"I am shy." One of the most loquacious person I've met in Japan confesses to me. Y, this Japanese girl, unlike any other Japanese girls I met, says to me, "I am shy."
...
We're in Therapy, a gay bar in the heart of Hell's Kitchen, because I promised Y to show her the gay scene in New York City. We're at the lounge seats on the ground floor sipping the rum heavy Mojitos and checking out the foot traffic in and out the bar. Her eyes are popping out of the sockets.
"Ne, ne, ne," Y taps me on the shoulder to get my attention, "he's good looking." I give her a nod and take a long sip. Again those taps, "Ne, ne, ne, what do you think about him?" Without even noticing my shrug she continues, "It's good that I'm in a gay bar and I can check out the hot guys without having to worry about a guy checking me out."
"Don't you normally want the guys to check you out?" I ask.
"Yes, but I am shy..."
...
Bar Bird, with its moody, candle lit, laid back atmosphere coupled with strong drinks, brought us, the W-city's expats, back time and time again, having breathed in the foreign air, to breathe out something familiar. I was with two buddies of mine arguing about nothing, but I'm damn certain, back then, to us, the topic in discussion was everything. In walked Y with her girl friends. After a quick exchange of pleasantries with the bar staff, her attention turned to the raucous disturbance that played the counterpoint to the smooth Friday night groove. She then walked over to our table, cutting through the fumes of cigarette-barricade and embracing the alcoholic liberties: "Can we join you?" she asked with near perfect American accent.
...
"You are SO not shy," I counter.
"Do you see anyone you like?" Y asks. And I do see some of them, but nonchalantly I shrug and down my Mojito.
As on cue the waiter saunters over to our table, takes the empty glass, and shining his pearly whites asks if I want another drink. I order a beer, because Y wanted to get me this round.
"Ne, ne, the waiter is really cute, ne?"
"Yes," I reply, "and he has a nice ass."
She holds her gaze on his perky bubble butt. But my eyes dart over to a guy coming down the stairs. I notice him more for his t-shirt than anything else. His t-shirt reads something like, "I'm not into women," and a little "ha" escapes my mouth. This time I tap Y's shoulder, pointing out the t-shirt guy to her. "He's wearing a funny t-shirt," I share. Y cranes her neck to look at the t-shirt, but as soon as the guy is out of her sight, she gets up and floats over to the guy, leaving me laughing uncontrollably.
"What did you say to him?" I inquire as soon as she returned.
"I told him, 'I like your t-shirt, and my friend too.'"
And I ponder the irony of her statement.
...
Unwilling to let those words, "can we join you?," go to waste, my two buddies, with their Cheshire cat grin, made space for the three ladies to join us. While Y and her friends were getting settled, Y glanced over to where I was sitting, and she had the look that many Japanese people had when they saw me with a bunch of Caucasians, a quizzical yet an expectant look towards me to take the lead to help bridge the two cultures. Whenever they were brave enough to come socialize with us, or whenever my buddies decided that we ingratiate ourselves to their social company, more often than not, one of them, when their look towards me went unanswered, would strike up a conversation with me and always in Japanese, so that we'd be properly introduced. But Y, even while her quizzical gaze still lingered, she took the lead in introducing her friends and herself, and to confirm her suspicion that I was indeed an alien and not an impolite Japanese asked, "You are from America, ne?"
...
"Why don't you go and talk to him?"
I look straight into her eyes and say, "No, besides I'm shy."
