elvis fans and the whole mahjong gang knows?”

  Fudo worked his way towards Hiroshi’s room, totally ignoring my question. “I heard you are going to see another band tonight. You are brave.”

  This was too much. I really needed to check and see if Hiroshi hid a bug in my room. Unless there was another explanation for how he seemed to know everything about my life. Could my Elvis impersonator host brother be psychic?

  On the plus side, I’d never heard Fudo try to be witty. There was hope for him yet. Not to mention he earned extra points for being kind enough to keep quiet about my YouTube performances.

  “Yes, but I brought something for my ears this time.”

  “Good.” He entered Hiroshi’s den of iniquity. “Have fun tonight.” He gave me a sly grin. “You know where I will be.”

  I certainly did. Hiroshi was notorious for mahjong games that lasted days.

  Trudging upstairs, I spent the next hour in my room catching up on some homework and thoroughly enjoying half a box of Little Pockys. Then I went back downstairs and got out the vacuum cleaner. Okasan left to go shopping after breakfast, but first she made sure to point out a few dust bunnies before she left. I figured if I did a quick pass around the living room, the boys would hear, and Hiroshi could report back to his mother.

  With only an hour before my big date, I finally picked a fashion surprise for Kenzo, my pretty floral skirt. It was just above the knee, so I’d be safe around the trains. I hadn’t planned on dating or the need to impress a guy, so I packed accordingly.

  Well, except for my look like a 20-year-old hottie outfit. My mother’s occasional raids on my closet made not leaving it at home a no-brainer. She’d think I had a secret life. Besides, I knew I wouldn’t have much luck finding my size in Japan. I was your regular size eight kind of girl—not a zero. My only option to improve my wardrobe was to ask my mom to send me more clothes. As everyone in the house was busy, I decided to sneak down and give her a call. I needed to send out a fashion SOS.

  I called her cell. It didn’t ring but went straight to voice mail. She had to be at the office. Mom always turned her phone off when she was working. “Hey, Mom, just thought I’d touch base. Wondered if you’d do me a favor and send another box of clothes. I need some nicer things to wear. Going to see a friend perform tonight and I’m stuck with my gallery outfit. Hope you’re well. Say hi to Dad and the twins.”

  Back up in my room, the Kitty clock meowed five times. I needed to get dressed and put on my full-on model face, which included the dreaded black masc
ara. I had to glob it on to get my lashes looking thick and fabulous but hated when it proceeded to flake off in tiny pieces all night and drive me crazy. The things women put up with to look good for men.

  Dashing down the stairs, hopefully dressed to impress, I opened the front door, but Hiroshi called, “Erin, come here.”

  Great, now I had to be checked out by the mahjong gang. I reluctantly walked over to Hiroshi’s room and waved to the guys. Fudo whistled. I think the other guys were a bit shocked—their mouths hung open. The fact I had on a nice tight top with some major cleavage peeking out probably had something to do with it.

  Fudo said, “He is a lucky guy, this Kenzo.”

  How did he know his name? Hiroshi struck again. I couldn’t believe he had the nerve to broadcast Kenzo’s name all over his Twitter page. Like the YouTube videos weren’t bad enough.

  “Wish me luck.” Let Fudo chew on that line for a while.

  Before I could get my foot out the door, Okasan screamed, “Erin, yusugimasu,” and pointed toward the kitchen.

  Oh crap. I forgot to do the dishes. Here I tried so hard to put O-B-N into effect. If I didn’t leave now, I’d be late for my big date. The choice was easier than I thought. My hand turned the knob and I quietly snuck out the door.

  The ride into Shinjuku was a little different than usual. A lot more people looked at me and they weren’t just men. I couldn’t wait to get back into my uniform and blend in. At least as much as a blonde girl could.

  I walked quickly through the station and stood in front of a screen two stories high like the one in Times Square. The locals called it the Jumbo Tron. It played a video of some pop star with a ridiculously short pink skirt who looked about ten. She danced around and hopped in and out of a vintage red convertible sports car. I watched the entire video, waiting for Kenzo. At least he and I had something in common—lateness.

  Twenty minutes later, Kenzo came towards me decked out totally in leather. I had left my real leather at home, not wanting to look like I was trying too hard.