Close to home
Shinda Teruko cannot remember the last time she heard a train pass
overhead. For almost 40 years she has worked and lived under the tracks
in Daimatsu, her nomiya, in Imagawa Koji, a sunless alley not far
from Kanda station. Trains rumble over every two or three minutes,
yet to her, they are as noisy as a heartbeat.
Once almost 20 women lived in this perpetually dark, village-like
alley in one or two-room apartments upstairs from their counters.
Shinda-san is the last. The others have passed or moved on. New proprietresses
-- there are about 6 or 7 of these small shops still extant -- leave
the alley at closing time. To enter these establishments, one must
duck as the doors are so low. Look up to see the miniature balconies
for hanging out laundry on the "second" floor -- one meter or so below
the tracks.
Nine can sit elbow to elbow on the stools at the worn wooden counter
at Daimatsu. Three more can sit at the toy-like table in Shinda-san's
"kitchen"-- a space small enough to cover in two steps, with its two-burner
gas range and plain white shelves. Shinda-san laughs (more like a
cackle) and chats and jokes with everyone as she pours sake into water
glasses until it overflows into the saucer below, or pours beer, or
pours yuzu shu, the tipple of choice here. You can get a decent meal
too in the daily delicacies she prepares ala Tohoku, her "furusato"
home country.
Shinda-san ministers like a mother, grandmother, or great aunt to
these gentlemen, men secure in their tailored Italian suits and gold
cuff links, secure in their positions -- senior managers, presidents,
CEO's -- and to the regular salarymen who come to this tiny comfortable
room introduced by their fathers or a "satcho," a boss, to this their
favorite watering hole. Nihonbashi, the financial center of Tokyo
is nearby with the Bank of Japan and its massive stainless steel doors
and the Grecian columns of the Mitsui Trust a short stroll away.
A dusty karaoke machine with a few songs in English - John Denver,
Elvis, and the Beatles -- sits atop the refrigerator. An old calendar
on the wall shows snapshots of Shinda-san in her salad days. Sitting
on a stool at the counter one can reach up to touch the ceiling and
the sprinkler system of pipes. Someone some years ago forgot their
keys which are hanging no one remembers how long from a pipe.
Sometimes Shinda-san has a bit too much cheer and will doze off. A
banker or executive manager will step behind the counter to carry
on. And someone will help her up the near vertical stairs to where
she sleeps on the second floor just below the tracks.
Daimatsu and the thousands of drinking places like it across the city
are Tokyo's heart where high and low meet at counter level on a common
stool and drink the liquor of life -- and talk. On a recent evening
the talk was of politics, business, robots, women, lovers, bureaucrats,
and bosses. Not exclusively a male clientele, women are part of the
regular crowd too.
Everyone is made to feel welcome at Daimatsu. Just follow the rules
of membership: Pretensions must be left outside. Inside bring the
virtues of tolerance, kindness, honesty, and hard work as embodied
by Shinda-san, the mama, the aunt, the grandmother, the listener.
Her hard, short laughter raining like hammer blows.
--mjk
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