Assholes, Potatoes & Beer

Much like the urinals that are found in women’s bathroom in Japan, Japanese enkais are impossible to fully figure out. There is this duality to them that makes them perfectly perplexing to me. They are formal. They are relaxed. One should wear “casual” clothes—(I made the mistake of misinterpreting this literally and showed up in jeans and sneakers once) yet everyone shows up in suits and sequined ballroom gowns. One should keep drinking like a parched sailor but still manage to maintain all forms of formality in spoken language. And all things that happen at an enkai – drunken comments, nicknames, groping, unspeakably bad singing—I’m talking evil in audio format—proposals, stay at an enkai. Nothing is referred to again or spoken about. It’s almost as though certain events never happened, never existed and simply put don’t count. It’s a black hole of time. The drinks flow on Friday evening and on Monday the straitlaced masks devoid of expression are donned once more and you are solemnly thanked for your “hard work.” Hard work… drinking… beer and whiskey… on the rocks.

An enkai is necessary to welcome the new teachers to any school. As luck would have it, the English department is put in charge of ‘organizing’ the event. This means properly arranging the seating, (as apparently forty adults can’t possibly manage the daunting task of figuring out where to sit by themselves) and introducing staff members old and new before they make their speeches. I am asked to help “MC” the event. The sparse plan is the following: Nikki speaks in English, JTE#1 speaks in Korean, JTE#2 speaks in Japanese.

This is a foolproof way of ensuring that no one will be paying attention during the first five minutes. About 3 people will understand about 30% of what I say. 0% will understand what JTE#1 says. 100% will be waiting for JTE#3 to finally get to the damn point so they can fill their stressed out maws with liquor.

MC stands for master of ceremonies. I make a hideous Master of Ceremonies as I am succinct and taciturn even. While it occurs to me to make some “how ya’all doing out there?” MC-esque banter in English, the thought of talking to myself for five minutes, and having all my jokes fall flatter than normal makes me twitch in displeasure. I briefly consider making the introductions in dirty limerick format in an attempt to keep my brain and moribund sense of humor alive. Would a single eyebrow be raised?

As expected no one recognizes just how terrible my MCing is. I am congratulated on my “hard work” and told that my hackneyed, predictable, introduction speeches are like a breath of “fresh air.” Fresh air found in the smoking car of the shinkansen.

Brightly flushed faces begin to make their rounds. In their hands they clutch large bottles of Asahi beer. They are ready to be social, trip clumsily over boundaries and turn others a lovely shade of scarlet.

The beer is only the beginning. There is a round two. An after party. A new teacher invites me to go with them. Curious as George to see exactly what goes on at these events I agree to go.

Four of us pile into a daintily-lined-with-lace taxi, manned by an equally dainty driver sporting crisp white gloves: a new math teacher, the female gym teacher, a chemistry teacher I had coffee with after the last enkai and myself. They immediately start bickering about the new male gym teacher. They bellow that he is indeed, “numbaone aho, numbaone aho!!”

I beg your pardon?

“Numbaone aho!! You understand??”

As a classicist I can’t help but be interested in the etymology of words. Where do they come from? What do they mean? Did it originate in Latin (*claps hands with glee*)? Why do they hold the meaning that they do today? How did the sounds change from way back when? Has the meaning changed at all? Whilst these questions often cause other people to respond with, “Silence, Cleary, who the fuck cares?” I suddenly found an interested audience. Euphorically I enlighten them:

“Aho. Yes. I do believe that comes from English. In English – it’s a bad word. Bad word – Asshole.”

And ‘lo was born the theme for the rest of the evening.

Asshole.

“HAHA! YES! HE IS NUMBA ONE ASSHOLE. ASSHOLE. ASSHOLE!!!!

“ASSHOLE!”

What have I done?

The cab winds through the dark alleys of Niihama. Nothing looks open to me. It pulls over and we alight in front of a dark shack of a building. An old looking man and an even older looking woman fade in from the surrounding gloom and slowly make their way up the stairs to the door of their establishment, keys jingling in hand. There are customers, so hey, why not open up on a Friday night?

The establishment is small, dark and smoky. The back wall is lined with rows upon rows of identical flasks of amber colored liquor. Upon our arrival several of these bottles are taken down. Gradually other members of the staff trickle in. Couches are pushed together so that attempted drunken conversation is easier, the alcohol is all in reachable distance and karaoke mikes can be shared.

The new gym teacher plops down across from me. The new math teacher sits down next to me. I learn things I never learn in the staffroom at school. The new gym teacher proudly proclaims himself, “NUMBA ONE ASSHOLE.” He then tells me the new math teacher is called “POTATO SENSEI.” I can only imagine this is because they believe he bears a resemblance to a potato. Neither nickname is particularly flattering. But alcohol seems to breed truth at times.

As another teacher bowls us all over with his katakana version of Aerosmith’s Armageddon hit, the new gym teacher moves over to sit next to me. I learn that whilst he likes me quite a bit, unfortunately I will forever be second to his wife as he just got married yesterday. Sadly, I reconcile myself to this unlucky news. He is after all, the NUMBER ONE…

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Published:
4.16.07 / 7pm
Category:
amusing incidents, what i call life, culture