When you think of Japan, you probably think of such cultural contributions as haiku, origami, and tentacle porn.
Let me assure you – not all of Japan is quite so innocent. There is a dark, seamy, and sometimes violent underside. The name of that underside is Horiguchi Daisuke: private detective, Japanese mafia.
I met Mr. Horiguchi at a local bar. He was drinking whisky on the rocks and I had my beer. When I told him that I was from Canada, he thought I’d said “Kentucky.” I guess that explains why he started asking me if I liked fried chicken. This led us into a fascinating discussion about how my enjoyment of KFC does not necessarily mean that I was born and raised in the state of Kentucky. The more I tried to explain things, the more he believed I was from Kentucky. Eventually I gave up, and we left off with him thinking that I was a lovechild of Colonel Sanders.
As the night wore on, I learned more and more about this swarthy, mysterious barfly. From what I could piece together, he runs a detective agency in the city – one that is loosely affiliated with the Japanese mob. He has killed a man before (“one only”), and he has been to prison (“very fun!”).
It’s probably no coincidence that the first three letters of his name also form the first three letters of such words as “Horrible,” “Horsewhip,” and “Horripilate.” I don’t even know what the third one means, but it sounds terrible.
I asked him what kinds of problems his agency solves.
“Anything,” he said.
Anything? Could he fix my bacne?
“Derek,” he said, “you think your girlfriend does sex another guy? You call me. I fix problem.”
I tried to explain to him that, as a man whose sex life is about as colorful as that of Anne of Avonlea, I didn’t expect to be requiring his services in the near future.
He laughed at this, and I laughed too. Ha ha ha. Then, out of the blue, he threatened to come to my English school and demand money. I laughed again, but this time he didn’t laugh, so I think this is something that I might have to prepare myself for in the near future.
Later in the evening another man entered the bar. This man had the face of one whose life has been a long series of very unwholesome acts. He exuded a weird malevolence – as though every object – both animate and otherwise – posed a direct threat to his wellbeing. He walked over to us, shook hands with Mr. Horiguchi, and ignored me altogether.
When this mystery man left for the washroom, I asked Horiguchi if he was
abunai. Dangerous.
“No, no! I work for him. He is Watanabe-san. He friendly mafia.”
The only “friendly” act I could imagine Watanabe-san doing would be killing me softly with his song. Or killing me quickly. Or killing me with kindness. Or telling me that he liked my haircut – and then killing me. Anything with the word “killing” in it, really.
When Mr. Watanabe came back, he said in a deep, booming voice,
“YOU TALK ABOUT ME WHEN I AM IN TOILET!!!!”
How do you respond to an accusation like this? From a man like that? Especially when he is approaching you as a hungry lion would approach a piece of red meat?
Here’s a helpful hint: take a mixed nut from the bowl in front of you, throw it in the air, and then catch it in your mouth. This will impress your adversary. It will prove to him that you have great skill and cunning.
Watanabe smiled, plunged his beefy hand into my bowl of nuts, and threw one at the bartender, barking something at him in Japanese. To my surprise, the bartender immediately started leaping about, desperately trying to catch the airborne nut – with fear in his eyes and sweat on his brow. Watanabe threw a second nut, and then a third. Watching the bartender – an otherwise dignified-looking man of about 35 – hopping around like a trained sea lion was one of the most distressing things I have ever seen. What’s worse, Watanabe eventually went from throwing the nuts
to the bartender to throwing the nuts (and then the bowl)
at the bartender. Who was this man, and why did wield such power to intimidate?
When the nuts were gone, Watanabe – still chuckling under his breath – took a seat at the bar. He rested his chin on his hands and stared at me with a gimlet eye.
“Were from?” he bellowed.
“Canada,” I peeped, still speechless after the nuts sideshow.
“Jim Carrey.”
“Yes. Jim Carrey is Canadian.”
“Michael and J and FOX!”
“Yes, yes. Michael J. Fox. He’s Canadian too.”
Suddenly Watanabe’s eyes lit up. He clapped his hands together.
“CELINE DION!”
He yelled this with the fiery intensity that an Islamic fundamentalist might shout “Jihad” before carrying out a terrorist strike, but he also said it with the love and respect that an ancient Greek philosopher might say “Truth!” Weird how that is, because if I had to pick two words that would never – under any circumstances – leave Watanabe’s mouth, the first would be “Celine” and the second would be “Dion.” In case you're wondering, the third would be “Manilow.”
It was then that I was treated to the second most degrading spectacle I’ve ever laid eyes on: watching someone who looked like the BTK killer sing the theme song from Titanic – of course in broken English, and of course off-key. Also drunk. Also a little shy.
Near…far…wherever you are…I will be…in your heart…la la la. I couldn’t watch, but I couldn’t look away. The only thing that I can compare it to – to convey the sense of tragedy that I felt – is the scene in Old Yeller when the boy has to kill the dog that he loves so much because it has rabies. This Japanese man was killing something within me. Something that I loved. And he was doing it softly. With his song.
When I thought it would never end, it did. Watanabe finished because, just after he had sung to me of how “love can touch us one time and last for a lifetime,” he flung out his arms and knocked his whisky clean off the counter, smashing it against the wall.
The bartender ran over to clean it up. He got down on his knees in the ice and the booze and the broken shards of glass, and he began apologizing profusely for the wall getting in the way of Watanabe’s drink.
“You like my song?” Watanabe said to me, ignoring the obsequious, mumbling bartender.
“THANK YOU for completely ruining my evening!” I said, smiling and clapping enthusiastically. “My life will be much unhappier from this point on! Every fiber in my being was totally repulsed by your musical interpretation! And look at me – that’s a lot of fiber!”
This seemed to satisfy him.
The rest of the evening went something like this:
Watanabe and Horiguchi asked me to arm wrestle.
I told them absolutely not.
We arm wrestled. I lost twice.
They suggested that we all punch each other as hard as we can.
I told them absolutely not.
We took turns punching each other, and I got punched so hard in the left breast that now, when I walk, I look like I’m trying to imitate Quasimodo as a joke. But it is not a joke. Not a joke at all.
Is this what my company meant when they told me that coming to Japan would be a “cultural exchange”?