The Queen of the Night Battles Jet Lag
By Loren Rhoads
Morbid Curiosity, P.O. Box 12308, San Francisco, CA 94112

Mason scheduled his first Tokyo show for the night after we arrived in Japan. Traveling never bothers him, but I’m cursed with one of those metabolisms that wakes up with the sun, no matter how many time zones I’ve crossed. Even though I had permission to hang out, I couldn’t let my husband play that first night without me. I wanted to provide some moral support, be a friendly face in the crowd. I didn’t want to insult our host - temperamental Null - by missing his guitar duet with Mason.
While the three of us sat on a plank bench along the club’s wall waiting for their chance to sound check, I looked around. The club, called Shinjuku Loft, was a basement smaller than your average neighborhood bar in America. Mason had warned me that, with space at a premium in Japanese cities, performance areas were usually belowground. Despite that, Shinjuku Loft seemed cozy. The floor climbed in deep risers from the stage to the bar so the audience could see.
Campari, Beefeater Gin, and other Western liquors lined the bar back. Maybe sake waited beneath the counter with the Sapporo. Mason asked if I wanted a drink.
I had a moment of vertigo, as if my soul suddenly dropped away from my eyes. Something was seriously going wrong inside my body. Halfway panicked, I stumbled off in search of a bathroom.
I found it beside the stage. The toilet was literally a pit. My stomach clenched at the sight. The hole smelled disinfected but wasn’t clean. Crouching over the porcelain trench, I fought down heaves. Everything below my waste seemed to have become liquid.
Mason hadn’t sound-checked yet and I felt as if I was going to die. Oh, Heavens, I thought, this was never going to work. I couldn’t live in the club’s sole bathroom after the crowd arrived. There was no choice but to ride the nausea out. All I had was jet lag, I told myself sternly; only time would make it go away. I’d have to keep from worrying Mason, stay out of the way, and find something to amuse myself.
Thank goodness Japanese shows start early. Unlike San Francisco, where the headliner rarely takes the stage before midnight, Japanese shows end in time for the audience - and the musicians - to catch the subway and before the trains stop running at midnight. Even with five acts, this evening would be over by 11:00. I only had to survive until then…and then the hour and a half drive back to Null’s mother’s house on the outskirts of Tokyo.
After sound check, Mason bought me a bottle of Volvic water so I could choke down a Pepto tablet. Null asked if it was something I ate. I doubted it. My stomach had been shaky even before his mother made us a “Western breakfast” of fried eggs, cinnamon toast, corn chowder with bacon and onions, and warmed-over chicken-and-potato-pizza from our first Japanese meal the night before.
A sudden hot flash made my cheeks and ears burn, followed by tooth-rattling shivers. One moment I gasped with nausea, then I’d feel hungry. I sucked down the bottled water while Mason and Null got dinner at the Dotor (sic) Coffee House. The menu on the counter had photos labeled in English and Japanese. Even Null ordered by pointing at the pictures. That seemed friendly enough, if I decided later that I could keep down food. Mason ate a hot dog with hot mustard and pronounced it okay.
After all I’d heard about Japanese toilet technology, what I’d seen so far had not impressed me. In the Dotor I hit the jackpot. This little coffee shop had a porcelain throne. A red button beside the seat tempted my finger. Remembering the Cannes’ award-winning commercial of the chimpanzee on the Japanese bidet, I stood well back. The toilet hummed happily to itself, then slid a paper cover out over the seat. How inviting!
At 6:30, Mason wanted to return to Shinjuku Loft to socialize before the show began. Unfortunately, the Loft had no backstage area where I could huddle. A ceramic-tiled stairway behind the club, open at street level, served as the “dressing room.” A dozen Japanese men hunched over guitars. Their backs made me feel extremely unwelcome.
I sipped another liter of water. The Pepto-Bismol took effect and I felt less desperately ill. Instead, my bladder felt swollen enough to burst. I’d forgotten what an adventure it could be to find a toilet when you didn’t speak the language. Rather than abuse the Dotor’s hospitality, I snuck up the clean white tile stairs, past a yellow cone that said something like Do Not Enter in Japanese. Above street level, the building seemed full of offices. A silhouette in a miniskirt labeled the women’s room. Though the toilet was another porcelain trench, this one had been scrubbed clean. I took it for a blessing.
