Birthdays
Originally posted on July 25, 2005:
A few days ago, I'm having an early dinner at a favorite restaurant on the way to a job interview, sitting across from an old friend whose name escapes me. She has curled and put her hair up for the occasion; black boots and thigh-highs attached to a garter belt. Exchanging provocative stares over a nice, quiet dinner is certainly no way to prepare for an interview for the position of Japan's very first male Tea Bitch. (In every department of almost every Japanese company, a Tea Bitch can be found. She can be called on to make and serve tea for office visitors at any moment--even if she is in the middle of filing, another known duty of the Tea Bitch. She is usually seen wearing a uniform. This is the position for which I have applied.) A waiter I’ve never seen before approaches and starts in, “good to see you again, sir, and welcome. Our specials today are marinated and grilled herring with pickled asparagus tips and a peanut soup...”, and the heated stares across the table completely lose their zeal as the recital continues, “…roasted pheasant rolled with thin slices of gingered ham…”, which makes me shoot him a hurried smile and interrupt, “I’m…bored.” The waiter exits, and like a peck on the cheek, she leans in over the table and interjects, "happy belated birthday," and ducks right back into her chair. She slips me something under the table, and I react, "yes, birthday." As I’m opening what was handed to me, I'm trying to remember when it was and how old I am this year. For a second, I consider asking her, but conclude that the selfish bitch would just think I was joking and carelessly laugh without answering anyway. I’m looking down at my gift: several professionally shot 3x5's in an envelope--some of her in lingerie and some completely nude. I take a second to look up at her with a raised eyebrow and can tell from the expression on her face that she is touching herself while watching me look at the photos. If this had been five years earlier, I would have wanted to crawl under the dinner table and enjoy the show, but the REAL me--the new me gets up and leaves early for my interview, shoving the envelope into my jacket pocket and managing a "thanks for dinner" under my breath. I sell the photos to a friend for five thousand yen three days later.
A few days ago, I'm having an early dinner at a favorite restaurant on the way to a job interview, sitting across from an old friend whose name escapes me. She has curled and put her hair up for the occasion; black boots and thigh-highs attached to a garter belt. Exchanging provocative stares over a nice, quiet dinner is certainly no way to prepare for an interview for the position of Japan's very first male Tea Bitch. (In every department of almost every Japanese company, a Tea Bitch can be found. She can be called on to make and serve tea for office visitors at any moment--even if she is in the middle of filing, another known duty of the Tea Bitch. She is usually seen wearing a uniform. This is the position for which I have applied.) A waiter I’ve never seen before approaches and starts in, “good to see you again, sir, and welcome. Our specials today are marinated and grilled herring with pickled asparagus tips and a peanut soup...”, and the heated stares across the table completely lose their zeal as the recital continues, “…roasted pheasant rolled with thin slices of gingered ham…”, which makes me shoot him a hurried smile and interrupt, “I’m…bored.” The waiter exits, and like a peck on the cheek, she leans in over the table and interjects, "happy belated birthday," and ducks right back into her chair. She slips me something under the table, and I react, "yes, birthday." As I’m opening what was handed to me, I'm trying to remember when it was and how old I am this year. For a second, I consider asking her, but conclude that the selfish bitch would just think I was joking and carelessly laugh without answering anyway. I’m looking down at my gift: several professionally shot 3x5's in an envelope--some of her in lingerie and some completely nude. I take a second to look up at her with a raised eyebrow and can tell from the expression on her face that she is touching herself while watching me look at the photos. If this had been five years earlier, I would have wanted to crawl under the dinner table and enjoy the show, but the REAL me--the new me gets up and leaves early for my interview, shoving the envelope into my jacket pocket and managing a "thanks for dinner" under my breath. I sell the photos to a friend for five thousand yen three days later.