The Salaryman's Wife(64)
“I can’t do anything with this. Not without a military sponsor.”
“I’m not trying to get on base,” I insisted. “I’m just trying to get some information.”
When a second guard moved in, I realized I appeared as potentially dangerous as the protesters outside. Paranoia had infused everyone. I gave up, feeling them watch me as I walked out to rejoin Richard and Mariko.
Somebody in town had to know about the club. I started with the protesters, who unfortunately had little more than pamphlets to offer. Then I surveyed the string of businesses along the road, dusty little places that looked as if they’d been around for many decades before the new mall.
A shop advertising military embroidery and patches seemed perfect. Inside, an elderly Japanese grandmother type was bent over a sewing machine. I was shaken when she looked up, scowled, and crossed her hands into an X of refusal.
“No more Jesus stuff, OK? I already buy Watchtower.”
“Excuse me?” I asked in Japanese.
“Baptist or Jehovah? You born-again, from that church, neh?” Annoyingly, she persisted in English.
“Because of the base there are all kinds of weirdos running around with pamphlets, Americans and converted Japanese,” Mariko muttered. “It was like this when I was a kid.”
I looked down at the sensible navy suit with the skirt that ended a proper yen note’s width above my knee and resolved to tell my mother to cancel my subscription to the Talbots catalog.
“I don’t practice any religion,” I said firmly. “What I’m really looking for is the club for retired chief petty officers. Do you know it?”
“A bar so early on Saturday morning? What kind girl are you?” the woman exclaimed.
“A complete naughty-bones!” Richard was delighted.
“It’s for research purposes only,” I said, trying to preserve my dignity.
“I don’t know nobody no more.” The seamstress opened a drawer, took out a small pipe and lit it.
“Surely lots of military come in here, given that you take dollars,” I prodded.
“The old men have retired back to States. They say Japan too expensive now. Even the young sailors don’t buy so many patches.” She gestured toward a counter displaying hundreds of patches with appliquéd motorcycle, ship, and heavy metal music motifs. “I had to put away the skeleton patch because of missionaries.”
“You mean you bow to censorship? Look at your countrymen outside, standing up to the invader!” Richard cried.
The woman smiled at him and pulled a Grateful Dead patch out of a drawer. “You like? For you, a special price. Because not missionary.”
This was exactly his and Mariko’s cup of tea. The two began debating the virtues of skulls versus the Harley Davidson eagle and I kept my eyes on the window, watching the flow of Americans amongst the Japanese. A gray-haired man in uniform had stopped to frown at the protesters. He appeared to be the right age. I told Richard and Mariko to stay put.
As I approached the man, he made a dismissive motion with his hand. “I go to mass every Sunday, all right?”
“I’m not a fundamentalist, I’m just looking for directions to an off-base club for retired chief petty officers.” I gave him my most engaging smile.
“Young lady, you’re talking to a captain, not a chief,” he barked, placing his hand on the gold monstrosity that decorated his hat.
“Congratulations, then,” I said. “But have you heard of this club?”
“I don’t fraternize with the enlisted.” He moved off, superbly dignified.
I made a face at his back and slumped back to Richard and Mariko, who had been joined at the store counter by two American sailors wearing jackets so covered by patches it was difficult for me to see why they were in the market for anymore.
“It’s not the kind of place that rocks much, you know?” The tall one with a bandanna stylishly wrapped around his head was slouched against the counter talking to Richard.
“You say it’s the next right, go two blocks, and then left again?” Richard asked, shooting me a victorious look.
“Does the club even have a name?” I asked the bandanna-wearing man.
“The unofficial name is Old Salts. I call it Old Farts. But it’s got cheap beer, and you can pay in dollars.” The sailor appeared to be evaluating me. “So what rate’s your friend that he’s got two babes in arms?”
When Richard looked blank, I nudged him and said, “I think he’s asking about your military rank.”
“Do I look like an American squid?” Richard grinned and ran his fingers through his short gelled hair with a flourish.