When I crept back downstairs, the first band had taken the stage. It was chilly in the open stairway, so I decided to explore while it was still light outside.
I strolled off into Tokyo, listening for footsteps behind me. People seemed extremely aware of me, pointing me out to their friends or giggling behind their hands. It made me feel safer to be so conspicuous. If I disappeared, people would at least remember having seen me.
It was weird to be continually reminded of how I stood out, how I didn’t belong, how far I was from home. Tokyo looked like cities of my experience. Near Shinjuku Loft, I could read most of the signs, which had English or Japanese spelled out in Western letters. Cars looked like cars, except that the steering wheels were on the wrong side. People looked no different than people in San Francisco. Tokyo was Mars, a la Ray Bradbury. Everything looked the same, but its heart was different. I was foreign.
Being sick, however, helped me to deal with the overwhelming culture shock I’d felt in Null’s mother’s home, with its tatami floors, its computerized shower from which I could coax no hot water, the mother and grandmother with whom I could communicate only by smiles. If I had stayed at their house, I would have hidden in the bedroom, miserable, sick, and lonely. Now, interacting with the world distracted me from my nausea. As long as I explored, especially when I roamed the maze of streets between Shinjuku Loft and the elevated train tracks, my mind busily catalogued the similarities and differences between Japan and home.
I passed rack after rack of black bicycles that were not locked up. Nothing prevented me from riding off into the night, except the fear that if I went too far into the maze of unlabeled streets, I might never find my way back. Mason had given me his list of phone numbers in case I got lost, but I didn’t have the address of the Shinjuku Loft.
The shadows between the tall buildings grew blacker as the streetlights came on. I wasn’t sure if I was feverish or not, but the streetlights seemed magically luminous. Overhead, the sky was a deep blue-green. Soon it would be dark.
I realized I’d come along to Mason’s show because I wanted to cling to him. I’d convinced myself that nothing bad could happen when we were together. Then the sickness hit and he could do nothing. I could only walk and drink bottled water until my body clock reset itself. It was far better to be exploring Tokyo than to hide in a mysterious suburban house. Here I was seeing the city, learning about Japan, having an adventure. I didn’t know anyone else who’d explored Tokyo alone at night.
When I returned to the club, Mason’s set had started. I wasn’t sure if he’d put me on the guest list - if there was a guest list - and I didn’t have 2500 yen for admission. I sat on the tile stairs behind the club, but the gossiping Japanese musicians made it impossible to hear.
I went around to sit on the curb outside the front door. The guitar duet trickled up the steps to blend with the elevated train rumbling by, the hiss of traffic, the bad-attitude boys on the opposite curb talking about me. Their glances were as sharp as knives above laughter that was mean.
I realized I hadn’t seen any other unescorted women. Japanese girls traveled in clusters. Was I sending out some kind of signal by being alone that would give men permission to harass me?
The only thing I understood the boys to say was “dress like gaijin,” which I guess meant in jeans. All the Japanese women I’d seen wore dresses or leggings. I decided the guys could say whatever disparaging stuff they wanted in Japanese. Since I couldn’t understand it, I might as well ignore it. I was pretty sure they wouldn’t hurt me in a public place. And if they wanted trouble, I’m an average-sized American woman. That made me bigger than most Japanese men.
I felt lonely and a little sad, but not a bit scared.
As the set ended, a bus thundered by, shaking the street. It seemed a proper finale to the wailing, shrieking, siren-like guitars. Mason’s duet with Null had sounded like the end of civilization as I knew it, mixed beneath the surface sounds of Tokyo on a Sunday night: a soundtrack for alienation.
I headed back to the staircase to congratulate Mason and Null. As I loitered, a man asked me about Mason. Did I know him? The Japanese didn’t introduce himself or ask my name. I wondered how he’d heard of Mason, but he walked away before I could ask.
Watching the people, I wondered if it had been necessary for me to come to a foreign country to be comfortable walking alone in the dark. At home in San Francisco, my solitary nighttime strolls consisted of a determined march to or from the bus stop. I found it liberating to know that no one in Tokyo was likely to be armed.
