One night I went to Tokyo. A musical friend had told me about a popular night-club there, and I wanted to see, or hear, for myself. I was always pretty good at finding good music overseas, often in the most unlikely of places. In the Philippines in Subic Bay I had found a little bar off the beaten path called the Cherry Club, that had a band with a masterful guitarist that performed all the latest Led Zeppelin songs impeccably. But in Japan there didn’t seem to be much in the way of local rock and roll.
I had seen Santana at the Budokan, but even they had changed their repertoire to suit their Japanese audience. The Japanese liked big band music, with a lot of brass. Santana came with a lot of drums. I remember being amazed at how many different kind of conga drums there were, after seeing their concert. It was nothing like the day I heard them playing in the pavilion at UC Berkeley – when some Navy buddies and I had visited the campus in search of hippies. We didn’t even need a ticket, we just stood outside and listened.
So it was with a hopeful heart, and a yen for music, and some Yen to spend that I boarded the densho train, that day at Yokosuka Eki. I had been to Tokyo several times before, but never by myself. I liked the Japanese, and their quiet, dignified manner, but some of them didn’t like my beard. I knew they were itching to talk among themselves about me, and they would have, had they been a more demonstrative people. From the little bit of Japanese that Eiko and Setsuko had taught me, I knew they weren’t. Mostly they would just grimace and nod, and say “So, so.”
It was big band night at the club. I walked in and knew right away, that I had either picked the wrong night, or this was not the place for me. But it had been a long trip on the train, so I sat down at a long bar that straddled the dance-floor and had my usual whiskey sour. I liked to order that, because I liked the way the Japanese bartenders would say “Wiss-ah-key Sah-wah.” I figured it was only fair, since I had to say “bee-ruh” every time I wanted a beer.
I sat nursing my drink, wishing I had ordered a Suntory Beer while I had the chance – only Kirin and Asahi were sold in Yokosuka – when a young gaijin woman in her twenties walked over and asked if she could sit down. She had dark hair, in a typical buster brown cut with bangs, and brown eyes, and she could have passed for a Japanese, but I knew from her voice that she was from California, my home state. She wore jeans and some manner of a long coat. I asked her how it was going, and she smiled and said fine. I asked if she wanted a drink, but before it was out of my mouth, I saw she already had one in her hand. “Would you… like to dance?” I blurted out instead. She said no, she couldn’t stay long, and I knew that she just needed someone with a friendly face, to sit with for a few minutes.
We sat and talked, and I didn’t probe, never asked her name. We talked about me a lot, and when I told her I was from Norwalk, a big smile came across her face and her guard went down. I should have recognized her, I suppose, but I was bewitched by her dark eyes, and I never made the connection, not until a friend told me later that she and her brother were performing in Tokyo. At the time I fashioned she might be a student, or the daughter of a diplomat – she could have been either one. I told her I didn’t think much of the band, and she just smiled into her drink. And then we danced a slow dance, and she had to go.
The next morning I woke early and went down to my neighbor’s house like I always did. Ed was in my division, and worked down in the computer room with one of my best friends, Bobby. He and his girlfriend had lived in town for over a year, and when an apartment became available, they had vouched for Ernie and me with the mama-san.
When Ed appeared at the door, he was still in his skivvies but he already had a beer opened in his hand. Scratching himself and yawning like a bear, he told me to take one from the fridge, and I began to tell him about my night in Tokyo. He had told me once that he was a big Carpenter’s fan, but I still hadn’t connected the dots yet. I was telling him about the night-club and the girl I met, and when I began to describe her a picture came into my head and I realized that she looked a lot like the Carpenter gal. I walked over to his record player, and didn’t have to search too deep for a Carpenter’s album. “That’s her,” I muttered to myself. “That’s the girl I danced with last night.”
I don’t think my neighbor believed me, even though I swore up and down that it was Karen Carpenter. I listen to her music all the time now, and I think about her, and how our two musical souls like little search-lights in the darkness, had found each other that night, and how, when I was far away from home, her music helped me through a lot of rainy days and Mondays.
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