Monday Night in Roppongi (as New Orleans floats)  

saxyjazzman 55M
26 posts
8/29/2005 10:50 am

Last Read:
3/5/2006 9:27 pm

Monday Night in Roppongi (as New Orleans floats)


Old guy invites me over to his table, regular customer.

"You play Masquerade?"

"Sure, man."

"You play enka?"

"No, deki nai, sumimasen."

"What's your country?"

"America."

"So desu-ka?!! Europajin niteru!"

"Yeah, well all my grandparents are European."

"So desu-ka."

I ask him if he's Japanese. I love the shock in their eyes when I do.

A girl with no waist sits down next to me. Her face is a sculpture, an fine Japanese etching of high delicacy. And no waist. Well, maybe. I could put one hand around it. And her little shoulders and fawn neck. They are so close. She takes my breath away. Her name is Chizuko.

"Chizu dai-ski," I say at some point, but that leads directly to a discussion of Dutch cheese and sashimi and French food and then I go play Masquerade for the guy. I sing How High The Moon and Steely Dan's "Ruby," and pour my heart into a swinging version of Misty. As it climaxes, the crowd in front of me is laughing uproariously and clapping and playing a party game. I walk away.

Here's Haru, another beauty I've taught English to for one lesson. Still hasn't paid me.

"How are you," she says proudly in English.

"Well, I just poured my heart into my sax and no one was listening. Choto sabishi."

"They were laughing and listening too."

"So desu-ka!" I exclaim. "Nihonjin atama gaii!!"

"So desu," she smiles, and walks away.

Gotta get her to pay me. I get my head together in the rest room and go down to the street. Darth is out there. Points up to where the new skyscraper is going up.

"Somebody just got killed. Dead guy lying in the street."

No one knows if it was a car or a fight. Darth had just come from that direction. We call him the murderer, then genuflect. "Hey man, I'm your pal," I grovel. Who loves you, man?"

"I know where you work," shouts Darth as I walk away, bowing.

After work, they put me with the lady driver and the NoWaist chick. Wow. We're screaming through Shinjuku in this van. I'm in front, NoWaist is in back. Slow sexy sax on the radio, I'm mixing it up, Japanese, English. Red shirt poking out of the pink jacket. Relaxed, post-high, Mr. Cool. Now Miles is on the CD player. NoWaist doesn't know Miles. She doesn't know Marvin Gaye. She's a potential musical history student. I gotta make her up a sample CD. Then a night out clubbing...

What am I saying. I'll NEVER get my arms around that waist. That's why NoWaist is the perfect name. It's not even there.

Or is it......????

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