As I told you in my previous post, I met an older distinguished gentleman (is there any other kind?) at a party in Hiroo a while back, who essentially tried to make me his sugar baby. Did I happen to mention that he smokes a pipe?
This codger was older than anyone at the party by at least twenty years (I'm guessing he's in his sixties, although frankly, he could be in his seventies and blessed with those good Japanese skin genes), so I initially wrote him off as an old kook who had shown up at the wrong party but had potential as an interesting conversation partner. The warning signs began to litter our conversation but for the first little while it was quite pleasant hearing his stories about Tokyo back in the day and I almost considered sitting on his lap (and possibly crushing him) like Santa so I could loop my arms around his leathery old neck much as I imagine one does to their grandfathers when young, while he explained the concept of yase gaman, or fake stoicism. The term apparently dates back to the Edo period, to where he traces his own family lineage, making him an eddoko. This must explain his penchant for Minato-ku (apparently he never leaves it) and disdain for anything outside of the Yamanote line (Asakusa is not Tokyo according to him). I suppose my own humble area of Nihonbashi makes me about as good as someone from Saitama or Chiba in his eyes. Lucky for me, it didn't disqualify me from the running and Mr. Yamamoto soon pulled out a business card from the pocket of his dapper suit and told me to call him. On a landline. You'd think the first idea into my head would be I'm not calling you but instead, I wondered Isn't he worried about his wife picking up? Let's go on a date, he said.
Apparently there isn't a Mrs. Yamamoto, so I suppose you could say I met one of Tokyo's most eligible bachelors. Eligible and without cellphone. When asked about this, he told me they were a pain in the ass but that I could call him on his landline anytime, day or night. After a brief discussion on the demerits of young Japanese people today, it came out that I was Jewish and thus intellectually brilliant (his conclusion, not mine). I was mildly impressed that he had actually met real live Jews before and said yes, I would be delighted to join him for some matzo ball soup at a deli in Mita. His ease with stereotypes should have tipped me off to the disparaging homophobic remarks he would later make (qualified with but the gay bartender is a nice guy), which propelled me away from him and into a conversation with a young artist.
Now dear readers, allow me to tell you what he pulled out of his pants: a pillbox. I don't know why he thought I would want to know about his health. No, actually that is a lie. I do know. Mr. Yamamoto began to tell me about some strange illness he had and opened the lid on the box to show me at least 20 tiny pills of various shapes and colours. Then he patted me on the arm and assured me that he was fine, in good health and not to worry. I did not need to know that he can still get it up, but umm kay. Things also started to go downhill when he told me to walk behind him up the stairs so that I could catch him if he fell. Is this guy looking for a girlfriend or a geriatric nurse, I do not know, but he must have seen both in me. I'm trying not to be flattered.
I passed him on the way out the door and he reminded me to call him to schedule our date. I said I would for sure and accidentally on purpose misplaced his card. What can I say? It's all in a day's work for a green-eyed geisha.