Japanese Gum

October 2, 2003

Last night I went over to my friend Tim's for the usual Wednesday night hootenanny. Tim has a three-ring binder full of obscure hillbilly songs, and we sit down with a couple of guitars, a couple of beers, and work our way through it. "You know this one?" "Nope."

Last night we veered away from the book to do a little free-form fucking around. A countrified version of American Woman, for example. Except we changed it to Canadian Woman. It was all pretty stupid, but Tim came up with the best line: Canadian Woman, stay away from me-ee Canadian Woman, yer maple syrup-ee. Like I said, it was stupid. Afterwards, Tim asked if I wanted to go for a drink. Sure. He phoned  Lilly to see if she was bartending at the crappy cokehead bar. (They've been doing a lot to fix the place up, but I'll always know it as the bar where a guy got shot and killed in the bathroom.) "Sandra's there too," Tim said as we headed over.

"Oh yeah?" Well, I hope she's not drunk. I don't have much patience for her when she is."

Sandra drinks red wine on ice in pint glasses until her teeth turn purple. The drunker she is, the closer her wine-stained mouth gets to your face as she talks. By the time we walked in, she was finishing off a bottle. Lilly was pouring the few remaining drops. So after I finished my beer, I decided to head home. Sandra lives on the same train line as me. "How are you getting home?" she asked.

"Subway." "You wanna share a cab?"

"No. It's easier for me to take the train." (And cheaper too.)

"Do you want me to come with you?"

"No. It's okay. Stay and finish your wine."

"Wait three minutes and I'll come with you."

"Umm. Two minutes."

So she guzzled the rest of her drink, and we walked to the station. When we sat down, she sat way too close and was babbling loudly about nonsense that I can't even remember. She kept putting her head on my shoulder, and I kept gently nudging it off. I told her I was going to get off at Bedford Avenue, which is five stops ahead of where I otherwise would've.

"Why? What's going on there? What's happening on Bedford Avenue that I don't know about?"

"I'm sure there's a shitload of things going on there that neither of us knows about."

"But what are you doing? Maybe I should get off there too."

"No."

"Why? Where are you going?"

"I'm a single guy. I have places to go, things to do."

"Well, what about me? I'm a single girl."

That's not exactly true. She has a pretty steady thing going with a guy I know.

"What about Peter?"

"What about him? I mean, you know, he's in and out."

"Well, I don't want you to come with me."

I'm sure I wouldn't have been so direct if I thought she'd remember any of it.

"You're just going to get off on Bedford and you don't even know where you're going?"

That was true, but I didn't admit it.

"I know where I'm going."

"Well why can't I come?"

The train stopped. "Get home safe," I told her, and I was gone. I decided to stop into the bar that has the Dutch bartender. She wasn't working, but I talked to the girl who was. When she went to help a customer, a girl came up to me and asked, "You don't have any gum do you?"

"Do I look like the kind of guy who would have gum?"

"Kind of."

“Well, you’re right.” I pulled out a pack and gave her a piece.

"Yes! Score!" she said, clapping her hands wildly. As she put the gum in her mouth, she told me, "You look like my uncle. He lives in Japan."

“Is he Japanese?"

"Yes."

"And he lives in Japan?"

"Yup."

"And I look like him?"

"Uh-huh," she nodded, "He's really hairy."

I’ve never been told — neither directly nor indirectly — that I was really hairy before. But I’m not Japanese.