Grannie Panties Are UnderRated Read online

  September 1, 1992

  9:53 p.m.

  “It probably doesn’t feel this way now, but it will be a great story someday,” Mitch said, taking a sip of his beer. “Trust me. A classic. One for the books.”

  “Maybe for you, Mr. Tough Guy Hero. You weren’t the one standing buck naked in the shower.” Elle took a long drag from a cigarette. She had always considered smoking somewhat white-trashy, a reminder of her mom and their dismal smoke-filled apartment, but considering her morning, Elle had gladly accepted Mitch’s offer of a cigarette. Why not?

  It was a clove cigarette. Elle liked the smell and the way it made her lips tingle. It complemented her buzz from the beer.

  “The crazy thing is, that’s the first time I’ve gone to fisticuffs. Like, ever.” Mitch paused before adding, “My dad would be so proud.”

  Elle sensed bitter irony in Mitch’s tone. She wanted to explore this subject more but didn’t want to be a killjoy. “Really? You seemed rather experienced at it to me.”

  “Nope, I was a fight virgin.” Mitch held up his mug of beer and clinked it against Elle’s. “Here’s to popping my violent-tendencies cherry with you. I wouldn’t have wanted it to be with anyone else.”

  “I’m happy to oblige. I hope your hand will be okay.”

  Mitch rubbed at his right hand which was slightly swollen and bruised. “A small price to pay to protect your honor.” He turned serious. “All joking aside, are you all right?”

  Elle thought for a few moments. She had been pretty freaked out, but now, a few beers in, she had a little different perspective. It hadn’t been that scary, and Mitch was right: it would make for a good story. “I’m not gonna lie, it was a little nerve-racking, but you know, no harm, no foul. Plus, I’m thinking the silver lining of this whole thing can’t be overlooked.”

  As promised, Watanabe had called the police. As the crime was in a gaijin house, a unit specializing in immigration had been sent in. After arresting the peeping Tom, officers had checked everyone’s paperwork and discovered nearly all the residents of the Zen House were in the country illegally, working without the proper visas. One-by-one, the police had roughly escorted them all out in handcuffs.

  In contrast to the other foreigners, the police had treated Elle and Mitch with polite deference. They weren’t asked to show their passports (much to Mitch’s relief—his work visa had yet to be approved), and through the muddled translation of Watanabe, the head officer had apologized profusely to them, bowing respectfully several times.

  Bizarrely, he had even asked for permission to take photos with Elle and Mitch. They had agreed, finding it highly amusing that their picture would be passed around to this strangers’ friends and family like they were the main attraction at a zoo. “Here I am with a panda, and a lion, and oh, look at this! Here I am with two Americans.”

  When all was said and done, except for a pair of elderly Chinese men, Elle and Mitch were the only two left in the Zen House. Remorseful over the incident and unwilling to lose his new blonde tenant, Watanabe had offered to let them both stay on at the Zen House free of charge for two months. As a further gesture of goodwill, he had also given Elle her rent money back.

  As a result, Elle and Mitch had the Zen House almost all to themselves for free. A silver lining, indeed. They had even been left with a fully stocked refrigerator, although most of the food in it seemed rather dodgy.

  Not wanting to leave Elle alone after everything that had happened, Mitch had called in sick at work. They decided to celebrate their unexpected financial windfall by going out for drinks. Tokyo had an active bar scene, and there were beer halls serving cheap drinks and food on almost every corner. Mitch had taken Elle to his regular haunt, a place called Tangu, which was on the ground floor of a high-rise full of offices and a favorite of all the young businessmen who occupied cubicles in the building. The bar contained rows of several long, wooden tables where similarly dressed twenty-something men in dark pants, white shirts, and skinny ties sat, community-style.

  The men had all looked up with surprise and pleasure when Elle had walked in with Mitch. She enjoyed the attention. Even more, Elle liked how the waiter kept bringing them beers and pointing to one group or another of Japanese men, explaining in halting English that they had bought the drinks for them.

  Mitch was impressed. “Going to a bar with a hot blonde—underrated! This is outta control. I’m bringing you with me every time I go out!”