Mason appeared, showing off a book he’d gotten from a friend of Null’s. The book, Bloody Ukiyo-e, was a collection of antique samurai paintings by Yoshitoshi and Yoshiku, combined with modern illustrations by Maruo and Hanawa. All the pictures were decorated with spilled blood. One of the modern pictures showed Hitler blowing off the back of his head with a pistol. Another showed Sada from In the Realm of the Senses strangling her emasculated boyfriend with her scarf while eating rice with gory chopsticks. The violent artwork shattered my conception of safe, peaceful Tokyo. Were things like this simmering in the mind of every Japanese I passed on the street?
Mason wanted to watch Null’s bands’s set. I followed him down the steep stairs back into Shinjuku Loft, but didn’t push past the bar. The densely packed audience stood shoulder to shoulder, chest to back, all the way to the stage. A careless cigarette could light some girl’s hair spray and kill everyone in the place. I would have feared for my life if I’d left the entry way. How did the Japanese stand it?
The club had been smoky during sound check, while four Japanese bands chain-smoked and awaited their chance on stage. Now the smoke moved as if alive, a sentient entity swirling to the high-decibel music. No one in the audience danced. No one swayed. They stared toward the stage as if mesmerized. I wondered if they were enjoying themselves. The fixation of the crowd was completely alien: Invasion of the Body Snatchers in real life.
Something wet struck the back of my head. I didn’t turn. If someone had spit at me, I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction. Still, spitting seemed un-Japanese, much too confrontational. While I puzzled over what had really happened, a cockroach as big as my thumb crawled up the wall beside me. I watched it scurry up and down the wall, waggling its antennae. When it ran toward the floor, I lost sight of it. My skin crawled as if trying to tear itself loose. How many other bugs were creeping around in the packed darkness?
Shivering with nausea, I fled the club.
By 9:30 on a Sunday night, everyone on the street seemed drunk. Of course, it was cherry blossom-time. I vaguely understood how the transience of beauty led to getting falling down blitzed. Clusters of men passed me, hanging on each other and weaving. One man followed me across an intersection, chanting, “Konichiwa, konichiwa.” I kept walking and he lost interest. Clearly, it was time to avoid the alleys. Drunks are unpredictable in any culture. Unfortunately, if I kept to the main streets, I’d have to contend with crowds. If only I had some destination, some errand, so I could pretend I had some place to go.
I amused myself for a while with the curbside vending machines. They were dazzlingly bright. Wishing for sunglasses, I marveled at the variety they offered: Peace cigarettes, hot saki, Pocari Sweat. Sometimes, being able to read the words didn’t help. I prayed to find a simple cup of miso.
Returning to the club, I ran into Mayuko and Hiroshi from the band Cosmic Coincidence Control Center. At last, familiar faces. Mason had arranged shows for them in California. They’d slept on our couch when they played in San Francisco. Mayuko asked if we wanted to go get coffee.
I thought I might feel more normal if I ate something, but the smell of Mason’s greasy Mos Burger set off another wave of jet lag. I felt the sensation in my face and wondered if my blood pressure really had plummeted abruptly.
Mayuko worried about me. She offered to take me back to her apartment, an hour away by subway. All my stuff was at Null’s mother’s. I’d need to separate from Mason. I thanked her and declined.
After I explored the burger joint’s uninspiring bathroom, we went back to Shinjuku Loft. Mason was paid $50 for a 20-minute set. The promoter apologized that it wasn’t more.
Young women surrounded the “stage entrance.” Lots of hair, lots of makeup, micro-skirts: groupies, Null explained unnecessarily. There was a party after the show to which we were all invited. “It could be fun,” he said, “with the girls.” Grinning, Mason used me as an excuse to avoid it.
On the long ride back to Null’s mother’s house, I thought over my first day in Japan. I’d experienced myself as an outsider. I’d faced crushing claustrophobia. I came down with traveler’s stomach. I even flirted with getting lost. All the things I’d worried about confronting in Japan had already happened.
Why did I feel triumphant? For a former farm girl from the Midwest, Tokyo was a place I’d never dreamed of visiting. By surviving one night, I’d achieved the unimaginable. Who would’ve suspected I was actually Queen of the Night?