At 7:30 am there were already rebellions to report. The vestal virgins at jazz coffee passed me my order before I asked for it. From those starched whites not a word, a little grin, ham cheese toast and a pot of coffee.
How can I explain what this means? Ordinarily the same speech must be given, even if the customer appears at the same time every day and orders the exact same meal. But we broke the rule of anonymity. We admitted we were there, standing across the counter from each other, as we have been every Wednesday morning at 7:25 for months now.
(You must not forget the Law of Tokyo, the Law from which the life of Tokyo inevitably extends—Law #1: Let’s Pretend None of this is Going On!)
The second revolt took place in Iidabashi station, not far from the B3 exit. An old man had set up his easel and was engrossed in the task of painting, in water colors, with a pinpoint brush, the portrait of a vending machine.
How meticulously, how lovingly, he detailed every snack!
I would have embraced him, but the affectionate caresses of a strange foreigner would have no doubt caused his wa to capsize.
Ordinarily the painters are all in a gaggle around some vicious bit of cuteness. For example, that sickening little bridge in Shinjuku Park. No one looks at what is here.
(Please refer again to Law #1)
No comments:
Post a Comment