Tune In Tokyo:The Gaijin Diaries Read Online Free Page B

pushy.
    “You come? You come? It just this way.”
    “I’m sorry, thank you, but I’m not interested.”
    She appears confused, disbelieving. I decide to break it down into the simplest possible terms.
    “Thank you, I no interest. No can do. Can’t. Must with friend and eat.” I figure the less sense I make to myself the more I make to her. Wrong again.
    “No, please, you must not go tempting! God watching you!”
    I see. And what does that mean, exactly?
    “It safe in my church. Safe from tempting.”
    “Thank you soooo much,” I say, backing away. “But I meet friend now. I see Jesus later.” Then she rushes me.
    “Please, take this, you can visit anytime you like.” And with this she drops into my hand a flyer and her church’s business card with address and directions in English. “You no go tempting,” she says with a worried smile.
    “Thank you,” I say again before turning around and getting the hell out of there. I walk briskly, lest Ms. Johnson should decide to approach again, this time with a bigger, beefier member of her church less inclined to take no for an answer. A rotund black belt named Akira O’Donnell, say. I cross the street and, since I have no idea where I am or what I’m doing, walk towards whatever is ahead of me. I stop under another giant television screen and take a look at the flyer Miho had given me.
    On one side is a collection of illustrations seemingly drawn by the good folks at Marvel Comics. In the center is Planet Earth, above which stands—I’m assuming here—God, wrapped in angelic white robes, His arms outstretched, His smile twinkling, His long white hair and beard nicely highlighted by the halo suspended above His head. He stands in the center of what appears to be a meteor shower, but He’s unaffected because He’s God, and He made the friggin’ meteors, bitch. In another scene, the Statue of Liberty faces an attack by a thick red, yellow, and evil cloud. And in another, a tall, square-jawed, ruggedly handsome man, dressed in a dark blue shirt and matching cape, walks in front of a dome-shaped building, a religious gathering place, perhaps. Oh, and he’s got a sign on his shirt that says “666.” Oh, and also there are people bowing down in front of him. (I don’t blame them. Look at those cheekbones. The man is handsome . Like, Superman handsome.)
    On the back of the flyer is a lengthy piece of hysteria titled “The Final Signs of the End.” I read through it quickly, stumbling through the arbitrary and relentless use of underlined passages and all-caps text. (“ONE MAJOR FINAL SIGN OF THE VERY END that is yet to be fulfilled and that many prophets predicted is the rise of a powerful One World Government led by a bestial dictator who will actually be fully possessed by Satan himself!— The Antichrist!” ) I don’t read too much, not wanting to slip into hopelessness and despair on my first tromp through Shinjuku. And besides, I don’t see anything about the Apocalypse happening anywhere near the greater Tokyo metropolitan area. I put the flyer in my back pocket so I can look at it later and laugh all uppity-like.
    Let’s see, what’s next? A-ha! Straight ahead is a narrow shopping street peppered with groups of sharply dressed, incredibly oily looking young men wearing collared white shirts open nearly to their navels, smoking cigarettes, and looking like they’re in training for the International Sleaze Olympics. Let’s go this way!
    I notice that every so often, one of these men will see an attractive girl in the throngs of passersby, run up to her, and, walking alongside her, offer her some sort of proposition. He bends down and speaks directly into her ear as she passes, and more often than not, she tries to lose him. Eventually, she’ll hold up her hand politely, shielding her face from the guy, and decline his offer, speeding up her step to outrun him. He doesn’t give up easily, but, as if he’s being kept on an invisible leash by