An American stomping in Tokyo

I’ve only been jumped once in my life. When I lived in Tokyo, working as a bartender at an American expat bar, I dealt with westerners trying to ward off homesickness with familiar surroundings. I told riddles, listened to stories of long lost love, and poured mixed drinks with more mix then drink; pretty much everything you might expect from a diligent bartender. However when 4am hit and my time card was punched I would escape that bar as fast as possible. To this day for me work is work and pleasure pleasure. Ropongi, the gaijin capital of Japan. Tourists from all over the world collect upon it’s streets to either make a dime or spend it. Ropongi reeks of hedonism. Cocaine in the bathrooms. Magic mushrooms sold on the streets (They’re legal, go figure). 4am and all is anything but quiet. Japanese drag queens solicit skibe business men that pass. Ambulece sirens scream a song that is all to familiar to the locals. Just another overdose probably. I walked to a Kirin machine on the side of the street and bought a beer. Pregame is a necessity in Tokyo because a beer in a bar costs ten bucks. After finishing it off I walked into a bar I knew I could find a pretty Japanese girl that would help make my transition to day that much easier. I drank, then drank some more. The bar was packed and I gave up game for a good drunkin spurt of writing. To this day bar writing is one of my favorite past times. I drank and kept to myself. I’ve never been one for idle chit chat. I drank and as is the consequence of heavy drinking I was impelled to use the bathroom. I wobbled to the bathroom, unzipped and released a flow so robust that I feel that even the swift Amazon would of given me props. As the last few drops dripped from my wick a pounding sounded at the door. “Just a sec” I slurred. I washed my hands. The pounding continued. “Hold on”. I belched. I checked my hair and the pounding continued. “Damn man, I’m done, I’m done.” And as I opened the door I was shoved inside that small bath room by two men. They proceeded to pound the ever living shit out of me. When their monkey urges had been filled they took my wallet, which was funny enough cause it was empty (the fruit of it’s contents had just been flushed down the toilet), and split. As they left I looked at them and found they were two american sailors. I had traveled across the world to get jumped by two american sailors. That’s when I started to think the hatred other nations had for us might be well grounded. I was a bloody mess but thankfully nothing was broken. A dancer who worked at the bar took me home and tended to my wounds. :) She told me, and many others after, that I was to good to be american. That I wasn’t just another killer. Most times national pride would make me puff out my cheeks in indignation but sometimes, more lately, I would wonder if what they said might be true. Is senseless violence part of being American. I wonder still.