And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Russian Prostitutes
The events of this write-up are true, but the names of the victims have been replaced by fictional Mexican wrestlers (translated poorly by Babelfish) to protect the innocent
The middle part of Friday was rather unremarkable; I probably taught somebody something resembling the English language. There were probably some minor confrontations with our boss, the 4 foot 7 matriarch known as el dragón minusculo.
Since the school is within site of El Charro’s window, and we know when she is still in the office because the lights are on; driving past it has become something akin to Frodo and Sam crossing the plains of Mordor, avoiding the gaze of Sauron’s Eye. The eye of SES is a thing of wonder and terror, and is not to be crossed while wearing “The One Hangover.”
Anyway, El Charro, La Escueleta Corriente and I came to my place for dinner after work. We stopped to grab ingredients and a six pack of half liter beers and I set to work making some confection or other. All I know for sure was that the meal was delicious, the beer was drunk, and we were on the way downtown. Although La Escueleta Corriente doesn’t drink, she still enjoys coming out with us, because well, we’re fairly funny little maniacs, and consequently we love going out with her, because we get to tote a hotty around who has no problems being possibly the best “wingman” in history. She lovingly refers to Japanese girls as toys that you can pick up, play with, and when you get sick of them in a week, throw away. When we first came to Japan and asked her where the girls congregate, she suggested just wandering around 7-11’s and convenience stores at night, because you can literally pick them up anywhere. Bear in mind she’s one of the sweetest, genuinely kind human beings I’ve ever come across, but when she lays down the street knowledge you listen, and then laugh.
We meander down to this gaijin Irish pub called El’s Ditch where all the whiteys hang out, picking up a beer on the way for good measure (public drinking rocks by the way) and settle down to some Brooklyn Lagers and Anchorheads. Yes, they have good beer from microbreweries in New York, and San Francisco, for only a dollar more than the garbage on tap. While El Charro was discussing matters of great personal importance with the bartender, La Escueleta Corriente and I began chatting with a local private English School owner, el Asesino Británico, who, as a former SES teacher had much to say about our current trials and tribulations with el dragón minusculo.
Over the course of the conversation the topics swung from monogamy and polygamy to his almost vitriolic hatred of his wife, his current writing project, and at one point he managed to turn an empty cigarette box into a crude mock-up of a person, with a working erection. I’d be impressed sober, but that was damn close to David Copperfield in my current state.
After we left the bar, el Asesino Britanico, decided to share our further adventures that evening, so we decided to wander to a dance club called Q-Bar. On the way there, I stole La Escueleta Corriente’s bike and rode around. It was one of the red, Dorothy bikes with a huge basket in the front, so I started barreling around Tokuyama as fast as I could and skidding to a stop by sweeping the back wheel around. Apparently this is not common behavior here, because drunk businessmen and ne’er do well passerby would react rather dramatically as the wheels screeched to a stop within a few feet of them. But luckily we have a cure all phrase here, “sumemasen gaijin.” It basically translates to excuse me I’m a foreigner, but it must have much bigger cultural implications because no matter how stupid you are, how dumb you look, Japanese people will just laugh and keep going. You could be speeding down the wrong side of the road and get pulled over by the cops, but if you start by saying “sumemasen gaijin” it’s basically a white guy admitting he’s not culturally, mentally, and physically superior to a Japanese person, and they instantly feel better about you ruining their country.
So after about a dozen or so skids, I finally almost fell over, stuff flew out of the basket, and I finally felt as dumb as I looked. I gave the bike back. My stomache has decided after 4 or 5 hours of heavy drinking, that a half hour of full tilt bike riding was not in its best interests. But I had plenty of time to think about that problem while I was drinking, we’d arrived at Q-Bar.
We showed up about a half hour before they were slated to close. I started with a water, because all the vitriol in my stomach wanted to come out and play. By the time I finished it I was feeling better, so La Escueleta Corriente, El Charro and I decided to break it down, I went through my patented series of white guy dances: the hand on head, other hand on foot hopping thing , the shopping cart , Saturday Night Fever , some 360 turns , and the penultimate bust your granny hip show stopping finale of a Curly Shuffle.
And the only people who saw and appreciated this succession of awesome were my Mexican Wrestling cohorts, the bar was completely empty.
After the dancing stopped, I once again realized the vometer was climbing again, so I went outside for some pacing in the fresh air. Once again, the urge to spill my dinner on the concrete was subdued and I returned to the smoke filled bar and got a beer. Halfway though said aperitif the carnival pulled into town.
Three amazingly hot Russian girls and their two massive Russian handlers strolled into Q-Bar after closing, and we all knew the place would stay open until they left. The girls immediately started dancing, in .6 seconds El Charro and I brought our wingwoman out to play and we were all shaking it like Russian girls in Japan were on the line. I’ve been to enough bars to know when girl’s don’t find me even remotely attractive, want to have nothing to do with me, or summarily wish the space and air I was taking in their club could instead be given to someone with a tighter Abercrombie Polo, dyed hair, and a lobotomy. This is not to say I know when girls are into me, I would never assume that; I do know, however, how to recognize revulsion, and this was not it.
