The day after the rendezvous Peter went to work like any other day he had ever lived in Japan. He was, as usual, late to the tutoring center, and from then he began his class with a typical, careless haste. And during the 15 minute study break, Peter sat behind his desk, hands folded, his eyes fixated blankly at the clock that hung on the classroom’s back wall. But he wasn’t thinking about what happened the night before. Perhaps one would consider such passionate affection both Peter and the nameless girl displayed on a train platform a strangely monumental event worthy to be relived in the mind again and again. But for Peter, he did it without reason. And without a reason the incident existed with no more importance than taking the Tokyo train home, or having a cup of diluted, lukewarm coffee without cream or sugar. He did it because he could. Because after so many dates it seemed like the proper way to escalate their platonic relationship to the next stage and neutralize the awkward romantic tension. But the day after he was calm and unaffected. He didn’t think of it much, maybe because his mind had started to wander again.

The students were especially rowdy today. With summer rapidly approaching, everyone was dreading the weekly English lesson. By the end of the class, most boys were reading their comic books while the girls had begun touching up their make-up, giggling among themselves as they discussed where to go after the tutoring session. Without thinking too much, Peter ended the class 10 minutes earlier. It was hopeless to tame the students. They were becoming increasingly restless and paid absolute no attention to the remainder of the lecture. But the situation was understandable, afterall, Peter was once a teenager too, so he let them off the hook to fulfill their foolish, wild venture that was called youth. He had wanted to get out too anyway. He was hungry. Without Yoshimi Peter was making lunch himself, but he could never get the portion right. The tomato pasta today had too little sauce and too much spaghetti. He couldn’t finish the tasteless pasta and had to put most of it away.

On the way home Peter bought a Japanese fried chicken dinner from a supermarket. The air became even more humid at night and he didn’t wanted to stay out just to eat. The Japanese supermarket stacked a dozen bento boxes on a cart just inside its entrance with a big picket sign that read “SPECIAL: 598 YEN!” Very special indeed, Peter thought as he walked by, and soon he found himself in line behind a couple Japanese housewives with a bento box in hand. He also picked up a pack of Parliament by the register. Peter had quit smoking when he started dating Yoshimi about two and half years ago. Although there had always been occasional temptations when she wasn’t around, he held back out of respect for his girlfriend. He knew that if he could do it once, he would do it all the time, and that to him, would be just like cheating. He had held his ground without the slightest trace of faltering until a couple weeks ago. After one night of heavy drinking with John in Shinjuku, he woke up fully dressed in bed with a pack of Parliament inside his shirt pocket. 6 cigarettes were missing. That morning he knew he had really ended his relationship with Yoshimi.

By the time Peter returned home, his shirt was drenched in sweat. He took a quick, cold shower with the bathroom window opened. It was only the beginning of the cruel Japanese summer, Peter thought, as he wiped himself somewhat dry with a large towel. The humidity was sticking to his skin and there was no cure besides wearing as little as possible. In fact it seemed that the humidity in the air was seeping into the bento he bought too. As Peter ate half naked by the dining table, he realized both the rice and the entrée were a little too wet for it to be a proper, enjoyable meal. The flavors were oversaturated with moisture unintended by the cooks that made it hours ago. Peter finished his dinner disappointed, blaming not the supermarket that had sold him the special priced dinner box, but the unpleasant weather.

After dinner, Peter took out a can of Suntory beer from the fridge, lit a cigarette and sat on his small sofa listening to Bill Evans’ Sunday At the Village Vanguard. He muted the sound on the TV and turned to some Japanese show that was in search for the best salt flavored ramen around Sapporo. The images of two Japanese men eating inside various ramen restaurants and stalls clashed a little with Bill’s swaying piano performance. But Peter thought it was the best one could do on a hot night in Japan …

Then his cellphone on his desk buzzed twice, signaling an arrival of a text message.

For a split second, Peter thought it was Yoshimi. He fumbled for his phone, but to his dismay, the message came from the girl, the very girl and the very reason why he divorced his girlfriend.

“I am sorry about what happened,” the girl wrote in English, “Booked a table at 37. Please come, or I’ll be alone. Sending you the address. Come at 12 please.”

