Back from the Dead (PART 3)
So, in the ensuing chaos of scalded-lady screams, I slyly sneak into the seat. My seat. And sip, looking quite "Cool and Coquettish".
Ok, so that was a lie.
Five months in Tokyo may have made me hard, but true townsfolk are like tempered steel. I imagine it takes a lot of spunk to survive here for more than a few years, so I try minding the old ones. In this dog-eat-dog world, even a liver-spotted spinster can bite. Blink once and granny'll hoodwink you out of house n' home. Or in my case, the first available booth at Starbucks.
The two bunned babushkas, beelining as fast as their brittle bones will take 'em, are no exception either. They have a pallor that could peel paint. A withering evil eye that puts any whippersnapper back in his place. I acquiesce easily and give a mild-mannered smile, all the while musing on how to murder grandma--
Ooh, hot damn, I see another table!!
But before I can get in gear and burn rubber, a blur of brightness and a sound unmistakably like squawking, knocks me down for the count.
Ten seconds later, the seizure passes. I regurgitate my tongue and realize, alas, I wasn't brain-fried by the sight of a rainbow-painted flock of chickens, but something equally frantic. Equally fowl!
Shibuya girls!
These are the kind of girls whose names roughly translate to Miffy, or Bunny - chicks with blond bouffants teased to titillating heights, and a fake-baked complexion half a shade shy of “double shot latte”. For a second, I think Starbucks has installed black lighting, but it turns out Bunny only buys make-up that comes in Day-Glo. Miffy's liberal use of white liner gives her the look of a Polaroid negative. And Poppy (as I've nicknamed the third one) mistook an orange highlighter for lipstick. If that's not horrendous enough, the trio's decked out like Christmas trees in Hooker Town. Glitter, tinsel, whole box-sets of B'Dazzler! You name it, if it dangles or spangles, they'll find a place to put it. In fact, the only thing NOT in excess is the actual amount of clothing they choose to don. And the phantoms of fabric that do happen to grace their skeletal frames are of a vividness slightly outside the normal human visual range. Colors like "Hypo-center Puce," and "Yongbang Blue". With all that flash, perhaps Miffy and Co. are really just afraid of being hit by a car.
However, if I was behind the wheel, I could always plead not-guilty by reason of acute paroxysm.
Luckily, third time's the charm and my lotto ticket comes up. Thankfully, the newly opened table is at least twenty feet from the trashy street missies and nowhere near that pair of klepto crypt-keepers. Instead, it's smack-dab in the middle of Starbuck's own fiefdom of fashion, the white hot bulls-eye of coffee house couture, amongst the tip-top pantheon of Tokyo's hippest cliques: the New Money Model Wannabe's!!
In my haste, I knock over several macchiatos and a pregnant lady. I mean, who'd have thought trying to maintain a semblance of suave while simultaneously scampering would be so dangerous?!?! Perk that backbone, pucker those lips, and by gum, keep at least two appendages akimbo!
Honestly, though, these Modelbe's are simply too disillusioned and fabulous to notice such mortals. Even at my cutest I'd still feel like I'm wearing a "Go Tallahassee!" T-shirt with pit stains. So, instead, I take mental notes on their style.... Apparently, "Bleak" is "Chic", and "Bruise" is SO the new Pink. And with a few hundred more hours of overtime, I'm sure I could afford a similar post-neo-modern-deconstructed-ensemble-of-pure-irony.
My god, is that product on his eyebrows?! RAWR!!!
I sit down, finally, and sigh in relief. Life is good. I mean, here I am, at the heart of one of the world's greatest cities, snug as bug, with money to my name, a cup o' joe in hand, and a never ending flow of fodder for ridicule! What more could I ask for?!
Brrrr! Brrrr! My cellphone vibrates and I check the incoming message. Oooh lala, it's from the latest lover, and I laugh that life truly does get better.
"Hello Cody! I'm in happiness to meeting you this last week [heart, smiley face]"
Aaw, isn't he just a cutey petootie?!
"But let's enjoying just friends [frowney face, heart]"
Crash! SPLAT!!
A Starbucks attendant rushes over to my table. I wave my hand for her not to bother, and proceed in mopping up my own puddle of dripping wet dignity with a napkin. Perhaps three tequila shots and a one-night stand aren't the strongest foundations for a solid relationship, but that doesn't mean getting dumped is any easier. Buck up, Cody, I tell myself. Harden your heart, and scratch another notch in the lip gloss bottle. Any sign of struggle, and the sharks come in for a kill.
