In the mid 1970s, I was one of only two Americans working for the second largest Japanese securities firm in New York; the other being a man who handled domestic trades. The president of the firm was shorter than my 5’4” and stocky. What he lacked in height, he made up for with personality and wit. He counted many celebrities among his friends and often lunched with George Plimpton and other authors of his caliber. Sometimes, he took me along, insisting that it was an opportunity to expand my horizons while sampling traditional Asian food.
How well I remember the first time I ate raw pickled octopus. Rubber would have been tastier. I could feel those little suction cups on my tongue and prayed I would not be sick. Sushi was new to me, and, at 21, I still had a lot to learn. Now, I would eat sushi every night of the week.
Working for a Japanese firm was interesting in many ways. Cultural and ethnic differences played a large part in how employees related to each other. Many of the men were single, living away from their families and lonely. A scotch bottle in the bottom drawer of their desk was often their companion for the night. About six months into my employment, I hired a girl to assist with general office work. Monday mornings would find our desks covered with pictures of movie stars torn from magazines with little notes attached stating, “She reminds me of you.”
Since the actress was usually dressed seductively and we always wore business attire, we laughed at the comparison. Greta Garbo was their favorite for me. My long blond tresses were a fascination for them and rarely did one of them pass me without stroking my hair. Glamour shots and hair touching aside, the men were a pleasure to work with. They returned from trips to Japan laden with gifts of pearls, silks and even the offer of a new Datsun. Get your mind out of the gutter. We would have had to pay for it – in cash.
With the firm growing rapidly, it became necessary to hire additional office staff. My first choice was Susan, a free spirit who presented herself for the interview dressed incognito. She was well groomed and spoke intelligently. Unfortunately, when she arrived on Monday morning to begin work, her long hair cascaded around her face in greasy ringlets and her sundress was wrinkled and much too short. Since she appeared eager to please, I decided to wait until near the close of day to speak with her.
Susan followed directions well and by mid-morning she had already filed most of the stock portfolios that had piled up on the floor. Although I could not see her from my office, I could see the stockbrokers, whose desks faced the cabinets Susan was busily filling. Normally, the men were in constant motion, answering their phones, taking notes and yelling to one another with buy/sell directives. This day they were strangely quiet. The phones were ringing, and although they were being answered, it was taking longer than usual. There was no buzz in the air, that electric charge that is the life blood of a brokerage house.
Sensing something was amiss, I walked into the main room and looked around. Like puppets on a string, the men’s heads were tilting to the right and then to the left in unison. They were staring at Susan with their mouths slightly agape. Drawn to this strange spectacle, I positioned myself to see what they were seeing. As I said before, Susan’s dress was very short. What I didn’t know was that she was not wearing underwear. Each time she bent down to pick up a file; each time she raised her arms to place that file in an upper drawer, the guys were getting an unobstructed view of… everything.
My gasp was as loud as a clap of thunder. The men quickly lowered their eyes as I politely asked Susan to come to my office. Firing someone is never easy, but it is made more difficult when you need to discuss genital exposure. Susan took it well. I had a martini with my lunch.
Lisa, 18 and just graduated from high school, was my next hire. One of her duties was to sort through the boxes and letters that arrived daily from Japan. Nothing, and I mean nothing, was bought in the U.S. if it could be avoided. Crates of dried fish, seaweed, green tea, and soybean cakes were delivered every week. Even pharmaceuticals were sent from home.
On Wall Street, everyone breaks for lunch at roughly the same time – noon. One day, while the men were out, Lisa unwrapped a box addressed to Mr. S, a married man whose wife refused to come to the states. He claimed to be living with a female cousin, who took care of the household chores. Impressed by the artistic quality of the box… a beautiful pink parchment etched with gold Asian lettering… Lisa held it up for me to see. I immediately told her to rewrap it in the brown paper in which it had been delivered and place it on Mr. S’s desk.
Lisa was naïve in many ways, and her eyes shone with curiosity.
“Why,” she inquired, “do I have to wrap it up again?”
I pointed to the lower right hand corner of the box where in English the words Skinless Skin were written. She merely shook her head in confusion.
“Those are prophylactics,” I said.
A shrug of her shoulders was all the response I got.
“Condoms” I tried.
Lisa’s shoulders went up and down quickly signaling her lack of comprehension.
“Rubbers,” I ventured.
The lights went on and, oh, how she blushed. Quickly, she recovered the box and left it on Mr. S’s chair.
The best was yet to come. When the men returned from lunch, they gathered around Mr. S’s desk and, like a croupier in Vegas, he dealt out those little foil packets – one for Mr. K, one for Mr. M, one for Mr. N, one for himself and one for the medicine cabinet in the back room. I swear the atmosphere in the office changed for the better that afternoon. Instead of dried fish, you could smell anticipation in the air.
Marriage and motherhood eventually called and I left New York for suburbia but not before a man died at my feet and I had a dinner “date” with Mr. O.
Donna Carbone is the Executive Director/Playwright in Residence at the Palm Beach Institute for the Entertainment Arts, where education through entertainment is the mission statement.
Please visit: pbinstituteforentertainmentarts.com