Another spontaneous invitation that could end in a dramatic closure, but what was 37, Peter wondered as he read and re-read the message. Two minutes later she sent another text message with the address, adding at the end, “please come.” Peter was intrigued. The club, as he assumed, was located off in some small alley probably about 5 minutes walk from Roppongi dori. It was close to where Peter lived but he had never heard of it before. As a resident of the Roppongi district, Peter had always thought that he knew the area well, especially with the night scene. And there was also a 3 month period when he went out with Yoshimi every single night after work just to try out different bars, lounges, clubs, discos in his neighborhood. But 37 certainly did not ring any bell. Probably a new place, Peter concluded, and that conclusion alone was a reason good enough for him to get up from the sofa and get changd.

* * * * *

37 was tucked away in a quiet alley off the party scene of Roppongi. In fact, 37 could turn out to be a hidden gem. There was no visible sign, not even a number on the entrance itself. Peter wasn’t actually able to find it until he realized the label-less 5 story apartment building in the middle of the street between 35 and 39 was probably his final destination. The stand-alone structure looked just like any other semi-luxury apartment built throughout Tokyo in the 80’s – slightly modern, but also just slightly run-down. Its gray tile facade had already turned hazy and lost much of its luster. Despite the moderate deterioration, however, the building held its composure. The second floor balcony on the left had grown a screen of bamboos and the tall skinny greens accentuated the building with a little more elegance. As Peter continued surveying his surroundings, he took a quick peek at his watch. It was then just eight passed midnight. None of the apartments were lit and there was no one around him. Without party-goers’ presence to confirm the exact location of this elusive Club 37, Peter stood confused in the middle of the quiet street, until he noticed that the building had a rusty gold intercom with a built-in numeric keypad next to its tall black wooden door. The intercom had an red buzzer, and right above it was an obtrusive infrared surveillance camera pointing at the direction of those who would dare to approach. Peter gave it a closer examination and saw a small “37″ inked with a black marker on the top, probably for the sake of the mailman and delivery services in the area. With that 37 gave away its location.

Peter pressed hard on the red buzzer, and immediately a female voice speaking perfect British accented English answered, “Name please.”

“Peter, Peter Crawford. I am here for …”

Before Peter could finished, the door had buzzed opened.

Behind the door an elevator situated handsomely next to a dimly lit staircase that led quietly down. To the right of the elevator stood a black square metal planter and a plant that was trimmed to look like a miniature Christmas tree. Two high-power Halogen lights spotlighted in symmetry the elevator and the little tree. Peter pressed “up” button but nothing happened. He waited for a moment and came to the conclusion that the club actually lay beneath him. He walked down the staircase, feeling a little anxious. 37 was different after all. The interior had resembled nothing like its ordinary shell, which had served as an excellent disguise. Its concrete walls were painted glossy black and the stairs, made from very thick and wide wood planks, were suspended in air apparently by some very strong metal bars extended from the ceiling. Peter was thrown off-guard by everything he just experienced inside and continued even more carefully. He was finally greeted by two beautiful tall white women after two flights down. They were the hostesses.

“Hello, your ID please.”
“Thank you. He will show you the way.”

The girl with the British accent confirmed his identity and checked him off from some kind of a list. She gestured Peter to follow a Japanese server who waited behind a thick black velvet drape. The other girl stood by and smiled faintly at Peter.

“This way please,” the young waiter said with a slight Japanese accent. He wore a nicely fitted black suit and walked slowly but confidently ahead. And Peter began to panic a little. Just the trip down from lobby had turned the whole trip from interesting to utterly intense. Even after years of partying both in Tokyo and New York City, Peter had never encountered anything remotely similar. Aside from the black, cold and minimalistic interior, the hostesses were unbelievably beautiful. Not only were they proportionally tall and slender, they carried with them this air of mild arrogance only acceptable for runway models or those truly blessed by the goddess of beauty. They didn’t say much or behaved out of the ordinary, but just a look into their eyes had already intimidated Peter more than ever before. And for them to work as hostesses here would only mean that 37 was not just any club for anyone. It was highly exclusive, off-limit to common citizens of Japan and definitely not a place for a generic English-teaching foreigner like Peter. And he was not dressed properly for the occassion either. Although Peter had suspected 37 to be a nice lounge, and therefore put on his better wardrobe, he didn’t anticipate the scene to be light years ahead. He only wore a black shirt and a pair of grey jeans, and judging by the way the staff dressed, Peter began to assume that people would be fashioned in tuxes. What was more, Peter never gave the stranger girl his name. From the first day they met in the subway until last night on the Yamanote train station, they had not actually exchanged any personal information beyond their cellphone numbers. So how did the hostesses know which table Peter was invited to, he pondered as he followed the waiter through a narrow passage.

