denbushi | blog

I’m a consultant. I consult for a living. That’s what I do, and this is what it usually looks like, presented in a metaphorical and readily-accessible idiom.

The Setting: a meeting room. Seven or eight people are seated around a large table. Broad windows look out over Tokyo in all it’s gray and brown splendor. Business cards are spread out in front of each dark-suited corporate representative. Formalities are exchanged, then we get down to the meat of it.

Me: Don’t fart in elevators.
Suit A: I’m sorry?
Me: Elevators. You should never fart in them.
Suit A: (Feigning nonchalance) Can you be more specific?
(Nods of agreement from the far side of the table)
Me: Sure. No one farts in an elevator when there are other people in there with him. That would be asinine. (More nods and exchanged looks from the clients) What I’m saying is, don’t ever fart in an elevator.
Suit B: Now wait a minute. You’re saying never fart in a elevator?
Me: That’s right. That’s exactly what I’m saying.
Suit A: Even if you’re alone?
Me: Even if you’re alone.
Suit B: Well why on Earth not?
Me: What, you don’t know?
(The clients share looks and hunched shoulder motions)
Me: Okay, I’ll tell you. An elevator in private use inculcates the lone passenger with a false sense of solitude, one that, in many cases, leads one to perceive its deceptive privacy as a kind of Free Fart Zone. (Pursed lips and dawning realization all around) Borne in this womb of faux privacy, you let one go. And then what do you suppose happens?
(The clients exchange quizzical looks)
Me: The elevator stops, and someone gets on. And then there’s just you, all alone in that reeking capsule.
Suit A: Good God…
Me: YES! Exactly! YOU’RE the one! (I rise suddenly and extend a damning finger at the Suit C, the Decision Maker, and scream out) Farter! You disgusting pig! What were you thinking!?!
(Suit C buries his head in his hands and begins to weep uncontrollably)

I sit back down and collect my things. I return my blank notepad, pen and collected business cards to my designer briefcase, then stand to leave.

Me: Well! Let’s meet again next week. Is Wednesday good for you?

At five p.m. the bells start to chime. The dull notes echo amid the buildings of Tameike-sanno as if to say, “It’s five o’clock.” They play an old children’s song called Yuyake-Koyake that’s supposed to remind schoolkids to high-tail it home for dinner. Why they broadcast it every afternoon in the middle of a bustling business district like this is a mystery to me, but I’ve adjusted to it. You might even say I look forward to it, just as we all look forward to–that’s right–sandwich time.

For me the daily five o’clock event has become a pathetic exercise in Pavlovian conditioning. The first few notes induce in me a state of helpless sandwich lust. My eyes leave the display in front of me, drawn to some distant, random spot far beyond the windows of my office, and for the space of a few moments I am lost in reverie. I imagine one of those sexy Pronto coffeehouse counter girls stepping out of the entrance with one of those Little-House-on-the-Prairie dinner triangles, clanging it furiously and all the while eagerly scanning the horizon for a glimpse of me.

You see, it’s the sandwiches. They go on sale at 5:00, marked down from some insane only-in-Tokyo price to a mere 150 yen each. It happens every day, right at five, and when I hear the bells I have to answer the call. I bust my ass down the hall to the elevator, jump in, hit the first floor landing and then I’m out the door, all in a matter of seconds.

You have to hurry, because those Pronto sandwiches sure go fast.

I dash into the crosswalk, dodging cars and narrowly averting disaster at every turn. Sure, I’ve got the green light to cross, but in Tokyo that only makes you a moving target. I try to keep my head cool and my pace brisk. The taxi drivers can smell fear on a ped at 100 meters, and they’ll bumper-toss your ass in a heartbeat if you so much as hesitate in the white-striped DMZ. The sound of impatient engine revving and speeding skooters mark my arrival at the far end of the crosswalk.

I get inside Pronto, turn left and then scan the remains. The selection is pretty bleak today. I spy one or two of those batter-fried salmon katsu sandwich things lolling listlessly to one side in the open air display case. A real gastronomic horror those guys are by this time of day. They’ve got parasites in there that make trichinosis seem like banana yogurt. There’s a single yakisoba-in-a-hotdog-bun right out in front, but I don’t go near those after the fateful May 12th Incident two years ago. What else, let’s see… cheese slice and wilted lettuce on Wonder bread (no), deep-fried pork patty between bread slices (no), “crab” salad with corn in a dinner roll (no), and fianlly a Creamy Mayonnaise-Topped Croissant with Crispy Bacon and Mayonnaise Filling. Sigh. I feel my legs grow weak.

And then I see it, all the way in the back. If I hadn’t lurched forward nauseously after unconsciously juxtaposing the yakisoba episode and that mayo burrito thing I wouldn’t have seen it down there at all. But I did, and now the last of the tuna salad sandwiches lay there twitching, just within reach. I take a quick glance over each shoulder, just in case some sneaky bastard is thinking to pull a move on the Den-Bone.

No one nearby, I relax and reach out real slow, savoring the moment, and snatch that 150 yen brick of high-density processed tuna goodness off the shelf. Since I don’t bother with the aluminum tongs and plastic tray they provide for that purpose I get some sideways looks from the assembled throng of puffing salarymen, but I pay ‘em no mind and even give my tuna sammy a behind-the-back, over-the-shoulder toss to demonstrate my categorical ownership of that plastic-swathed ba-gen sando.

Reaching the counter, I present it to my best girl Haruko who’s got my bag ready and everything. I pass her two coins and hit the street just in time for the green. I twirl my Pronto bag as I cross six lanes, unperturbed by the taxi bumpers and motorbike tires that graze and kiss my legs in stride. That canned tuna’s gonna taste mighty fine…