These girls were wide eyed and ready to play. The two Yakuza wannabe handlers who brought them in, had a distinctly different look on their faces, mainly contempt bordering on murderous rage.
They were constantly glancing at el Asesino Britanico, as he was looking properly dour, and angry, it also helped that he spent a good many years as a body builder. As the music flared from techno-jargon, to R&B jargon, to 80’s American Pop jargon – El Charro and I had made our decisions and narrowed our focus to a single Gulag Maiden.
Then the DJ had the balls to bust out a slow song, at a techno club. I think he wanted to spark the powder keg that was this post cold-war smash and bash coming to a head any minute. So I had a blonde Russian girl pinned against me, and El Charro had the crazy ass Redhead. We danced close for a while, screaming sweet nothings at the top of our lungs into each others ears. It’s funny to trace a Russian Prostitute’s thoughts through a drunken haze as she’s trying to scream through the music.
RP: What’s your name?
Me: Steve (That’s a rich country name)
RP: Where are you from? (Does your country offer asylum? How long will it take to get a green card?)
Me: New York
RP: (Her eyes lighting up) You’re from New York? (He can totally get me out of the human slave trade, in fact he could probably even trade a green card for a sham marriage just to show me off to his friends) I work at Club Moscow, I play the saxophone
At this point I’m assuming saying this is a way of trying to make me think she isn’t in fact a prostitute, which although in the realm of possibilities is not my first, second, or fourteenth guess. She’s still ridiculously hot though, and this is her night off after all.
Me: Saxophone? (If this skinny ass girl plays saxophone, I play professional basketball for a living) How long have you played?
RP: 8 years (He is so interested right now, get him to book a ticket back)
Me: I’m a basketball player, I play center in Kudamatsu for the Flying Tigers
Me: (Damn it, that was fucking funny and she missed it) What’s your name?
It turned out the name she gave me was Oxana, and if I was going to come up with a fake name, it would have been much hotter than that. Anyway, after the slow song was over, Ivan Drago and his friend KGB Olaf were visibly anxious. They came here so the girls could have some fun and forget about their indentured servitude to club Moscow, and a bunch of Americans were dancing with them, while the rest of their posse sat in the corner of the bar getting drunk and meaner looking by the minute. I forgot to include the fact that we towed along a bunch of Japanese ravers from El’s Ditch to Q-Bar. So all the chips were on the table, what was going to happen next? Would these guys just come and bust our skulls right now? Would they grab the girls take off and hire some hardcore assassins to kill us in our sleep for our impudence? Would they call up another 6 Ivans and brawl in the street like Gangs of New York?
No, Ivan got up, and came out to the dance floor. I’ve seen plenty of people without any rhythm, and I happen to be one of them. But Stephen Hawking and FDR could have done the jitterbug on the floor and kept better time with the music. As far as intimidating gestures go, this was not a well conceived plan. At this point Oxana sat down and I went to laugh myself silly in the corner with the rest of the crew. El Asasino Britanico leans over to me and says, “These are the dumbest fucking wannabe Yakuza I have ever seen in my life. Look how nervous these guys are. They have no fucking idea what they’re doing.” Now, he’s been in Tokuyama for 7 years, he owns his own school here, he’s been out to all these clubs plenty of times, and he’s seen the Russian girls all over, so if he makes an observation, El Charro and I keep our ears open. These guys were ridiculous, intimidating people smile at little shits like us, or they look mean, these guys despite their size looked like scared puppies. So we got the girl’s email’s and phone numbers. I’m sure they’ll have another day off eventually.
Eventually the girls were taken back to their cells in Club Moscow, the club closed down, and we too were off. After all, La Esceuleta Corriente’s Birthday party was tomorrow night, and every gaijin in a 30 mile radius would be there.
So El Charro and I walked home to my place, La Escueleta Corriente got on her bike and rode home, and we got a beer on the way back. It was already dawn and the club was supposed to close at 3:30, they stayed open a solid extra two hours.
We talked in great length about our Russian night laborers. Eventually we had even convinced ourselves there was a chance they actually did play instruments for a band as Japenese business men ogled them. Then he dropped this bomb.
El C: That girl was smoking; she said her name was Lilu. That is hot.
Me: (stopping in the middle of the street and laughing, knowing specifically that El Charro was a big sci-fi fan) So the beautiful skinny Russian girl with dyed red hair, who we thought was a prostitute, just dropped Mila Jovavitch’s character from The Fifth Element on you, and you didn’t even notice. She’s the god damn spitting image of the character, she probably saw it translated on Siberian prison TV.
El C: Fuck dude, you’re right
Me and El C simultaneously: They’re prostitutes
This story was plagiarized from the fantastic blog at www.senseandsenseibility.blogspot.com - all downvotes, upvotes and C!s will be remanded to the custody of the real author just1wheat to be used to make his blog more palatable to the noder masses.