37 opened up to a small lounge with a bar. A frosted glass floor in the size of eight tatamis together was illuminated by a faint yellow light from underneath and served as a dance floor in the middle, separating the bar from the seating areas. The lounge was a little empty. A young Japanese man who had a shaved head and wore a pair of tinted Aviator sunglasses was laughing at some comments his two female friends had just made. By the bar, two Japanese men in suits sat chatting with their back towards Peter. Peter looked around the lounge quickly but his girl was not there. The waiter in front had no intention to stop and continued to walk towards another doorway half covered with another black velvet drape. As Peter continued, everyone in the lounge including the bartender paused and turned as he passed by. They resumed quickly but Peter already knew that he did not belong here. He was more than just a foreigner here. He was an outsider now trapped in another world.

Behind the drape was a metal spiral staircase that went up a floor. The server sped up his pace and waited for Peter on the top as he followed hesitantly. The second floor was a much larger dance hall, with eight small tables surrounding the circular dance floor, and eight more semi-open private rooms embedded along the side walls. A large, commanding DJ booth situated on the main stage at the far end, with two additional medium tables on each side. The space is a lot more occupied, but there were still some empty tables and chairs scattered around. The floor was dark, but Peter could see two groups of Japanese women congregating in the middle, dancing closely with each other. Although Peter could not make out their apperance, they shared the same tall, slender physique as the hostesses he met at the door. The Japanese server led Peter through a narrow passage behind the small tables towards the DJ booth. As Peter followed, he realized that most of the tables were occupied by Japanese men, some wearing rather flamboyant T-Shirts, others in suits and ties. This could be an very expensive hostess bar, Peter thought to himself.

The stranger girl sat by herself next to the DJ booth. Four whiskey glasses, a chrome ice bucket with large square ice cubes, and an unopened bottle of Macallan 18 year sat quietly on the table. The girl smiled at Peter and gestured him to sit next to her. As Peter settled in, the Japanese server began pouring whiskey into two glasses.

“Thank you for coming. I really appreciate it,” said the girl in a much more polite manner.
“Not a problem, thank you for inviting me,” replied Peter equally as courteous.
“Strange place huh, is it your first time?”
“Yes, actually,” Peter answered as he added some ice into his glass.
“Cheers,” the girl followed suit and bumped her glass against Peter’s.
“Cheers,” replied Peter, “I thought most girls don’t like whiskey.”
“It’s true. I never really liked any alcoholic drinks. But I grew up in a family where my Dad would drink all kinds of whiskey on a daily basis. Especially at night. He would just sit there, pour some whiskey and read. He taught me some and I got to know a couple I like, Oban, Macallan, Yamazaki. I prefer whiskeys with a slight smoky taste than the blended ones and I figured for a night like this, you’d probably appreciate a nice one like the Macallan 18.”

Peter was surprised by the detailed and personal information she just revealed. These were perhaps the longest sentences she ever iterated to him.

“By the way, I know I never told you my name, and I know you never actually bothered to ask me. It’s OK. It’s mutual I guess,” the girl took another gentle sip from the glass and continued.
“I am Naoko, Naoko Angela Farrell. Japanese call me Naoko but I don’t like that name. My grandma used to call me Angie and I liked it. Just call me Angie,” explained Angie as she put down her glass on the table.
“In Japan I am known as Naoko Hakozaki. Hakozaki is my Mom’s last name. You don’t watch Japanese TV, do you?”
“Not really,” replied Peter as he took his sip.
“If you did, you’d have probably seen me by now.”
“So you are a celebrity.”
“An upcoming one, I suppose.”

There was an awkward silence. The girl had finally opened up to him, Peter thought, and this could turn out to be a long but interesting night. Peter waited, digesting the new information he just received. The Japan he had known seemed to have dissolved before his eyes and replaced by something a little more exciting, but also a little darker and lonelier. He finished his glass of whiskey and poured himself another one.

