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Third To Last Saturday Night
Third To Last Saturday Night
I am POPPING notes out of the flute from the bottom of my heart in Boz Skaggs’ “Lowdown,” plenty reverb and delay on it, waterfalls of shiny notes and all, then I do this hip acid/jazz tune and some other shit and NO ONE CARES.
Far more important, no one feels.
These robots. I'm not angry, dig, it’s incomprehension. A tenor saxophone, properly played, one note floating atop a chord, maybe a ninth or a sixth, it PENETRATES, like a sweet knife into your ear, melts your brain and curls up inside your soul. If it doesn’t, YOU NEED HELP. It means something is wrong, baby. I bet they could feel me in 95 percent of the cultures in this world. But not in Roppongi.
The loneliness is indescribable. I stand there in shock again, stoned, staring at them. A few waiters gather in a little football huddle, then disperse. I have just filled their world with music. They walk past, a few feet away, as if absolutley unaware I exist. No eye contact. Nothing. I walk through the club with my flute to the idiot (No anger! He’s actually an idiot!) who bought me two beers. I tap him on top of his head with the flute, gently, silently dubbing him Sir Idiot, then say goodnight.
Outside the club Ken from Nigeria, catching customers for Seventh Heaven until 5 AM, is freezing his ass off.
“Give me your overcoat, he says. He’s 6”3, I’m 5'7,’” but I give it up and he gets it on. If you know what I mean. It's a short walk to the car for me, a long night for him. Across the street, Merrill, Skidmore Owings is throwing up four Japanese houses, you know how they squeeze them so tight together, except one of them is 54 stories and two others are 28. Nightmare Towers. My driver is Watanabe, a suicidal maniac who cruses two feet behind taxis at 45 Km/hr.
But he gets me home.
I don’t trust Ikuko, she’s a another dream, another phantom. Maybe I’ll tell her this:
Be honest: When you go to America to study literature, when you look for an English teacher, you’re looking for love. A kind of love that you think western men are more capable of than Japanese men.
Your avoidance of the business world is understandable, but you're still programmed as a woman to want to be taken care of by a man: that’s what the “father complex” is all about, and in a sense it is totally natural, though it’s worth remembering that men, as they proceed through life, cannot expect to be taken care of financially by a woman. But nearly every woman has this option, conscious or unconscious, in her game plan. Not to have this option, not to be able to openly demand it, is part of what makes you feel like you are crazy. Not your love of literature. You are also modernized enough to need respect and sensitivity from a man. So you want to be cared for and respected by an intelligent, sensitive, successful man. And now you are 35. A lot of stress there.
It's not me babe. I just lost my job. But I'm sensitive. I've been lonely so long, if you put your arms around me I'd probably break down and cry like a baby. And then...