J.D. stood in front of the long mirror in the bathroom of his hotel room watching himself tie the obi about the blue and white print kimono. After a few tries, he succeeded in tying it into the traditional male knot, a single-loop with the two end of cloth sticking out five sun each. He rotated the obi clockwise, tightening the fabric about his waist while setting the knot on his back, then pushed the obi down tight on his hips as he had been taught. He adjusted the shoulders to form a perfect V about his neck. It fits perfectly, J.D. thought, until he noticed the strands of chest hair visible inside the V. He considered shaving the hair for a moment before he realized how silly that would be.
The kimono, properly called a dress yukata, was a farewell gift from his homestay family in Osaka. He had lived with them during his first few months in Japan when he had still been unable to speak the language or understand the societal rules. They had supported him, taught him how to survive there, taught him all the new rules. There were rules for everything in Japan, including which days each year he had to return to visit his new family.
The kimono was made of stiff white cotton and decorated with a pattern of blue circles. Each circle was filled with two cranes facing each other, the seal of the ancient Osaka shogunate. The material reached down to within an inch of the floor, the perfect length. Sharp creases extended down the sides of the kimono. Satisfied with his appearance, he started searching through his luggage for the matching pair of straw sandals.
This was the first time that he had worn the kimono. His family had given it to him at the airport before they said their farewell banzai. He had wanted to hug his homestay mother, but that wasn't done in public in Japan, even between real mothers and sons. So he only said yoroshiku and arigatou and mata, ne before he waved sayonara to them from the gate to exit immigration. During the plane ride back, he considered again why he had left San Francisco for Japan five years before. It had been a combination of many factors, from a desire to see more of the world than Arizona where he had been born and San Francisco where he had attended Stanford University, to a place where well paying jobs were plentiful, even for graduates with a degree in journalism, to the only place where he could satisfy his curiosity about Zen Buddhism. His interest in Zen had first been sparked by Salinger's stories which he had begun reading during junior high school, about the same time as his parents' Catholicism had stopped making sense to him. It was at that time that he had started calling himself by his initials, although his real mother, even now, still called him Jerome.
His office welcoming party was starting at eight o'clock at the company president's house. The next day would be his first day of work at the company and he looked forward to meeting everyone for the first time. J.D. had only talked to the president, Mr. Mizoguchi, once since he had been offered the transfer from the company's head office in Osaka to their American subsidiary in San Francisco. Mizoguchi had called the previous day shortly after J.D. arrived at the hotel from the airport. Mizoguchi had welcomed J.D. and confirmed the schedule for the party and first day of work. The company was the American subsidiary of Nagano Bearing, the Japanese ball bearing manufacturing firm where he had worked for four year in Japan teaching English. While Nagano was a large company in Japan, they had only a small presence in America. There were only nine people, all Japanese, working at this office. It took over a year of prodding and pressing before he had gotten the transfer home that he had wanted.
Although he loved Japan, it had never been easy living there. Even once he learned the language and norms and despite being able to think as they did, he still didn't fit in there. It had taken a few years, but he had eventually realized that as the company's only token gaijin, no matter how long he worked there, he would never be anything but an English teacher, even though they printed "Manager of International Training" on his business cards. He expected things would be different at their American subsidiary where being an American would be an asset instead of a liability. Of course, J.D. didn't explain to his superiors his repeated requests for a transfer this way, instead putting it in terms they could better understand -- the need to see his parents again and longing for American foods like pizza and burritos.
J.D. wondered what the party would be like. If they were in Japan, it would be held at the company hotel where they would soak in the communal baths before feasting on sashimi and shabu-shabu. After dinner, the few women present, all secretaries and clerks, would head home to their parents while the men would proceed upstairs to the large bedroom. The futons would still be stacked in the closets, leaving the straw mat floor open for the Mah Jong tables, bottles of sake and whiskey, and ashtrays scattered about the room. After he adjusted the kimono a final time, he grabbed his keys and wallet from the counter. The only problem with a kimono was that it had no pockets. There hadn't been any locks in the samurai era, nor had people carried driver's licenses and credit cards. J.D. decided to put on a pair of shorts with pockets under the kimono. It wasn't authentic, but there were practical considerations.
As he was locking the hotel room door behind him, he noticed again the figure dangling from the key chain given to him by his girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend. He wasn't sure which; their relationship had become nebulous when he was given the transfer. She had no interest in living in the U.S. and he wasn't sure when he would be back to Japan again. They had promised to stay in touch, though, and J.D. reminded himself to write to her that night as soon as he returned from the party.
A small doll was attached to the key chain, a likeness of Akebono, the Grand Champion of sumo wrestling. Akebono was an American from Hawaii, although there were rumors that he would change to Japanese citizenship. The doll, too, was dressed in a kimono. J.D. ran his fingers over the material, washi, delicate Japanese paper. J.D. noticed that there was no chest hair drawn on Akebono's body between the V of the kimono's neck.
