The Drink

by Anna Kunnecke

My friend Koy once said, "Japanese people don't just drink.  They drink in the biblical sense."  It's hard to tell the difference between full-blown alcoholism and acceptable social drinking.  It could be that the distinction doesn't mean as much here, as long as you don't slur your words at work. 

And there is so much work, and there is even drinking for work.  There's the obligatory drinks with your boss, which in richer times would have ended at a hostess bar or strip club, there's the hard nights of commiserating and drinking that bond colleagues together, there's the uchiage when a project is finished, there's the year-end bonenkai, there's the nijikai after friends' weddings.  These are all occasions at which it is acceptable, even appropriate, to get terrifically, epically drunk. 

Common sights in Tokyo: a girl passed out cold on the street, people hurling their guts out on train platforms, men in suits sprawled lengthwise on train seats, and friends carrying home a prone member of their party.  In the US, my first instinct would be to call an ambulance; here, my assumption is that they're sleeping one off. 

Last Saturday I was taking my daughter to the park when we encountered our neighbor sitting, with her two preschool daughters and her infant son, in the lobby of our building.  "Why are you sitting here?" asked my daughter.  My neighbor sighed.  "My husband had a long night out last night," she said.  "He needs it to be quiet so he can recover."  So there they sat, four out of five members of their household, while the fifth member recovered from what must have been a truly grueling hangover.  I bristled with indignation; just buy him some earplugs!  Except that it's highly possible that going out and getting plastered was the most effective way for him to keep his job, upon which his brood depend.  I reeled at the sudden shift in perspective: a hard night of drinking reframed as an act of loving responsibility.

I once thought my taxi driver had a speech impediment until he turned around and I got a whiff of the alcohol on his breath.  Reader, did I report him?  I did not.  It didn't even occur to me. 

Along with public drunkenness comes the charming phenomenon of public urination, and the little alley by the station lined in tiny old-style bars is called shonben yokocho, or Piss Alley.  No one my age goes there; we go to the big izakaya instead, where they serve little dishes of savory wonders and big frosty pints of nama.  If we're feeling fancy, we'll go to a cocktail bar, where the service is unctuous, the drinks are tiny, and the prices are high.    When friends talk about getting together, they say, "Nomi ni iko," which translates, plainly, let's go drink.  It's considered its own worthy enterprise.

And it's what keeps this place humming, to a certain extent.  Alcohol is what melts the barriers, unleashes the pent-up emotions, clears the air.  It's the joyous fuel for celebration and commiseration.  It's the raucous flip side to impenetrable personal boundaries.  It's the excuse, the freedom, and the opportunity to slip behind the curtain of formality.  And if you're lucky, it's your excuse to sing some really bad karaoke.  Nomi ni iko.