Tokyo’s Muslim

Not much of a view out the front door.

My life here started in Yokohama. I resided in two desirable locations; first with a friend and his family in Nishi-Ku, and then in a “Weekly Mansion” in Kannai. Circumstances require discretion in regards to my misadventures at my friend’s house, but no such requirement exists in regards to my time in Kannai.  

A Weekly Mansion is a sort of middle-term apartment lease, usually measured in weeks.  These sorts of premises are all routinely tiny, and vastly overpriced.  My apartment was 8-11 m2, but it cost nearly a thousand dollars to rent.  Weekly mansions are somewhat infamous for suicides; not surprising since the people there are generally the kind that can’t get a regular apartment, or had to find a place at the last moment (read: kicked out of the house).

My neighbours were  salarymen and a dog stylist next door. The contrast was delicious; Grey, stern salarymen, constantly depressed looking, locked in tiny cages and forever using nothing but keigo.  Attractive, nubile 18 year-old Japanese girls in pinki mini skirts, with giant, gorgeous leather sofas for their “clients”.  While the dogs next door were getting ready for their bubble bath, the salarymen were busy  making desperate phone calls to the company (working from home).   The sheer subborn willpower that they showed towards their country’s well being could even entitle them to the rank of hero, save that the results of their actions are of such a trifling insignificant quality that one would run the risk of sounding sarcastic.  Yet, sarcasm’s long shadow will not be deny me my ode to the Yokohama Salaryman-Warrior-Hero.  

Sacrificing his vitals for his company and his nation, seldom complaining, and maintaining decorum at all times.   Bitter and unedible fruits from his labours are of no bother, nor is his inconsequence to the world.  A tiny apartment is where he begins his life (as everything before starting work is of no value), and then a grand palace (40 m2) that he never has time to see.  In his king’s court, he is betrayed by his wife and 1.2 children, neither of whom can stand how disgusting he is.  When his battle with stress inevitably reaches its end, a few mumbled platitudes and a pre-packaged funeral and then his ashes released to pollute the air. Magnifique!

The salaryman might be a hero, but I’d rather be a dog in Yokohama.  Give me the 18 year old chiq barber over the 38 year old hostess any day.