On the way to the party, J.D. remembered that it would be rude to arrive at Mizoguchi's house without some sort of gift. He should have brought something back with him from Japan for his new boss, but there had been no extra room in his luggage, already overflowing with his own souvenirs. He stopped at the first liquor store along the way and searched through the aisles for sake. Although the store stocked a few varieties, all of it was made in America. J.D. doubted that it would taste very good. He glanced at his watch with the numbers all written in kanji, the Japanese characters. If he hurried, there was just time to make a detour through Japan Town.
At the Yaohan Supermarket, he quickly located a bottle of Hakutsuru sake, the largest brand produced in Nada, the neighborhood where he had lived between Osaka and Kobe where he had lived. The gold foil label was decorated with white cranes and reminded him of the time he visited the Hakutsuru factory with a few of his colleagues. It had been at the beginning of April. After the tour, they had bought a bottle of this same sake at the gift shop and drank it along the banks of the nearby Ashiyagawa River under the blossoming cherry trees. He already missed the cherry trees and the parties they held under them for the two weeks the trees were in bloom with their delicate finger-nail sized pink and white flowers. Each year, as they drank sake and feasted on Japanese delicacies while the petals blew into their hair, they teased him about his family name, Washington. Every Japanese knew the story of George Washington cutting down the cherry tree, although most believed that it was the one of the cherry trees, gifts from Emperor Meiji, that lined the banks of the Potomac River in Washington.
Along the way back to the checkout counter, J.D. noticed the red and white boxes of Pocky Pretzels. He grabbed a few boxes of each flavor despite the outrageous price. He needed some dried cuttle fish, too. And of course some green tea, the sweet zencha type, and mugicha. And he couldn't forget a few cans of Pokari Sweat. He laughed as he dropped the blue and white cans into his basket. He remembered when he had first arrived in Japan and had searched everywhere for Diet Coke. By the time it was introduced into Japan, he had already switched to Pokari Sweat, and now found Diet Coke to be too syrupy and fizzy.
At the checkout counter, he tried to start a conversation in Japanese with the clerk. But she only stared at him. He realized foreigners - Americans - rarely came into this shop and certainly never dressed in a kimono. The Akebono key chain dangled from his hand, but if she noticed, she didn't seem to care.
Everyone else had already congregated by the time he arrived at the party. Mizoguchi's wife greeted him at the door. "Pureezu come up," she said. He bowed to her and as he slipped out of his sandals, said, "Ojama shimasu," the standard greeting upon entering someone else's house. He handed the bottle of sake to her as he said, "Kudaranai mono desu ga," - I'm sorry I have only such a trifling thing to offer. She bowed slightly as she thanked him and left to take the bottle into the kitchen.
Each of the nine men, starting with Mizoguchi, shook J.D.'s hand as they introduced themselves to him in broken English. Except for Mizoguchi, who seemed about fifty years old and was dressed in a beige button down shirt and chinos, all the others were in their twenties and dressed in T-shirts and Levi's. J.D. introduced himself in formal Japanese.
As J.D. sat rigidly on the sofa, he looked around the room. Aside from the karaoke unit, the room seemed typically American - too typical. Framed posters of the Pebble Beach and Augusta golf courses adorned the walls, along with skylines of New York City and San Francisco. Instead of cushions on a straw floor surrounding a low kotatsu table, a plush sofa and matching chairs surrounding a large, rectangular glass coffee table occupied the living room. A Tiffany lamp sat atop a table in the corner. Wedgwood bone china plates, lead crystal glasses, and designer cloth napkins were laid out across the table. He noticed the absence of chopsticks set on their hashioki stands and hoped it wasn't because they thought he couldn't use chopsticks like some gaijin. He wondered what Mizoguchi's wife had prepared for dinner. Maybe sushi and sashimi, some kara-age chicken and yakitori. Or maybe eda mame beans on the side with onigiri rice balls or matsutake mushroom rice.
Mizoguchi addressed him. "We hear you good English teacher. We welcome you and expect you teach us much."
J.D. hoped this didn't mean he would be treated here as he had been in Japan. To avoid showing his disappointment, he laughed and said he would do the best he could no matter what project they gave him.
"What would J.D.-san like to drink?" Mizoguchi's wife called out in Japanese from the kitchen. Mizoguchi translated unnecessarily into English. "We have beer and Coke and whiskey," he added.
J.D. knew it would be impolite to answer directly. Since everyone must drink the same thing, he had to build a consensus first and although as guest of honor, the final decision rested with him, it was also his responsibility to insure that the decision was amenable to everyone. "Anything is fine," he answered at first. "How about beer?" He looked around at the other guests but no one seemed to object. "Some beer sounds good."
"Coke for me," one person said without embarrassment. "Me, too," added another. "I'll have whiskey," said a third.
