Seiji was at the same party where I committed the gaffe over the Tohoku dialect. As one of the two youngest people there, he was in charge of the alcohol. The pouring of it, that is. Between the two young men, the party attendees were kept pretty happy.
I first met Seiji at the base where I stayed in Ofunato. The building was also a drop-off point for relief supplies. Trucks would come several times a week and the crew of young volunteers would unload the boxes of supplies and run them up the stairs to the front office. The day I met him, the person running the office told me Seiji lost his mother in the tsunami. She worked at the hospital in Rikuzentakata. Since that day I would often sneak a glance at Seiji wondering how he was holding up. What was his life like at home? Did he have family? Did he cry when he was alone? Was he sleeping at night?
Back at the party, between shots of sake, shochu and bottles of beer, one of the party-goers leans over to me and said in an attempted whisper, "it's Seiji's birthday today." Drunk men don't whisper very well. Soon, people around the table were slapping Seiji on the back, offering him drinks, shouting "sit down, sit down!" as they made their way towards getting this young man as drunk as they were.
The party host looked at me through the commotion and said so very slyly, "you know, someone should sing him happy birthday," and next thing I knew all eyes were on me.
"Me?" I said.
"'Me?'" they mocked. "Yes, you. Of course you. Do your Marilyn routine!"
Marilyn routine?! What Marilyn routine? Do all white women channel Marilyn Monroe? I'm flattered and offended at the same time.
"Wait a minute," I stall. "Do I look like Marilyn?" They laugh.
"No, but I bet you can sing like her," one drunk man says and more people laugh.
"Oh, come on," I stall again. Then it comes.
"Liza Minnelli!" another drunk man says and the laughter turns into howling.
Let me explain. I most definitely do not look like Marilyn Monroe. I do, however, look a lot like Liza Minnelli. My short black hair, more often spiky than not, my nose (resembling Liza's more than I'm comfortable with) and my trademark eyeliner and lipstick has gotten me more comments about being a Liza Minnelli look-alike than I care to admit. Now that the comparison is out there, what am I supposed to do? Offer a rendition of "Happy Birthday" that sounds like "New York, New York"? I attempt to stall some more. Then I see Seiji looking at me. I know right then I can't bow out of this. I won't.
"Fine," I say, and grin. "You want Happy Birthday? I'll give you Happy Birthday." Everyone claps and I silently curse. Crap. Crap, crap, crap. I hate karaoke. Singing in public for me is up there with going to the dentist. I most definitely do not do solos. That's the equivalent of a root canal. To say I feel cornered doesn't begin to describe what I'm feeling. Then I look at Seiji again. I look at his father whom I'm introduced to for the first time tonight. These men must be in incredible pain. I have to do this. I can. I will. I take a deep breath. I know I'm being watched.
"Okay," I say. "But, not Marilyn. Okay?"
I hear some catcalls followed by several "Ooo-kaaay!"s and I begin. It's a good thing I can sing. It's a good thing I can carry a tune. I sing Happy Birthday to Seiji who looks embarrassed. I get all the way through and everyone hollers, claps, whistles, and pounds the table. Seiji and I look at each other. I smile. He smiles back. This man is young enough to be my son. (So much nicer than saying I'm old enough to be his mother, don't you think?) I silently hope this makes him happy and that this is a memory he'll take with him. Tonight he was the center of attention not as the young man who lost his mother but as the man who has a future ahead of him. Happy Birthday, Seiji. May there be many more.
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