If you were to look, from orbit, at the growth of Tokyo, from when the first shogun established his capital there to now, in fast forward, I reckon it would look similar to a meteor striking the earth. Just in terms of a meteor’s blind disregard to beauty or nature, as its impact crater crater of pollution and destruction just crackles out in greedy fractal ribbons, crushing all in its path, hungrily devouring trees, burying rivers, releasing foul clouds of toxin. Birds and animals retreating from its onslaught, from the tide of oblivion’s approach.
The difference being that after a meteor hit, eventually the pollution would blow away, and the Earth would heal up, where there ain’t no chance in a hurry of that happening any time soon in Tokyo.
At Kunio’s suggestion, my search for panties took me to a small, blasted, shack out on a distant highway on the edges of Kanto’s great metropolis, on the edges of this crater. Out here, in the penumbra, the crushing city relinquishes it’s grip on space a little, allowing a bit more room to breathe, to allow for lingerie warehouses, car yards, and government research centres, enormous gaming centres, restaurants with car parks, nurseries, outdoor furniture places.
Here, the cluttered jumble of the city starts giving way to the tesselating geometry of the rice fields.
This was Abiko, my neighbourhood. When I lived on the dark side of the tracks, my closest shop was one that sold weapons and armour. It was a shorter walk for me to buy a samurai sword that had once been used on human flesh, than it was to get a loaf of bread.
Next door to this store was our izakaya, our local pub. The ultimate local. When Eddie would arrive for a nama biiru, the landlord, who had all his regulars’ phone numbers would ring around all the girls in Abiko, letting them know that Eddie was there in case they wanted to pop down. And vice versa, Eddie would be at home, and he’d get a friendly call to let him know that there were some hot sheilas currently having a drink, and that he might want to pop in and say a quick konnichiwa.
Now that is how all locals should operate.
Had to avoid going on Tuesdays though. Tuesdays you’d be served a bowl of nama tori, raw chicken, with your beer.
Ah, Abiko. Lake Teganuma, Japan’s third most polluted lake; Mt Fuji, her tallest mountain looking so cliched on the horizon on a clear day; the bookstore inexplicably named BOOBIES; the okonomiyaki restaurant; the karaoke place ; Watami; the hostess bar that we couldn’t get into being that we were foreign and all; the McDonalds where, when the wind came from the right direction off the lake as it was funnelled by the buildings, would whip the school girls’ skirts up around their faces when they stepped from the shopping centre, to the rousing merriment of all the men who had set up camp there just before the school lunchbreak, for just this reason.
Which brings me back to my purpose. Out on this stark highway with Yoko. I needed her you see, because she had a skill I sadly lacked, being able to read Japanese.
It was late. We’d been out to see the cherry trees, the ruddy glow of coalfires flitting against the wintry blossoms, Shibamata all pulled closed and deserted like a romantic ghost town.
Windswept out here and hollow, deserted, trucks swept the leaves up into whirlwinds as they thumped past. I know that the rice fields are beyond, but in the night they are just gulped up into blackness.
The shed shines out a lonely light onto the night.
We furtively look around for witnesses.
And we duck inside.
Lined with vending machines. Condoms, dildos, strange torch things, glowing gadgetry, wigs, cockrings, those balls you shove up your arse, fake vaginas.
And two machines full of underwear – bras, knickers, and bra-knicker combos, lacy, cute, cotton, crotchless, suspenders, stockings, Disney.
The splintery old shed shivers as another truck’s cushion of air slams into it.
“Is this it,Yoko? ” luckily the machines didn’t give off enough light to see the glitter of anticipation in my eyes, “Have I found it?” My left hand was scrunching the back of my shirt.
“They’re clean ones.”
Disappointment flooded from me.
“Clean ones! Why is there a twenty four hour shed in the middle of nowhere selling clean underpants?? You fuckin’ pack of freaks! What, in case a lad you’ve met is taking you to the love hotel and you shit your pants on the way, is that it?”
But anyway.
Next panty stop, Shibuya.