His wife brought out a tray with a variety of drinks and placed a can of Bud Light in front of J.D. He had expected Kirin, the standard drink at company functions as Nagano had close ties to the Mitsubishi Group of which Kirin Beer was a part. He hated the cheap, watery taste of American beer, but of course, it would be rude to say anything. He also knew it was rude to pour his own beer, or more precisely, it was rude not to notice that someone else needed more beer and pour it for him. To avoid causing them to lose face, he couldn't pour his own beer. As the guest of honor, everyone was supposed to pour for him in the beginning, although at some point in the evening, he was expected to make a ceremony out of pouring a glass for each of them while asking each person in turn to take good care of him in the future.
Although Mizoguchi was supposed to pour the first glass for J.D., before that could happen, J.D. had to offer to pour the first class for his boss. He cracked open the can and leaned towards Mizoguchi. "No, no. Don't worry," Mizoguchi said, waving J.D. away. "This is America." Mizoguchi picked up the can in front of him and poured the beer into his own glass.
The door bell rang and his wife rushed out from the kitchen. "Yatto kimashita yo," she said - it's finally come.
"We hear you like pizza very much," Mizoguchi smiled. Someone chuckled. She brought the three Dominoes boxes over to the table, but as there wasn't room for them there, she placed them on the white carpet and began dishing out slices. "Itadakimasu," J.D. said as she handed the first slice to him. After she handed a slice to each person, she took one for herself and disappeared back into the kitchen.
Everyone unfolded their napkins and placed it on their laps. They held fork and knife in proper British etiquette and sliced gingerly at the pizza. J.D. unfolded his own napkin and placed it on his lap. He held the heavy, real silver fork and knife in his hands, but instead of beginning to eat, he watched as each person placed their knife back on the plates after slicing, then carried the fork holding the small bit of pizza to their mouth.
He tried not to but couldn't help laughing. Everyone stopped chewing and stared at him. Suddenly self-conscious, he realized how he must look in their eyes, the gaijin in a kimono, laughing at them eating pizza. He wished he had been able to contain his laughter. He wished he had picked up his fork and knife and cut little bits of pizza and chewed them well. He wished he had worn Levi's and a T-shirt or anything else but this kimono. But it was too late now. He had already cut down the cherry tree and although they were too polite to say anything, their eyes were asking why. He knew he was expected to lie in order to avoid hurting anyone's feelings, but he couldn't. You can't eat pizza that way, he was about to say. This is America! But then he realized that it didn't matter how they ate the pizza so long as they enjoyed eating it.
"I'm sorry for being impolite," he said in English. He picked up his whole slice in both hands and shoved a huge bite into his mouth. With his mouth still full, he said, "It's great to be back!" and bit out another section of the slice.
A few of the others put down their silverware and imitated J.D. They carried the slices to their mouths, took a small bite, set the pizza back on the plate and chewed it fully before taking the next bite. Not quite right, but it didn't matter. He took a gulp of beer straight from the can. It didn't taste quite so bad with pizza. He grabbed a second slice before anyone else had finished even half of their first.
When the pizzas were gone, he felt contented - full and just a bit drunk. He leaned back in the sofa and tried to suppress a belch. He wondered if the sake would be served next or maybe whiskey instead, and waited for Mizoguchi to ask him to sing the first song on the karaoke machine. Hopefully, they would have something in English aside from Frank Sinatra's My Way.
"Well," Mizoguchi addressed him as he stood up, "tomorrow is long day for everyone, especially you. We need plenty to sleep." Everyone stood up. "So, I see you early tomorrow."
Once J.D. said his final farewell, he climbed into his car and put the key in the ignition. He noticed the little sumo wrestler hanging from the key chain. He took the key back out of the ignition and examined the chain again. Akebono's Japanese paper kimono was ripped at the shoulder and the plastic underneath shone through in the dim light of the dome lamp. He detached the doll from the key chain and placed it on the passenger seat. It was too bulky to be comfortable in his pocket anyway.
On the way home, he stopped at the 7-11. He picked out the largest sized bag of Doritoes and a bag of cheddar cheese popcorn, something new during the time he had been away. He grabbed a bottle of Diet Coke and a pint of Ben and Jerry's ice cream which he had heard about from CNN. He opened the refrigerator case to pick out a six-pac of Budweiser. It might taste awful, but it was time to get used to being in America again. Then he noticed the other beer, Samuel Adams, Rolling Rock, and a whole rack of imports he had never heard of before. He replaced the Bud and selected a variety of the other beers. It was time to experiment again and find out what he liked.
As he stood in the checkout line, the people in front were staring at him. "Nice kimono, huh?" J.D. said to them.
A Japanese man pointed at J.D.'s chest. "You got something on it." J.D. looked down. There was a big blob of tomato paste staining the front of the kimono. He groaned. He would have to take it to be dry cleaned the next day. But then he realized there was no rush - he wouldn't be wearing it again soon.
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