“So what’s your name?” asked Angie as she stared at the Japanese girls dancing on the floor. There seemed to be more of them now.
“I am Peter.”
“OK Peter,” said Angie grabbing his hand by surprise, “with what happened last night, I’ve decided to tell you some things. Some things that I haven’t really told anyone. Is that OK?”
“Yes,” Peter was caught off-guard and could only produce that response.
“I don’t know, I could speak English with you, which is my native language. There is no one here that I can do that with. And those times we spent together, even though we never really said anything, I like the feeling. The feeling that I know I am with somebody from where I was from, you know. Not from Japan, not this place,” Angie said emotionally and finished her whiskey. Peter poured her another half glass full and dropped into it two ice cubes.
“Thank you,” Angie drank some more and waved at the Japanese server standing by the edge of the dance floor, “Cola please,” she requested in Japanese.
“I feel trapped, and I know you share the exact same feeling as I do,” she let go of Peter’s hand and looked at him in the eyes before continuing on.
“It’s tough for a girl like me to be here you know. Look at the people down there, they are all big shots here in Japan. I mean, 37 is no ordinary place. It’s an invitation only VIP party house for the rich and the famous. You can’t just enter this place, you either have to be a member or you are invited by a member, with a reason. You can’t just walk in and sit down. If you are a new guest, some waiter has to show you to the table before you can roam freely. And I made it here, you know, as a young woman,” Angie paused as she saw the server coming back with a glass bottle of coke. She poured some into another whiskey glass and gestured if Peter wanted some. He nodded.

“I moved around a lot when I was young, Arizona, Texas, California, wherever my Dad could find a job. We weren’t rich but I was good looking and my mother knew that. She knew I had something others don’t, even when I was in pre-school. I had a good face I guess and every year during my summer and winter breaks she would take me back to Japan to try our luck. A person like me would have to work extra hard in the states, but here in Japan, as a mix, I was special. At least a little more special than other good looking young Japanese girls. So sometimes I landed modeling jobs, selling cup noodles, sodas, candies on newspapers and small time magazines. Small jobs but it got me somewhere, gave me a little bit more money and confidence along the way. I didn’t mind it at the time. I like the glamour. They’d dress me up and tell me to lean towards the camera holding a candy bar and smile like a cute girl. It was OK, I was a cute girl anyway. But then I turned 18 and I wanted to just go to college like my high school friends back in California. Live a normal college life for a couple years and try what I really can. But my father passed away and we needed more money.” Angie paused, pouring some Macallan 18 into the glass with coke and drank half of it.

“So my mother sent me back and left me here. She stayed back in the US, because she had a boyfriend. And I was all alone. I had no support and no money. I didn’t even know why I came back. Maybe because I know that my face and my body were worth something. Once I earned enough I could go back to the states and get a college degree. But here I am, after 5 years, at 37. I guess I got somewhere, but I also got nowhere.”
“Cheers to that,” Angie said raising her glass. Peter made a small toast and drank his alcohol in silence.
“I know I am a little selfish bombarding you with all my troubles. Here let’s drink this and we’ll go dancing.” Angie finished her glass of whiskey followed by the one mixed with coke. She dragged Peter into the middle of the dance floor.
“You are probably the only foreigner they’ve seen in months. Westerners are not welcomed here at all, even the big shot Hollywood movie stars. They don’t understand how things work here and they feel awkward. And we feel awkward too because this is our secret place. I was able to get you in today because I said you were my older cousin. I know the owner well and he said OK.”
“Let’s show them how we would dance back in the US,” Angie said putting Peter’s hands around her narrow waist. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and gently rested her head on his chest.
“But that’s actually not how we dance back in the US,” Peter reacted stiffly, being a little shy.
“That’s how I remembered anyway,” replied Angie.

She needed a friend, and some warmth, Peter thought as he rotated slowly in circles with Angie in the middle of the dance floor. The DJ was spinning a familiar hip-hop song by Usher and the Japanese girls were having a ball all around them drinking champagne and cocktails. They didn’t seem to be affected by Peter and Angie’s slow dancing movements. The world had undergone yet another transformation. They were now in a high school prom with a big disco ball dropping a million silver sparkles all over their bodies. It felt good, Peter thought. For a moment, Peter actually finally felt good and connected.