But try as I might, something's not right. The feeling doesn't pass, doesn't get waxed over, or lost in the shuffle. I find myself strangely affected. All goble-gunky and wang-wobbled. Am I sick? Did I spray too much Aqua Digio?? This odd sensation... could it be... surely not.... but must be an.... e-mo-shun?! A flicker of my former self somewhere inside?! Crying out? Maybe, I'm not entirely calcified. Not entirely a stone-cold Tokyoite?!?!
In a moment of panic and confusion, I reach into my bag for the half-read copy of Half-Blood Prince (there's a lot to be said for escapism, and JK's never let me down yet!). But my fingers, instead, caress something tattered, nearly forgotten: the old journal I used for keeping all my secrets, reflections, and sophomoric puns. Hmmm, it HAS been awhile, I consider, since I last poured upon it. Months, at least. And that DID always make me feel better when the going got tough.
I give it a go, and set the pen to paper. I hesitate, trembling for a moment. Am I really that scared to confront my own inner demons?!?
Oh, wait, it's just an earthquake.
I try again. This time, I start with a befitting headline, “Back from the Dead,” and ease in slowly with the things I've come to know: people, places, and jam-packed trains. I write and write, re-re-realizing for the billionth time that:
1. Maybe I don't have a boyfriend (but who these days ain't an in-and-out member of the lonely hearts club?!).
2. I miss those far from me (but there are those here, in this town, who care enough not to dump me in a moment of vulnerability).
And 3. I AM lucky, really lucky, for many things which go unsaid now, but which will find there way into the pages of my journal. Not today, but soon.
Looking at my watch, I notice it's time to hightail it home. I step outside into the brisk Autumn air, and the busy streets of Shibuya. Once again, I am just a drop in a huge human tsunami. And while I still walk with perceptible, grim determination (after all, there are streets to be crossed and train seats to catch). I don't feel quite so lost, or superficial, as before. This town ain't gonna get me down.
But I'll have my piece, cocked and ready, just in case.
Tokyo Train
Shibuya Crossing
I'm OOOOOOOOOOOOOOld!
Shibuya Sliz-uts
Too cool fo school
Ok, so that was a lie.
Five months in Tokyo may have made me hard, but true townsfolk are like tempered steel. I imagine it takes a lot of spunk to survive here for more than a few years, so I try minding the old ones. In this dog-eat-dog world, even a liver-spotted spinster can bite. Blink once and granny'll hoodwink you out of house n' home. Or in my case, the first available booth at Starbucks.
The two bunned babushkas, beelining as fast as their brittle bones will take 'em, are no exception either. They have a pallor that could peel paint. A withering evil eye that puts any whippersnapper back in his place. I acquiesce easily and give a mild-mannered smile, all the while musing on how to murder grandma--
Ooh, hot damn, I see another table!!
But before I can get in gear and burn rubber, a blur of brightness and a sound unmistakably like squawking, knocks me down for the count.
Ten seconds later, the seizure passes. I regurgitate my tongue and realize, alas, I wasn't brain-fried by the sight of a rainbow-painted flock of chickens, but something equally frantic. Equally fowl!
Shibuya girls!
These are the kind of girls whose names roughly translate to Miffy, or Bunny - chicks with blond bouffants teased to titillating heights, and a fake-baked complexion half a shade shy of “double shot latte”. For a second, I think Starbucks has installed black lighting, but it turns out Bunny only buys make-up that comes in Day-Glo. Miffy's liberal use of white liner gives her the look of a Polaroid negative. And Poppy (as I've nicknamed the third one) mistook an orange highlighter for lipstick. If that's not horrendous enough, the trio's decked out like Christmas trees in Hooker Town. Glitter, tinsel, whole box-sets of B'Dazzler! You name it, if it dangles or spangles, they'll find a place to put it. In fact, the only thing NOT in excess is the actual amount of clothing they choose to don. And the phantoms of fabric that do happen to grace their skeletal frames are of a vividness slightly outside the normal human visual range. Colors like "Hypo-center Puce," and "Yongbang Blue". With all that flash, perhaps Miffy and Co. are really just afraid of being hit by a car.
However, if I was behind the wheel, I could always plead not-guilty by reason of acute paroxysm.
