days—probably has something to do with my misunderstanding of certain elements in this ritual, but whatever the story is, there is not enough for Max to sink his teeth into.
The stories do reflect, by design, the type of experiences that relative newcomers to Japan have. (Old-timers have learned to mask their reactions to the mysteries of Dai Nippon, and scholars claim to have "understood things all along.") And the stories present typical Japanese reactions to the often confounding experience of trying to figure out what's going on between the ears of the unpredictable Westerner. All this, in theory, leads to enhanced understanding.
Now, what about the grandmothers? A lot of enhanced understanding has gone on since their days. Max, alone, has been involved in eighty adventures. (Ask for Volume I in your favorite bookstore—my daughter will soon be off to an expensive college.) Is the enhancement sufficiently fine-tuned to challenge the perceptions of old ladies who closed their days writing haiku poetry and playing bridge? Do we know what they saw incompletely or incorrectly? Has naïveté been swept away?
No. And speaking as a Westerner, that's a fact. (But the stories are fun.)
ROBERT J. COLLINS
Tokyo
How Would You Like to Be Japanese and Work for a Foreigner?
MAX DANGER often wondered about that. A Japanese salaryman, comfortable in his own country among tens of millions of other salarymen, and with established work habits, business traditions, and common value standards forming basic threads in the fabric of his existence, must find the situation to be more bizarre than most expats realize.
Max's only frames of reference in this regard were the opposite circumstances involving his roommate during their bachelor days in New York. Max's roommate, a Brooklyn native and Music Appreciation Graduate from Oberlin College, got a job with Japan Air Lines in Manhattan. He worked, in New York, for a Japanese boss. (It should be pointed out that the roommate's career interests were directed less toward the airlines industry than they were toward amenable work hours—noon to 8:30 PM. He and Max were out most evenings playing banjos in a Greenwich Village saloon.)
The Japanese boss lived in a house in Westchester County which was considerably beyond the immediate aspirations of Max and his roommate. He had a driver. His maid—a young lady from Puerto Rico—was supporting 176 relatives "back home."
The Japanese boss was continually having visa problems, once drove for three months on an expired driver's license, and never did master the intricacies of his tax status. One of his major concerns was the quality of education in which his son was immersed. The kid was in the third grade and still hadn't been taught to do long division in his head. ("They not use abacus here," he'd complain.)
The behavior causing most comment among his American employees, however, had to do with his "social" activities. He had become a regular at a number of Times Square night spots—in fact, several of his evening female acquaintances took to phoning him during office work hours. (The phone calls were a subject of considerable mirth among his immediate staff. Most of those girls, according to Max's roommate, should not be touched with a pole "less than ten feet in length.")
On top of all that, this Japanese man spoke funny English. The span out of Manhattan was always referred to as the "Broken Bridge." The mayor was someone named "John Rinsei." His meetings were designed for the odd concept of "coming agreement." His lunches in the office, according to the staff, were "Ben Toes." He never uttered his wife's name. Strange guy.
Max and his roommate used to laugh at this man and his peculiar habits. His attempts to get everyone to sing a song at the company New Year's party (company New Year's party?) were the funniest. He actually went up and sang the first song! (His secretary, overwhelmed by the whole thing, sang the only other song. A native of Detroit, she performed all three parts of "Where Did Our Love Go?" by the Supremes.) Max's roommate collapsed in hysterics.
But now in Japan, Max feels a little uncomfortable about the whole thing. A bell is rung, and a chord is struck. If the truth were known, and Max suspects it is, he'd be hard pressed to say "They're not even using computers in the third grade" in Japanese. His defense of the Roppongi "evening ladies" and their phone calls would be even shakier. And as for "coming agreement" meetings, the "let's reach some goddam decision" concept might tend to predominate. (Max once told his Japanese crew not to come back until an agreement was reached. They never came back.)
So here we are with Japanese employees. What must they think? What causes them difficulties? And more to the point, what are they laughing at?
Max arrived in Japan in the midst of a Tokyo branch-office reorganization. Not only were bodies being shuffled around, but whole departments were being moved from floor to floor in the building. The seating charts, without which Max could remember nary a single name, became obsolete overnight.
On the third day of this chaos—which was Max's sixth day in Japan—his General Affairs Manager (who was either Shimizu, Watanabe, or Saito, depending on which chart was current) approached Max with the shocking news that someone forgot to designate "rowkas" for the ninth floor. ("Rowkas?" wondered Max.)
"This terrible," said either Shimizu, Watanabe, or Saito.
"You bet your life it is," agreed Max sympathetically.
"What we do?" asked either Shimizu, Watanabe, or Saito.
"We'll manage without it," stated Max emphatically. Being fresh from the Head Office, Max's cost-saving resolve was still unsullied by the realities of life in Dai Nippon.
It wasn't until several union representatives visited Max and the vice president for government affairs made an impassioned plea on the matter "for personal reasons" that Max finally gave in on the "rowkas" issue. He had made, and then rescinded, his first Japan decision. It would not be his last.
The "rowkas" was (were?) scheduled for delivery (installation?) the following Saturday. It (they?) would be ready (operational?) Monday morning. Max asked to be taken to the new machinery. He hadn't the foggiest idea what everyone was talking about—he even admitted as much to the good citizens of the General Affairs Department. ("Danger-san never heard of a 'rowkas,' " new employees are now told. "Heh, heh, gaijin [foreigners] are strange." It's become company legend.)
The "rowkas" were, of course, "lockers." Shopping bags have to be put somewhere, and individual space is a basic right of employment. ("I knew all along what they were talking about," Max has later been heard to say.)
On another occasion, Max asked a young kid from the Accounting Department to provide him with some numbers separating gross from net income. The kid, a bright youngster from Keio University, turned pale and bolted from the room. ("Probably should have asked his boss first," thought Max, "or called a meeting with dozens of people.")
The kid did not return to Max's office for several weeks. Max got the numbers elsewhere. One day, however, an appointment was scheduled through Max's secretary. The kid, his section chief, and the Accounting Department Manager showed up. Accompanying them was the General Affairs Department Manager. (It turned out that he was Watanabe-san.)
The kid presented a letter from one of his former professors at Keio University. It attested to the kid's trustworthiness and honesty. (What must have been involved in getting that letter, Max now realizes, makes him shudder.)
The rest of the cast in the meeting provided glowing reviews (written in Japanese but laboriously translated into English by Watanabe-san) of the kid's eight-month career with the company. Watanabe-san, to cap it all, announced that his staff had made a thorough review of the physical plant, and nothing was broken.
"Broken?" asked Max.
"Broken," confirmed Watanabe-san.
"Broken?" asked Max again.
"Broken," confirmed Watanabe-san again.