XXIII. Tokyo Decadence, Part One

Help Wanted: Foreign Men Needed for Strip Club

My English teaching plan was not working out. The days were long since past when some guy without a degree could waltz right into Tokyo and land a high-paying gig just by being a native speaker. I landed a few private lessons here and there, but they weren’t nearly enough to afford four dollar bowls of noodle soup and seventeen dollar movie tickets. And with the US dollar dropping every day against the yen, I was losing money just getting out of bed. I needed a job fast. Male stripping… why not?

There were actually quite a few reasons why not. I was an unlikely candidate for the job: short, bald(ing, at the time), less than classically handsome and somewhat overweight. (I had recently lost a fair bit of weight, but it left my skin a little… loose – when I moved, it brought a whole new meaning to the term “rippling abs.”) And, I was hairy. Very hairy. Entire body covered with hair hairy. All together, not the standard male stripper package, even in Tokyo, where tastes did not always run mainstream.

But I had a plan. I phoned the number in the ad and spoke to an American, Evan, who managed the club. I managed to steer the conversation away from any description of myself, deftly focusing on my charming personality and stage experience. It seemed to work. We arranged to meet at Shinjuku station. I asked him what he looked like – beating him to the punch – in order to spot him at the busy subway stop. He told me he was tough to miss.

As I made my way through the sea of Japanese commuters, I saw what he meant. Evan was unmistakable: tall, black, and built like a linebacker. He towered above everybody else. I waved to him as I approached. He looked behind him as though I was waving to someone else, then turned back to me. We made eye contact. His eyes widened just a little as he realized who I was. His lips pursed and drew to one side of his face. I stepped up before they could form the words, “I think there’s been some mistake.”

“Before you say anything,” I said, “let me just say two words – Novelty Act.”

I took up where I left off on the phone, pleading my case point by point. He had his doubts, but, God bless him, he also had an open mind. His club had a lot of competition in the area; he was looking for something to make his stand out. And maybe, just maybe, this short, bald, flabby, hairy man would be the ticket. “It would help if you were black,” he said, “Japanese women love the black man. (He later confided that this was the main reason he stayed on in Tokyo after he left the service.) Well, you made the trip. I might as well let you audition. But you’ve got a lot of convincing to do.”

The club was empty for the afternoon. Evan turned one spotlight on the small octagonal stage rising a few inches above the floor. It was surrounded by tiny octagonal tables, built for holding only drinks. Evan told me to get ready and went into his office. I unpacked my costume. First, the brown, Hefneresque smoking jacket which I borrowed from a friend with Rat Pack aspirations. Then my prized possession – the one thing I owned that I would run into a burning building to save – my felt jester’s hat. This was not just any jester’s hat, no, my friends, not one of those limp, floppy jobs with the tiny bells. This was a king among jesters, the horns full, stuffed, upright, proud, erect, with big, puffy, yellow balls bursting forth from the tips. You didn’t have to be funny when you put this hat on, the hat alone would make you funny. I had been travelling throughout Southeast Asia for over a year with the hat in my backpack, never knowing exactly why, but perhaps waiting, however unconsciously, for this very moment. I tied it on as Evan walked in. He stared at the hat and shook his head, chuckling. He fell back into the narrow naugahyde couch that lined the wall.

It was showtime.

To be continued…