Luckily, third time's the charm and my lotto ticket comes up. Thankfully, the newly opened table is at least twenty feet from the trashy street missies and nowhere near that pair of klepto crypt-keepers. Instead, it's smack-dab in the middle of Starbuck's own fiefdom of fashion, the white hot bulls-eye of coffee house couture, amongst the tip-top pantheon of Tokyo's hippest cliques: the New Money Model Wannabe's!!
In my haste, I knock over several macchiatos and a pregnant lady. I mean, who'd have thought trying to maintain a semblance of suave while simultaneously scampering would be so dangerous?!?! Perk that backbone, pucker those lips, and by gum, keep at least two appendages akimbo!
Honestly, though, these Modelbe's are simply too disillusioned and fabulous to notice such mortals. Even at my cutest I'd still feel like I'm wearing a "Go Tallahassee!" T-shirt with pit stains. So, instead, I take mental notes on their style.... Apparently, "Bleak" is "Chic", and "Bruise" is SO the new Pink. And with a few hundred more hours of overtime, I'm sure I could afford a similar post-neo-modern-deconstructed-ensemble-of-pure-irony.
My god, is that product on his eyebrows?! RAWR!!!
I sit down, finally, and sigh in relief. Life is good. I mean, here I am, at the heart of one of the world's greatest cities, snug as bug, with money to my name, a cup o' joe in hand, and a never ending flow of fodder for ridicule! What more could I ask for?!
Brrrr! Brrrr! My cellphone vibrates and I check the incoming message. Oooh lala, it's from the latest lover, and I laugh that life truly does get better.
"Hello Cody! I'm in happiness to meeting you this last week [heart, smiley face]"
Aaw, isn't he just a cutey petootie?!
"But let's enjoying just friends [frowney face, heart]"
Crash! SPLAT!!
A Starbucks attendant rushes over to my table. I wave my hand for her not to bother, and proceed in mopping up my own puddle of dripping wet dignity with a napkin. Perhaps three tequila shots and a one-night stand aren't the strongest foundations for a solid relationship, but that doesn't mean getting dumped is any easier. Buck up, Cody, I tell myself. Harden your heart, and scratch another notch in the lip gloss bottle. Any sign of struggle, and the sharks come in for a kill.
But try as I might, something's not right. The feeling doesn't pass, doesn't get waxed over, or lost in the shuffle. I find myself strangely affected. All goble-gunky and wang-wobbled. Am I sick? Did I spray too much Aqua Digio?? This odd sensation... could it be... surely not.... but must be an.... e-mo-shun?! A flicker of my former self somewhere inside?! Crying out? Maybe, I'm not entirely calcified. Not entirely a stone-cold Tokyoite?!?!
In a moment of panic and confusion, I reach into my bag for the half-read copy of Half-Blood Prince (there's a lot to be said for escapism, and JK's never let me down yet!). But my fingers, instead, caress something tattered, nearly forgotten: the old journal I used for keeping all my secrets, reflections, and sophomoric puns. Hmmm, it HAS been awhile, I consider, since I last poured upon it. Months, at least. And that DID always make me feel better when the going got tough.
I give it a go, and set the pen to paper. I hesitate, trembling for a moment. Am I really that scared to confront my own inner demons?!?
Oh, wait, it's just an earthquake.
I try again. This time, I start with a befitting headline, “Back from the Dead,” and ease in slowly with the things I've come to know: people, places, and jam-packed trains. I write and write, re-re-realizing for the billionth time that:
1. Maybe I don't have a boyfriend (but who these days ain't an in-and-out member of the lonely hearts club?!).
2. I miss those far from me (but there are those here, in this town, who care enough not to dump me in a moment of vulnerability).
And 3. I AM lucky, really lucky, for many things which go unsaid now, but which will find there way into the pages of my journal. Not today, but soon.
Looking at my watch, I notice it's time to hightail it home. I step outside into the brisk Autumn air, and the busy streets of Shibuya. Once again, I am just a drop in a huge human tsunami. And while I still walk with perceptible, grim determination (after all, there are streets to be crossed and train seats to catch). I don't feel quite so lost, or superficial, as before. This town ain't gonna get me down.
But I'll have my piece, cocked and ready, just in case.
Tokyo Train
Shibuya Crossing
I'm OOOOOOOOOOOOOOld!
Shibuya Sliz-uts
Too cool fo school