“I think it was destiny,” said Angie gently with her head still leaning on Peter’s chest.
“That day I first saw you in the subway, it was destiny,” she repeated.
“Why do you say that,” asked Peter.
Angie raised her head and looked at Peter. “I never took the subway. People would recognize me. But sometimes I do, because that was how I did it when I was young. I like crowded trains too. That was the only day I ever did take in almost a year. So I think it was really special that I met you there,” said Angie, kissing Peter softly on his neck.
“Thank you. I think so too,” replied Peter, holding onto Angie a little tighter.

18 years of Macallan had spread quietly through the veins inside their bodies. They were both now a little drunk and their movements were becoming even slower. The lights all around them became dimmer, too. Club 37 spinned like an infinite spiral around and around, taking them with all the laughters and sorrows of the city down into the giant hollow hole that lay underneath Tokyo.

I experienced something happy. And like any other experience in life, it’s sometimes difficult to pinpoint exactly what/who had made it happen. So here are some ideas.

* * * * *

I had a dream. And in that dream I was happy. It felt like waking to a summer morning knowing I would hike all day in the Cascades with my mother. It was more like drinking a glass of green tea with three pieces of ice inside bumping against each other. Walking through a short breeze. A simple poem of simple words, maybe. A dedication. A midnight drive. A pair of jazzy hands moving across the keyboard somewhere, I know. A sleepless night turned into a sunrise, into a bright day that shone onto my white curtains. Inside an empty cathedral and I was calm, and I didn’t care. Inside all those thoughts of mine that gave no answer. It was like singing in a shower. Revisiting a city. Taking a bath in a hotel in Budapest, and remembering that I was alone, and sober. Remembering, and continued to remember all the little things. Like the first kiss, and the last goodbye. The tears in her eyes that were true. The tears in my eyes that were true, too. A lecture. A photograph I took. Being in a fog with someone. And finding a piece of art that nobody knew. It was when words expressed were understood. When I completed a book and held it close to my chest to feel the after effect. When I completed anything. It was also TV watching at eleven thirty. Then turning the TV off and shutting everything down. When I slept with no reason. And woke up to no reason, no purpose, no sense of life, just a yawn, a scratch on my head, a rub in my eye. Waking up to a dream. To real life, with a feeling, with a hunch, that was nice and smooth. My heart beating to a new rhythm of certainty when I knew something had changed, forever. When I trembled within while I stood still. When everything loops back to square one. When it was another dejavu with a keener and kinder touch. When it may just be another dejavu, but better.

He lived inside the quiet corridors of the most remote terminals. Like a lost wanderer in deserted tunnels, he was, the ghost of all airports. Always fashioned in a suit, with a black leather briefcase in his right hand, and a cup of locally brewed Joe in his left, he would take small, slow sips from the paper cup while walking down passageways, silently identifying places and faces of people he acquainted years ago.

But no one knew him. At least no one knew who he was. All these years he remained elusive like any other anonymous businessman that had disappeared one after another behind every security checkpoint. If life was a collage of constant coming and going, then his very own would be the motion pictures of all the coming and going in the world, sped up a hundredfold. Everyone came quickly, and left shortly after. No one stayed like he did, perhaps because an airport really served no further purpose other than being a simple point of departure, a midpoint of passing arrivals. But he lived there, his life grounded under each and every empty seat of every waiting room, his time spent waiting along with passengers to leave this place only he’d call home.

Sometimes he would leave too, but only to fly to another city, country, or continent nearby. And when the plane landed, his journey also ended there and then. It was therefore, no surpise that he would, from time to time, lose the track of time and space, unaware of exactly where he was.

* * * * *

When he opened his eyes this morning, his watch had read 02:29am. He was at the end of a narrow terminal, facing an immense open water of what seemed to be a large lake, backdropped with a cascade of mountains that were half covered in snow. He looked around and had then determined that he was in a small regional airport somewhere in Northern Europe. But perhaps he could still be in Chile, Brazil, or Argentina. He remembered being in South America just a few hours ago.