  Dying her hair platinum had been a good call. Free drinks! That was well worth the hassle of touching up her roots every few weeks.

  Mitch set down his beer empty mug and waved his hand around the room. “So, I know it’s less than forty-eight hours since you’ve been in Japan, and there was that unfortunate bit this morning, but tell me, day two, Tokyo—overrated/underrated?”

  Elle considered Mitch’s question. Yes, things had gotten off to a bit of a rocky start. Still, it wasn’t all bad. “Honestly, the verdict is still out, but considering all the free drinks, I’m going to have to go underrated.”

  “Niiice! What is this, our fourth free round?”

  Elle had lost count, but she was definitely shit-faced—she usually limited herself to just a drink or two. Elle was so drunk, she couldn’t help but ask about Mitch’s dad. She was too curious about what his situation was. “So, tell me about your family.”

  Mitch took a long drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke out methodically. He looked quizzically at Elle, like he was trying to decide something very important.

  Elle waited.

  Mitch exhaled loudly. “I’m from Iowa. My dad is a master electrician who hunts. My mom sells Avon and does hair out of our kitchen, and my older brother was the star wrestler at my high school. He has a mullet and ‘dude’ is his favorite word.” He looked thoughtfully at Elle. “Does that paint enough of a picture for you?”

  Elle nodded her head knowingly. So they both came from family situations they didn’t fit into. The difference was, Mitch was willing to own up to it right away. He didn’t try to pretend to be something else. He was braver than she was.

  Even so, Elle knew it was best to make fun of what Mitch had revealed, to let him see she couldn’t care less about his background. “I think I’m getting it, yeah . . .” Elle pursed her lips in mock contemplation. “Let’s see, does your dad chew?”

  “Duh, that would be Skoal Long Cut, which he charmingly spits into an empty Budweiser can.”

  “Uh-huh. And your mom, does she religiously watch a soap opera?”

  “Right again! That’d be General Hospital. And don’t ask what happens if the VCR doesn’t work and she misses an episode. That’s some serious shit.” Mitch nodded toward Elle. “What about you, my dear—what’s your story?”

  Elle wasn’t sure how to answer this question. She was embarrassed by her upbringing and preferred not to talk about it, but she liked Mitch. He was different. She should be honest with him.

  Elle wasn’t ready. Instead, she deflected the question asking, “What do you think?”

  “Hmmm . . . I suppose you would like me to think your dad’s some sort of professional—let’s say a lawyer. Your mom doesn’t work, but she loves to garden. She’s especially proud of her Lady Diana roses. I’m not at all getting a homecoming queen vibe, but perhaps you were . . . say, editor of the school newspaper?” Here Mitch paused. “The only thing is—and correct me if I’m wrong here—people with résumés like that wouldn’t find the need to dye their hair platinum and run off to Japan.”

  “How do you know this isn’t my natural hair color?” Elle was surprised. She thought her hair looked pretty good.

  “Honey, did you forget the part about my mom being a hairdresser?”

  “Oh, right!” Elle nodded, smiling. She would have to be honest with Mitch; he was too smart to fool. Besides, she trusted him. “I guess all you need to know about me is I lived in a crappy apartment, in a crappy town whose name sounds like that of a venereal disease. My mom—she go
es by Bobbie—is a bartender in a place that’s always dark and where the drink of choice is Jack Daniels with a draft beer chaser. Bobbie calls her regulars ‘hon’ and smells like the perfume section in a department store. Oh, and let’s not forget her tattoo.”

  Mitch sat up straight. “Wait! Let me guess. It’s of angel wings . . . or maybe a butterfly?” Mitch sucked in his breath, narrowing his eyes. “I’m going to go butterfly. On the inside of her wrist.”

  “Close. Angel wings on the back of her neck.” Elle wouldn’t mention the name of her dead brother, Jimmy, above the angel wings. That could wait. The thought of him, blue-lipped and cold, momentarily sobered Elle. Hoping Mitch didn’t notice her brief sadness, she continued on, “And my dad, well . . . let’s just say I haven’t seen him since I was like, seven. I’m sure he’s very happy in a trailer park somewhere.”

