Seats are assigned. Coats and hats come off. Cigarettes and lighters come out. Ashtrays are
distributed. Our server appears with news about specials, and fields arcane questions about food
and preparation. Drinks are ordered. The menu is scrutinized. We choose dishes to assemble a meal.
And conversation ensues. It’s one thing to observe in Tokyo, and something else to join in. I was
more than a bit nervous about how this was going to work out.
There were no chips. No salsa. It’s possible there weren’t even Mexican beers. Let’s say that almost
nothing on the menu would be found in a Mexican restaurant in Los Angeles. Consider the ever-popular
“hot dog” appetizer, a cooked hotdog on a plate. I’m sure spaghetti was offered as well.
I don’t remember what we ordered. Maybe a noodle dish with beef and vegetables. Rice, I think.
I think the soft tacos came featured an umiboshi right in there with a lot of vegetables and what must
have been a soybean paste. We dined and smoked and talked for a couple of hours. Turning over
tables doesn’t seem to be important to restauranteurs. At one point, Reiko had to have tequila,
and pulled out her ID card before the server asked for it. I’m sure there are situations where she
could pass for 12 under close scrutiny. When I met her, she was nearly 29.
Satoshi managed the camera for a group shot, and we collected
our things. I wasn’t allowed to pay. We stepped out into twilight
on the narrow lane outside and said our goodbyes. I was glad
to meet such nice people, and regretted that it wasn’t very
likely we’d ever do it again. Ha!
My friends went to find their truck. and I turned on my
heels to find a short cut back to the nearby Fukudaya.
Four hours later, I approached the hotel from the
opposite end of the compass.
Being lost at night in Tokyo was relaxing.
The empty streets were quiet and well-lit.
Jindoohanbaiki appeared often enough.
Lighted maps spotted subway entrances.
I found a tall stone staircase, past a
dark cemetary and adjacent to a lonely
causeway. Neatly stacked up the steps
were the boxed-and-wrapped contents
of someone’s life. On the top step, under
a tent, slept  the man who was calling this
place his home. A friend had brought bread
for Rieko, and she insisted that I take some
with me. I slipped it inside the tent.