A year passed during which I thoroughly enjoyed learning the Japanese culture and benefiting from association with some wonderful people whom I have not forgotten to this day. Then… change hung in the air like the Sword of Damocles.
Those biases I wrote about earlier extended into a modern day caste system. The way it was explained to me: Those born in Japan who remained in Japan attained the highest level of respect. Those born in Japan who moved to another country to live and work for a few years were next in line. Those who remained in a foreign country rather than returning home were much lower on the admiration scale. Those who were born in a foreign country and were considered legal residents of that country had no respect at all.
Mr. O was highly respected among his peers, but his superiors in the home office were fearful that if he remained in the States much longer, he and his family would cease to feel fidelity to the motherland. He, his wife and their sons all spoke perfect English. They belonged to a country club where Mr. O played golf on a regular basis. His wife and sons enjoyed pursuits that were more American than Japanese. The more comfortable they became living in the suburbs of New York, the more uncomfortable his superiors felt. He was called home… to stay.
When it was confirmed that Mr. O was returning to Japan, he spoke with me and my male counterpart and suggested we move on to other employment. His replacement was not America friendly and as the only two non-Asian employees, our positions would be in jeopardy. We both received the highest praise in our letters of recommendation. Sad as we were to leave, we appreciated Mr. O’s honesty and support.
From Wall Street to Rockefeller Center, my next position was in the audit research department of Price Waterhouse. The position required tracking law suits filed against other members of the Big Eight accounting firms. The job was interesting but not as interesting as the man scheduled to be the “youngest” partner in the firm. Pete was a handsome 6’9” man with a personality to match his height. We started dating.
For comparison purposes, I am 5’4”. Having a conversation with Pete while standing never included looking him in the eyes. The closest I got was his belt buckle. He thought it was hilariously funny to pick me up around the waist when we crossed a Manhattan street. I laughed… the first time. After that, not so much.
One day, my office phone rang and I heard Mr. O’s voice. He asked if I would have dinner with him. I believe he said, “It will be nice to speak with you as a woman rather than an employee.” I should have known, but I was young and still a little naïve. Since there had never been a hint of impropriety when I worked at Nikko… Okay… I was stupid.
Pete was in the habit of working late so when I told him about Mr. O’s invitation, he suggested I take it. He said he would pick me up at the restaurant when dinner was over and drive me home.
In the 1970s, an American woman dating an Asian man was a rarity. My female counterparts at PW were curious about Mr. O so they awaited his arrival with me. The Exxon building where we worked had a huge glass-enclosed lobby which afforded a view of people and traffic making their way through mid-town Manhattan.
On this evening, a long, white Cadillac pulled up to the curb. Mr. O, now approximately 5x5, exited the vehicle and walked to the passenger side where he waited for me. With the door open, my friends and I had a clear view of the two pillows he sat on to see over the dashboard. They nearly died laughing!
Smile on my face and a groan in my throat, I greeted Mr. O. We headed for Benihana, which at that time was still a new and unique dining experience. Being Japanese, Mr. O was given special treatment. Me… it was hours later before I realized they thought I was a paid escort.
So, the evening began with cocktails in a loft-style bar. To reach the loft, we were required to climb a ladder. I was wearing the customary business attire of the day – a dress and heels. Climbing the ladder with Mr. O behind me would have been a show I was unprepared to give. The waitress recognized my discomfort and very adeptly placed herself between me and Mr. O on our ascent.
In true Japanese style, we sat on pillows on the floor. Mr. O ordered sake for himself. I drank Coke.
What came next was a well-rehearsed comedy routine. Mr. O would spill his drink on my leg – over and over again – and pretend embarrassment at his clumsiness. Of course, he insisted on wiping my leg with his napkin – over and over again. This had to be the longest cocktail “hour” on record. Do not ask me what we talked about. My mind was preoccupied with planning how I would get out of this situation.
It was near 8 pm by the time we went to the dining room for dinner. At the table for eight, I was the lone young American woman with an Asian man. Much like the cocktail hour, the dinner hour went on forever. Couples came and went and we were still eating our salads. The looks I was given by both men and women were less than flattering. I began to realize my position in this scene.
By 11 pm, I was desperate to escape. I excused myself to use the ladies room and, instead, found a pay phone. Pete’s voice on the other end was a welcomed relief. Jokingly, he asked if I had been kidnapped. He said, “I was beginning to think you had become a geisha on the Ginza. Relax. I will be there in 10 minutes.” And he was.
When I returned to the table, I told Mr. O that my boyfriend was picking me up. He said emphatically, “No! I brought you here. I will take you home.” I thought, “I’ll let Pete handle this one.”
Despite the city lights, it was dark when we exited the restaurant. Pete was parked directly in front. He was in a slouched position, leaning his 6’9” frame against the car so his full height was not immediately visible. Mr. O walked determinedly up to him and began to speak. Pete slowly stood up. Imagine standing on the sidewalk outside the Empire State Building. Slowly, your head leans back farther and farther as you try to see the pinnacle at the top. That was Mr. O… leaning back, looking up and trying to maintain his balance. He gave up without a fight. With a flourish, he turned to me and said, “It was so nice seeing you again. Be well.” And he walked away never to be heard from again.
I have not eaten at a Benihana in years, but whenever the restaurant is mentioned, I remember that night and breathe a sigh of relief.
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