  It felt good for Elle to tell the truth. She looked at Mitch to see if his face registered shock or disapproval and was grateful to see it didn’t, although she somehow knew it wouldn’t.

  Mitch nodded like he understood. “So, tell me this, does Bobbie have big tits?”

  “Ginormous! And she’s very proud of them.”

  “Well, naturally. As well she should be. I’m sure they look fabulous in a strapless bandeau with some cutoff jeans.”

  “Oh my God, do you know my mother?” Elle was blown away. Mitch was as adept at this game as she was.

  “I’m getting a Stevie Nicks sort of vibe.”

  Elle shook her head. “Yeah, not so much. I could work with that.”

  “Well, even so. You’re lucky. I would take that crappy apartment, that dark bar. You probably got left alone a lot.”

  Lucky? Elle had never thought of herself as lucky before. That seemed ridiculous. “I think I might make that trade.”

  “Well, my dad would absolutely love you. You’ll see when he comes here to visit me, which will be—never.” Mitch leaned forward. “Here’s the thing. The beauty of all this”—he pointed to the tables full of Japanese men drinking—“is we can be whoever the fuck we want to be.”

  Elle understood this better than anyone. It was the very reason she had dyed her hair and changed her name. To be something other than what she really was.

  Mitch lit another cigarette. “When my students ask, I say I’m from San Francisco and that my mom is an artist who specializes in making casts of pregnant women’s bellies.”

  “Original. What about your dad?”

  “No dad in the picture, but I do have an older sister—we’re extremely close. And I most definitely have a cat. A Persian named Queeny.” Mitch sat back, relaxed. “What, my darling, would you like your story to be?”

  The shameful reality was Elle had already gone through this exercise. Not content to be known as the working-class girl on a full-ride scholarship, she entered college with an intricate story she would intimate about herself to others. “My dad is a pediatrician, a very popular one. All the kids love him. He keeps a bowl full of candy at the reception desk. My mom is a nurse who works in his office twice a week. I grew up in a red brick house with black shutters. My room has pink gingham curtains and a window seat where, as a child, I sat and underlined all the racy parts in Judy Blume’s Forever.”

  “All right, I see you’ve thought about this already. Are you an only child?”

  Elle hated this question, it was too complicated to answer. Although Mitch was asking about a family that didn’t exist, she was compelled to somehow acknowledge Jimmy, the sweet baby whose eyes she had closed so he could go back to sleep. “I have an adorable little brother and lots of pets: two dogs, a hamster, and a turtle. Oh, and a horse. I just adore my horse.”

  “Well, of course, what girl doesn’t?” Mitch raised his beer. “Let’s drink to our lovely families.” Mitch and Elle clinked their mugs together again. “Kampeii!”

  Elle considered the Japanese music playing in the background. The words were nonsensical, but the song had a good beat. “We should go dancing!”

  “Yes! Let’s do it!” Mitch slammed his hands against the table.

  Elle finished her beer and stood to leave. The room spun a little, and the faces of all the Japanese men blurred together. She experienced the same surreal sensation as when she had first arrived at the airport. So many odd sounds, the cadence and rhythm of the Japanese language still unfamiliar to her. Dancing would be good; it would help sober her up.

  Then again, who cared about being drunk? Elle was having a great time. She looked Mitch over. He really was cool. And good-looking. Could she be into him? A little make-out session might be nice. Although Elle had only had sex with one guy—her college boyfriend, a preppy from Boston who loved the Red Sox more than he loved her—she was a notorious flirt who found kissing boys to be innocent fun. There really was nothing better than beer breath on a cute guy.

  As Mitch escorted Elle out, he protectively placed his hand on her lower back. It felt brotherly, not the least bit sexual, and Elle knew they would never be more than just friends. There just wasn’t any physical chemistry there. Bummer. There would be no make-out session after all.

  As they stepped outside, Mitch suddenly stopped walking and turned serious. “I gotta tell you something. Mitchell is my middle name. My real name is actually Wayne.”

  Elle burst into laughter. She grabbed Mitch’s arm and hunched over, still laughing. “Oh shit, I think I just peed in my pants a little!”

  Mitch looked hurt. “Look, I know it’s a dumb-ass name, but it’s not that funny!”

