Curious if anyone else has a story to tell...
In 1994, new to Japan, barely speaking the language and interested in the secrets of the culture, I would sojourn on the weekends up to Kabukicho and go to the strip shows or, when I could afford it, go to one of the Chinese or Thai “take-out” snacks where an all-nighter with a pretty, young lady in a LH would cost ¥40,000 which was an absolute fortune to me back then.
One night, after drinking quite a bit, I was hailed by a tout wearing an almost comically cliche (for the era) purple suit. Surprised that I was being invited into a “secret” and I presumed normally Japanese-only club, I said OK and took the tiny elevator up to a small bar that looked like a typical, if high-end snack, except the staff was young males and the two young Japanese hostesses were gorgeous. The ladies came over to my table as I was the only customer and the young male waiter came and said the charge was ¥8000 all I can drink for me and the ladies drinks were ¥8000 each. This was still in the era of salarymen having “company credit cards” the bills of which were paid by their employers with no questions asked, so I figured this was typical and I was foolishly reveling in the idea that I was being invited to play in that world. Even ¥8000 was a huge amount of money to me in those days of my youth, when I made literally 1/10 of what I make now, but I thought “what the hell,” I will forego an overnight companion and that will let me afford an hour nomihodai and one drink for each lady. I mean, this is a valuable cultural opportunity, right, and how long am I going to be in Japan? Ha. Little did I know, eh?
Anyway, after some chitchat in my limited Japanese, I started wondering if I could take these ladies out of the club so on a bathroom break I surreptitiously asked one of the young men in attendance and I remember even all these years later that it was a struggle getting him to understand my request with my beginner’s grasp of the language and that when the penny finally dropped he actually laughed before saying, “muri... muri...” and flashing me the X with his hands.
With that question answered and with the ladies drinks empty I decided to leave just as a couple of nicely dressed older Japanese businessmen emerged from the elevator and were shown their seat. Wanting companionship for the night more than ever, I decided to pay with a credit card and save my cash for a Chinese take-out.
A few weeks later the statement came and they had slipped a zero in on me — three beers had cost me ¥240,000!
My employer had a legal department and as embarrassed as I was, the dire economic impact of the overcharge drove me to go down and ask for help, probably blushing as I explained how I had been lured into this situation. Even worse, the person helping me was a Japanese woman, but she showed no sign of judgement (probably jaded to the foolishness of men) and after sending me away to wait, she made a phone call to the number on the credit card charge to the club which I now learned for the first time was named クェション... “Question.”
A day later she called me at work and told me that the charge had been reversed but that I was to pay the card immediately to prevent me from effectively flipping the scam onto the shop owner (I had an American credit card so this didn’t really apply, but indeed it would have if I’d had a Japanese card). I thanked her profusely but then her tone became stern.
“You are to pay the charge immediately,” she repeated, “and you are never to go near that club again. I’m serious. I’m certain the man I spoke to was Yakuza. It was very frightening to me and you should be afraid, too. I don’t want to repeat his words exactly; just stay away from his bar and don’t cross him with the credit card.”
That’s where it ended, my one run-in with the Japanese mob and my learning experience to not trust touts, not get too adventurous and certain of my instincts for trouble, and never use a credit card in any transaction that revolves around the lure of women, even if it is just buying them drinks to talk to me.
And yeah, sorry guys, I probably ruined that bottakuri for future foreigners.
What’s your story?
In 1994, new to Japan, barely speaking the language and interested in the secrets of the culture, I would sojourn on the weekends up to Kabukicho and go to the strip shows or, when I could afford it, go to one of the Chinese or Thai “take-out” snacks where an all-nighter with a pretty, young lady in a LH would cost ¥40,000 which was an absolute fortune to me back then.
One night, after drinking quite a bit, I was hailed by a tout wearing an almost comically cliche (for the era) purple suit. Surprised that I was being invited into a “secret” and I presumed normally Japanese-only club, I said OK and took the tiny elevator up to a small bar that looked like a typical, if high-end snack, except the staff was young males and the two young Japanese hostesses were gorgeous. The ladies came over to my table as I was the only customer and the young male waiter came and said the charge was ¥8000 all I can drink for me and the ladies drinks were ¥8000 each. This was still in the era of salarymen having “company credit cards” the bills of which were paid by their employers with no questions asked, so I figured this was typical and I was foolishly reveling in the idea that I was being invited to play in that world. Even ¥8000 was a huge amount of money to me in those days of my youth, when I made literally 1/10 of what I make now, but I thought “what the hell,” I will forego an overnight companion and that will let me afford an hour nomihodai and one drink for each lady. I mean, this is a valuable cultural opportunity, right, and how long am I going to be in Japan? Ha. Little did I know, eh?
Anyway, after some chitchat in my limited Japanese, I started wondering if I could take these ladies out of the club so on a bathroom break I surreptitiously asked one of the young men in attendance and I remember even all these years later that it was a struggle getting him to understand my request with my beginner’s grasp of the language and that when the penny finally dropped he actually laughed before saying, “muri... muri...” and flashing me the X with his hands.
With that question answered and with the ladies drinks empty I decided to leave just as a couple of nicely dressed older Japanese businessmen emerged from the elevator and were shown their seat. Wanting companionship for the night more than ever, I decided to pay with a credit card and save my cash for a Chinese take-out.
A few weeks later the statement came and they had slipped a zero in on me — three beers had cost me ¥240,000!
My employer had a legal department and as embarrassed as I was, the dire economic impact of the overcharge drove me to go down and ask for help, probably blushing as I explained how I had been lured into this situation. Even worse, the person helping me was a Japanese woman, but she showed no sign of judgement (probably jaded to the foolishness of men) and after sending me away to wait, she made a phone call to the number on the credit card charge to the club which I now learned for the first time was named クェション... “Question.”
A day later she called me at work and told me that the charge had been reversed but that I was to pay the card immediately to prevent me from effectively flipping the scam onto the shop owner (I had an American credit card so this didn’t really apply, but indeed it would have if I’d had a Japanese card). I thanked her profusely but then her tone became stern.
“You are to pay the charge immediately,” she repeated, “and you are never to go near that club again. I’m serious. I’m certain the man I spoke to was Yakuza. It was very frightening to me and you should be afraid, too. I don’t want to repeat his words exactly; just stay away from his bar and don’t cross him with the credit card.”
That’s where it ended, my one run-in with the Japanese mob and my learning experience to not trust touts, not get too adventurous and certain of my instincts for trouble, and never use a credit card in any transaction that revolves around the lure of women, even if it is just buying them drinks to talk to me.
And yeah, sorry guys, I probably ruined that bottakuri for future foreigners.
What’s your story?
