We age, but we’re not alone. The same goes for our city. So—how has Tokyo got older? How has it grown up? These are the kinds of questions we’ll tackle in “Tokyo Chronicle”, a new series launching in our next issue.
In the meantime, here’s a little taste of what we’ve got in store—a teaser, if you will. Kaku Nohara kicks things off with a short story about his Tokyo, circa 1985. Before we get to his story, just a few lines about where the world was in 1985.
AIDS landed in Japan. Gorbachev was picked to succeed Chernenko. Aug. 15: PM Yasuhiro Nakasone paid a visit to Yasukuni Shrine, in an official capacity. Race riots raged in South Africa. Japan Airlines flight 123 crashed near Mt. Osutaka, Gunma Prefecture. In Ibaraki, EXPO Tsukuba 1985 ran for 184 days. The New Entertainment Control Law went into effect. Oct. 16: Hanshin Tigers named Central League champions.
We’re all ten years old. Old enough to taste the difference. And you can buy Coke at any convenience store… Really, where’s the fun in that? We’re on the hunt for Pepsi-Cola.
Pepsi’s different. Premium. A rare brew manufactured in underground power stations.
I issue the order:
—Fall in!
We’re in West Shinjuku. The quiet second district. Quiet—because the 1.569 billion-yen Tokyo Metropolitan Government Office hasn’t gone up yet. We assemble by the Water Plaza in Central Park, our base of operations.
—Uno
—Dos
—Tres
—Cuatro
—Sinkhole
Our secret code.
I’m the commander, so I take the lead: Got your timepieces, amigos?
All at once: Si, señor!
Yuji Okazaki spent the summer in Spain with his family. When he came back, Spanish hit us hard—at an instantaneous wind speed of fifty metres per second.
Me: Ready? Synchronize watches. You have exactly five minutes. And no Fanta—got it? Pepsi only.
Hiroki Uehara (raising his hand): Are vending machines out of bounds?
Me: Affirmative. Stores only. Clear? Get receipts, too—for evidence. Everyone reading twelve seconds?
All of us: Yessir!
Me: Ready… get set… go!
We run like hell.
We hit every Pepsi-carrying store we can find. Pepsi. Rocket fuel for the double-digit generation.
Hopped up on caffeine, we barrel through the streets of Shinjuku. As I bolt towards the next store, I catch a glimpse of the Tokyo Hilton. Or should I say El Hilton? Remember, though, the H is silent.
That was my 1985.
BOAT FOUR
NO WAY OUT
I never was much of a talker, but after that ill-fated car chase—when I lost my first girlfriend—I really clammed up. Let my fists do all the talking. I lashed out at everyone in range: the adults trying to hold me back, the other kids at The End of the World, everybody, anybody. Third grade, eighth grade, it made no difference to me. Then they sent me home to Suginami, supposedly rehabilitated.
Back to school.
As soon as I saw all those ugly faces for the first time in a year, I got kind of slap-happy.
I’m pretty sure I took a swing at every kid in my grade before the semester was up. I mean it. In the spirit of being open and honest, there’s something I need to admit. I didn’t spare girls. It was low of me, I know, but on average, they were the better fighters.
We beat each other senseless. All of us. There was plenty of hate to go around. “Peaceful resolution”? Huh? What’s that even mean? Peace is just a ruse. Granted, “ruse” wasn’t in my vocabulary back then. But I felt it in my bones. We all did. All rise, bow—and come out swinging!
In no time, I was slapped with a bad rep. I made it into middle school, but Suginami ward put me on blast. I was an ex-dropout who hit girls. Blacklisted. In middle school, likes and loves were flying all over the place. Boys and girls and unchained libidos. But I played no part in the adolescent melodrama. I was hanging out in my corner, alone, giving off bad vibes.
High school was easier on me. All boys. No girls meant no girls to hit.
But my school wasn’t easier on everyone. During my time there, three boys (in different grades) killed themselves, one kid in my grade survived a family suicide, and another kid murdered his parents in their sleep. (He doused his house in gasoline and set it on fire.)
The rash of deaths didn’t have anything to do with my school, though, not really. Every school has kids who want to kill themselves, and kids who want to kill their parents, and parents who want to kill their kids. But the media likes to find patterns where there aren’t any. FIVE TRAGEDIES IN THREE YEARS—WHAT’S WRONG WITH THIS SCHOOL? There were talk shows about us, dramatizations, you name it. Our school was legendary. Every time I turned on the TV, I was back in school. It was crazy.
This school stood for everything wrong with the Japanese education system. Wild kids = wild homes = the end of Japan as we know it. Like that.
TV crews were always hanging around. We knew exactly what they wanted to hear—and we delivered. STUDENTS SPEAK UP—TEENAGERS AT THE END OF THE CENTURY.
We were in magazines and newspapers. We were even on TV. As unpaid extras.
The more over-the-top we were, the more they ate it up. Even though every word out of our mouths was pure bullshit.
We worked on our story, transforming an unexceptional boys’ school into the campus of the damned. People were afraid of us—even lowlifes from schools way worse than ours didn’t dare mess with us. That felt real good.
We felt something like school pride.
We invented a kind of language of our own. Words that fitted our own needs. Japanese for idiots, or something. For the first time in years, language made some sense to me. That was when I started speaking up—almost like a regular kid. Like I was part of something.
Sure, that camaraderie had its limits. Our language didn’t exist outside of the school and its immediate surroundings. And it didn’t last long. But it got us through some strange times.
Years later, I bumped into one of my classmates, but everything was different. When high school ended, that world ended. Everyone went their separate ways. Me? I went the way of the proper young gentleman. If you can believe: I studied liberal arts at a private university. No joke.
That came with a different circle of friends.
Boys and girls.
University. It didn’t take long to have a few close encounters with girls. But these girls were nothing like my first girlfriend. I mean, I wouldn’t call them “girlfriends”. More like science experiments. What happens when you introduce manganese dioxide to hydrogen peroxide? Oxygen! When ammonia and hydrochloric acid combine, you get… white smoke! Don’t try this at home, kids! Ha ha ha. Yeah, like that’s gonna happen.
University.
School, sex, bar, school, work, double date (“collaborative research”), mid-terms, sex.
Science, it turns out, can be pretty medieval. Look at alchemy, the magic of converting base metals into gold. What am I trying to say? Love can lead to sex—of course. But there are times when things go the other way around. Sex can lead to love. That’s what I’m saying. I know it can happen because it happened to me. How many times? Well, just once.