  “No, no . . . you don’t get it!” Elle held her hands against Mitch’s shoulders. “My real name isn’t Elle. It’s Michelle!”

  “No shit! Are you serious?”

  “As serious as a heart attack.” Elle tried to compose herself, but she couldn’t stop laughing. If she were sober, it probably wouldn’t have struck her as all that funny, but many beers in, it seemed hysterical. And the name Wayne? Hilarious.

  “Please, just promise me you will never, under any circumstance, call me Wayne. Seriously. I fucking hate that name.”

  “It’s a deal.” Elle and Mitch high-fived, pleased with themselves and their capacity for reinvention. Elle was happy. She realized that not once that night had she listened or looked for a sign. Perhaps she didn’t need to. Maybe Mitch was the sign telling her that coming to Japan was the right decision.

  Yep, if Elle hadn’t been entirely sure of it before, she was now. Tokyo: underrated, big time.

  Chapter Eight

  Queen: “The Show Must Go On”

  May 18, 2017

  6:12 p.m.

  Elle was behind an endless line of cars waiting to pass through the “Welcome Center” of The Country Day School. The lacrosse state championship game was going to start in less than an hour, and people were already lining up to get in. “Welcome Center” was a euphemism. It was a security gate, plain and simple; Country Day regulated entrance into the school grounds.

  Usually there was not a line to get onto campus. Expensive European cars and SUVs were quickly ushered in, one after the other, their drivers recognized by the security staff. As there were so many unfamiliar visitors this evening, the process was taking longer.

  Elle’s terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day had yet to improve, although the SIDS Alliance board meeting had at least been uneventful. The guest speaker had prattled on and on as Elle tried to recover from the agonizing reminder of her role in Sweet Baby James’ heartbreaking death.

  But then there had been the school tour. The couple Elle had been assigned to take around campus had been that type of parents. Within minutes of walking out of the admissions office, they had proudly shared that their seven-year-old held a patent for a creation made with detergent boxes during Imagination Station in first grade. A patent, they had said, smiling at each other, self-righteous in their ability to raise such a remarkably talented child. If Elle had eaten at all that day, she would have vomited in her mouth.

  But Elle h
adn’t eaten all day and the wretched hunger in her empty stomach made her day from hell complete. To stop thinking about how much she wanted to down a slice of cheese pizza, Elle touched the extra skin popping out above the waist of her snug jeans. It was soft and jiggly like Jell-O, and feeling it gave Elle the extra determination she needed to not eat anything.

  As she took a piece of sugar-free gum out of her purse and put it in her mouth, Elle looked at the car in front of her. It was an older model Ford sedan, packed full of teenagers bouncing around in the back seat to loud music. Elle guessed they were students from the other team—the only American cars Country Day students drove were Suburbans and Jeeps. Her suspicions were confirmed when the driver honked the horn and yelled “Go Kennedy!” through an open window. This display of innocent and unbridled joy, coupled with the satisfying sensation of chewing, made Elle smile and she temporarily forgot about being hungry.

  A moment later, a golf cart decorated with red and navy streamers and full of Country Day middle-schoolers zipped by on the shoulder of the road. They waved mockingly to the Kennedy students in the Ford as they passed ahead of them—and all the other cars waiting in line—and entered the school grounds unchecked. Elle was embarrassed by their arrogance and wished she could apologize to the visiting Kennedy students for their behavior.

  As she inched her way toward the Welcome Center, Elle’s phone rang and she didn’t need to look at the name on her dashboard to know it would be Aubrey—she had already called multiple times since the tennis match. This wasn’t surprising. It was of paramount importance to Aubrey’s position as social arbitrator that she be the one to relay to their social circle why Elle had left the match early. Elle had ignored her previous calls—withholding information was the only way to exert power over Aubrey—and besides, she had needed time to come up with a plausible story.

  At first, Elle had considered saying Four had forgotten his iPad and she needed to run it over to Country Day. Coming to the rescue of one’s child was always an acceptable excuse and would be met with nods of sympathetic understanding. “Sorry I’m late. Lockton left one of his soccer cleats at the away game last night, and I had to go buy a new pair and bring them to him before practice.”