Harry Lime
The occasion is the 19th annual Tokyo International Coin Convention and, as chance would have it, we don’t actually have any coins to sell. They are being held by Japanese Customs, who are curious about certain things which will go unmentioned here. Chris, my coworker, is none too pleased: “This will probably be a buying trip for you and a paid vacation for Gabe.”
Thankfully, our trusty friend Clark offers to help and soon we are on the blower with DHL Japan, explaining our predicament. Our contact person there is a certain Mr. Hirai, chosen for his decent English abilities.
Here’s the thing. To avoid confusion, Clark says he is me, James Ricks, and gives his wife’s cell phone number. When I speak to Mr. Hirai I explain that I am James Ricks and give our hotel number. When Gabe speaks to Mr. Hirai he explains that he is James Ricks. The weird thing is the first James Ricks speaks fluent Japanese, the other two James Rickses speak no Japanese, and all three sound completely different on the phone.
When two of our three packages get released from customs, we are quite proud of ourselves. But something strange is afoot. I am told by DHL Japan that Mr. Hirai won’t be in till the afternoon, and promptly receive a morning call from him. His English has suffered remarkably in the past twenty-four hours, to such a degree that I can’t understand two-thirds of what he is saying.
At the coin show later that afternoon, Gabe mentions that Mr. Hirai sounds entirely different. If I could distinguish better between Japanese accents, I might even say there were three Mr. Hirai’s…
You can put a monkey in a suit, but….:
Delicious salary-man’s udon lunch, surrounded by other salary-men. Gabe and I love pretending to work.
We descend into a party mode with some packaged donuts. Clark’s wife shows up.
Japanese sign written by our translator Yuriko saying (hopefully) “We buy coins at very strong prices!” One lecherous colleague of ours complains repeatedly that his translator is a “dead dog” compared to the nubile beauty he had last year; it immediately enters our lexicon.
Somehow we end up going to dinner in Shinjuku with two fellow American coin dealers. John, the older gent, is a very decent guy. Andrew, who taught English in Tokyo for two years, turns out to be a total tool, lecturing everyone on logistics (he repeatedly leads us in the wrong direction and insists that we purchase the wrong train tickets) and culture (Gabe just about loses it when Andrew explains what “tempura” is and that sake is “traditionally served in a wood box”).
These octopus balls help drown out the pain of listening to Andrew.
Our old friend Misha has put us in touch with his Tokyo-based friend Gen, a graphic designer and general party-machine with a very appealing relaxed attitude. If Gen were any more laid-back he would be upside-down with change falling out of his pockets.
We beat a hasty retreat from Andrew/Shinjuku and head over to Shibuya to meet Gen, where we hit a mod 60s lounge and throw back some energy drinks and beers on the rainy Tokyo streets.
Next it’s off to meet Gen’s friends Ai and Kaname at a lounge somewhere to the southwest. They’re very sweet and have both lived in NYC; Ai was training as a dancer with Alvin Ailey. Unfortunately it seems my camera is dying.
We want to dance. Gen suggests we head out to Womb, back in Shibuya. We cab it there and enter an underground door, which leads to a five-story club drenched in pounding house music. My camera is now totally dead but suffice it to say that we leave completely obliterated, stinking of cigarettes and sweat. In some ways I look like I just exited the womb—wet, red in the face, and gasping for air. I squeeze one pic out of the camera battery, the 530 am Tokyo dawn. We have to be up for work in 3 hours. I feel unusual.
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