His watch was wrong, though, the day was breaking very slowly, and he could see a light purple hue diffusing right above the emerald water. And the sight was breathtaking. So breathtaking he was drawn to it away from his seat thoughtlessly, like a nightwalker first awakened by a dark spell.

He approached the scene. With hands holding onto the railing, he leaned forward, his head bumped slightly against the window. Never had he seen anything like this before. And he almost had the urge to break through the glass wall that’d denied his any contact with this spectacular phenomenon, which was now being adulterated by the rising sun. To say that his reality was limited within the confines of airports all over the world was an understatement. But with such existence he also had the privilege to observe the world through the eyes of a stationary traveler. Indeed, he had been everywhere, and seen everything, alone, perhaps. But his home was anywhere an airplane could fly to. Yet nothing he had seen until this moment could compare to what was dawning before him.

The ambience was changing capriciously. He knew it wasn’t going to last any longer. He pressed forward a little more, hoping to savor the remaining marvel.

“This is for you.”
A female hand emerged with a fresh Polaroid picture that had just started showing a vague image.
“I took two, this one is for you.”

He looked up. A woman his age had taken a photograph of him as he stood alone in the empty terminal. In the picture was a black silhouette of a tall, skinny man with a briefcase, standing before a peculiar gradient of dark green and purple. He took the photograph in silence.

“It’s unbelievable, isn’t it. So beautiful. I come here all the time just to see this.”
She continued, as though talking to herself.
“And it’s nowhere else in the world, at least for me. Only this airport, this terminal, this angle, this hour of this season…”

He turned toward her. She had made complete sense. And he wasn’t able to utter another word in response, or in elaboration. It was his thought exactly.

“Well, I am Amy.”
“I hope you like the picture.”
The woman turned and left.

Down the corridor he saw a man waiting, his hand extended towards the stranger woman, Amy. She jogged towards him, and extended her own. They joined hands and walked away together.

“I am John,” he said.

The terminal was very well lit now. The lake glowed in a vibrant green under the sun, with small waves glittered in gold. He backed away from the window and followed their trail. As he walked down the corridor, the day’s first flight was about to embark.

“Final boarding call for passengers on flight 724 to Bueno Aires, please proceed to gate 5 immediately…”

He couldn’t make out the rest. He was already running.

–
To be continued, maybe.

Krushed Interludes from Kohn Liu on Vimeo.

I present to you my second mix, titled Krushed Interludes. After this particular set I have depleted all the usable CD’s I own, I think, so it’s about time for me to increase my music library by tenfolds. Back to the mix. I like it a lot, there are some not so smooth transitions, mainly because of the fact that these breakbeat songs are difficult to mix discreetly, I definitely need a scratchable turntable to do it smoothly, with my currently knowledge. Still though, I like the way the music develops. It’s not the typical electronic stuff you hear anyway, and I love breaks, so I’ll stand behind this one for sure.

With a new set of speakers, I found myself listening to music again. Going through records to let the Rainmakers recreate a different sound experience.

Just a little feedback, though, the Rainmakers did reveal the weakness in my set up. I am in no way an audiophile, and I do not ever intend to become one of those snobbish geeks who complains on the slightest “coloration,” or “distortion” of their favorite music due to some mismatch in their 5K cables and their 30K solid state amp. All the junk in talks, bah! But in any case, I think my Onkyo receiver is too bright, and the brightness which I thought was initially a Rainmakers’ problem, actually comes from the source. I had to decrease the treble value by -3, something I normally wouldn’t do. I am in no position to upgrade, so changing the EQ will have to do for now.

Sunaga t Experience (Tatsuo Sunaga) is one of my all time favorite Japanese DJ/Remixer/Musician. He’s got a great command on all type of music, from electronica, all the way down to bossa nova, and Jazz. I bought one of his Jazz Allnighter from Japan last summer and it had opened up some new doors in the world of Jazz. Excellent picks and truly great addition to my feeble collection. Pop one of those CD’s on a long night and you will appreciate much more about Jazz.

This is what I love about Japan, they take things to the next level sometimes. Who knew, a Japanese DJ can compile a series of excellent Jazz picks. This doesn’t even happen so much here in the states – where Jazz lovers sometimes remain a nerdy bunch and the heritage never gets to be passed down across the generation gap. Get into Sunaga’s world, it’ll spin you around in all forms and genres.