I was looking at a low Japanese tea table with two floor chairs without legs called zaisu, I heard the Honda man discussing my situation with the man from Tokyo Lease. Suddenly the two of them were deciding what items I should have. I couldn’t believe it. Ignoring me, they made a list and even started to decide what color scheme would be best. My stomach tightened. Maybe they thought I didn’t understand. Maybe they thought that I wanted their help, but they didn’t even look at me, let alone ask for my opinion.
I wasn’t sure how much authority I had. I felt my cheeks getting warm. “Excuse me,” I said, interrupting them. “I think that maybe I would like to make some suggestions.” The Honda man looked shocked, as though he wasn’t used to having a woman tell him what she thought.
The first thing on their list was a bed. “I don’t have room for a bed,” I told them. “I’m going to sleep on a futon.” They were both incredulous: an American sleeping on the floor? “It is much more practical for the space I have,” I explained. The Honda man acted as though I needed his approval for every item. I finally persuaded him that I was going to buy a futon, but I had to agree to lease a sofa that opened into a mattress just in case. We haggled over the number of chairs and where to fit in a washing machine. I insisted on having a clothes dryer, which the Honda man felt wasn’t necessary. He was crazy if he thought I was going to hang my laundry out to dry like a virtuous Japanese housewife who fervently believed there was some inherent value in clothing dried naturally by the sun. I felt like telling him to shut up. If I wanted to have an apartment without a single chair, or a dryer instead of a microwave, then it was up to me.
When I showed them the picture of the tea table they both laughed. “You want zaisu?” the Honda man asked, as though I had requested a water bed filled with goldfish. “It will fit perfectly in the tatami room,” I told him. He acted as though without black hair and hundreds of years of Japanese ancestors, I couldn’t really want to sit on a zaisu or sleep on a futon.
I exhausted my immediate cash supply after buying a few things for the apartment. My bank account wasn’t set up for international transfers and I hadn’t received the $2,000 setup allowance yet, so I found myself with less than ¥5,000 (the equivalent of about $35 at the time) to last for two weeks before my first monthly paycheck. I had already purchased a train pass so I could get to work; I really only needed money for food. I asked Ms. Uno if it would be possible for me to get an advance on my next paycheck. She didn’t know and said I should ask her boss directly.
“Be very polite when you ask him,” she counseled. The thought of imitating Ms. Uno’s obedient posture and subservient behavior made me feel ill, but he was the only one who could authorize my request. Ms. Uno helped me practice the solicitous words, “Mōshiwake gozaimasen ga, chotto onegai ga arimasu keredomo …”
When I saw her boss hunched over his desk I felt like abandoning my plan. The thought of surviving on $35 for the next two weeks seemed like a more appealing option. By going to him I felt as though I would be admitting my unworthiness as a responsible adult, that my request would prove I was incapable of making good decisions or budgeting money. Approaching him made me feel like a little girl asking for a nickel to buy some candy. I heard myself reciting the words and conforming to the role.
“I’m sorry to be such an inconvenience, but I’ve run out of money and I would like to make a request for a small advance on my next paycheck.”
He thought about it for a moment, shook his head, and said, “That would be very difficult.” It was the Japanese equivalent of saying no.
I felt like an idiot, but I didn’t know what to do. My anger got confused with doubt, and I simply bowed and thanked him for his time. I had been selfish, I told myself. I couldn’t depend on the company to always bail me out. His cursory indifference immediately erased my earlier feeling that I deserved some credit, and even a little respect, for getting this far on my own. Instead I started to feel like he had been treating me—like my voice didn’t matter.
Later in the day, after I got over feeling foolish, I approached one of Ms. Uno’s colleagues, who was the most popular man in the department because he was so genuinely friendly. When I told him about my predicament he immediately checked the petty cash supply and graciously offered me ¥70,000 (about $490 at the time), asking if that was enough.
One evening I made a delightful discovery—a sentō, or public bathhouse, just blocks away from headquarters. The small building was stuck between small wooden homes. I was astonished to find an area still untouched by modernization located so close to some of Tokyo’s highest-priced real estate. A bluetiled porch and a small cloth banner hanging outside modestly announced the establishment as a bathhouse.
While an exchange student I had gone to a sento with a small group of American women—we all wanted to baptize ourselves into the Japanese world. We spent most of our visit laughing nervously at the man who took money and could see into the women’s bath. At this sento a woman took my ¥500. I left my shoes outside in a wooden slot and put on a pair of pink plastic slippers. The changing area was only the size of a family room in an American home, and had a smooth wooden floor. There were several chairs in the center of the room, with well-worn, sunken cushions. On the walls were several wooden shelves with old wicker baskets for clothing. I took one of the baskets and stripped.
Through a sliding glass door I could see a few women in the white-tiled bathing room. The steamy room echoed the sound of women’s voices and the soft rush of running water. I walked into the bathing room carrying my towel cloth discreetly in front of myself. The warm moisture of the room embraced me.
I sat down on a blue plastic stool in front of a pair of spigots and grabbed a yellow bathing bucket. Cold and hot water gushed out of the spigots and filled the bucket in seconds. I poured bucket after bucket on my head, drenching myself and letting the water spray all over. Every splash was a release.
As I soaped my body and washed my hair at the spigot, I listened to the echoing chatter. Other than a few prepubescent girls with their mothers, the women were wrinkly and saggy. These women, I imagined, were probably regulars and had likely been coming to the sento since they were young, when the public bath was their only bath.
I felt soothed by the warmth of the room and comforted by the community of women. After I was all clean, I walked to the soaking pools in the back of the room. Three deep, tiled pools held water of varying temperatures: hot, extra hot, and superextra hot.
I slid into the hot pool without stirring up the water and sat still until my body adjusted to the cooler water at the bottom of the tub. The heat swallowed me completely. Leaning my sweating head back against the wall, I felt my muscles release my bones. My head felt light and I let go of every worry: the frustration of being treated like a child, the language, the uniforms, Ms. Uno’s boss. Everything was still, and I felt no impulse to rebel. For a moment I was at peace in my body.
I got out of the tub and went back to the cold-water spigot, filling the bucket with icy water. As I doused my steaming body my skin shrieked. My head tingled and every pore was in shock. I kept pouring the cold water until my skin felt numb. The coldness became heat, and I felt totally refreshed. When I got into the extra-hot soaking pool I didn’t even feel the heat of the water. I repeated this cycle several times.
When I returned to the spigots for the last time I noticed a middle-aged woman with a young girl, maybe her daughter. They were talking while the young girl washed the woman’s back. The woman smiled at me and said in Japanese, “You didn’t get your back very clean, did you? You’re supposed to bring a friend to wash it.”
I smiled back and said, “Today I’m alone.” She pulled her stool behind me and said, “Well, I’ll wash it for you.”
She soaped my washcloth and started to rub my neck. I bent my head down to my chest and held my arms folded together. Her strong movements made my shoulders shake. I let go of my arms and let my body feel everything.
“It’s a good feeling, isn’t it?” she said. “Oh, you’ll certainly sleep well tonight.”
I could feel the washcloth sliding up and down my back. Each vertebra of my spine felt like it had