American Style

It all started when a dear friend somehow got it in his head that he could out-drink me.

This was during my service in the United States Navy, which, lacking any other prospects, I had joined after High School. Following training, first in Chicago, then Virginia, I was made a technician on an Aircraft Carrier in Japan. It was several months after my arrival to that magical set of islands that I was granted an entire long weekend to myself.

My friend, who shall heretofore be referred to as “Shmalex” to protect the innocent, happened to also be off from work. And so we absolved not to return to the military base for the entirety of our time off. The base, unfortunately, had a curfew of midnight, after which a sailor must either be back on the ship or hidden away in some domicile.

A loophole existed, however, in that the guardsman who so diligently searched the town around our home base also never left that area. Meaning that if one were to exit the city limits, one could stay out as late as one desired.

This, Shmalex and I found appealing, and as soon as we were released from our duties on Friday, we made plans to stay in Roppongi, a part of Tokyo known for its dirty, rundown bars, and its popularity among service members (the two are not unrelated).

One two-hour subway ride later, we arrived at our destination, and checked into the motel we had rented for our stay. It was then that we hit the bars.

It is worth noting at this point that I am Irish. I am also well above average height (which of course made me a giant in Japan), and while I like to think I am more stoutly-strong than fat, in truth neither descriptor can be argued with.

And so, when Shmalex, who was slightly shorter and much thinner than myself, challenged me to a drinking contest, I first thought it a joke, even as I asked the bartender for a Sunrise to start the night. Shmalex was, unfortunately, quite serious.

Several hours later, I held my tenth drink in hand, joking and singing with the Japanese nationals around us. Shmalex, on the other hand, had downed seven cups of poison, and now swayed and looked about, nervous. I recall growing concerned with his manner, and asking, “Are you doing alright?”

“I think I’m going to die,” Shmalex replied.

“Okay,” I said, “Let’s get you back to the hotel.”

At that, I dragged my friend back to the rooms we had rented. I set him down on the bed, ensuring he was on his side to avoid having to explain a Jimmy Hendrix situation to our leadership, and then lost consciousness myself.

I awoke the following morning feeling no worse for wear. Shmalex was not so lucky. Upon opening his eyes, he greeted me with the words, “How the hell are you alive right now?”

I sighed and offered my sympathies. “Hey, buddy,” I said in a light, childish voice. “You want a burger?”

“Yeah…” Shmalex agreed. “I want the whole menu to gangbang me right about now.”

“That’s a… fascinating mental image,” I returned, but I guided him to the nearest burger joint nonetheless.

We proceeded to consume more fast food than was likely wise, Shmalex due to his hangover and myself because, well, see my self-description above. We spent the rest of the day at the arcades, and I managed to, through what I can only guess was black magic, convince Shmalex to once again accompany me on a jaunt through the taverns of Roppongi that evening.

We did not drink quite so much that night, partially due to Shmalex’s wariness. But also because early in the night we encountered a pair of Japanese nationals who seemed very keen on getting to know a pair of American sailors… in the biblical sense. I saw Shmalex and one of these nationals off at the train station, on their way back to her apartment, and then returned to our hotel with the other.

This was around midnight, when we went our separate ways. Six hours later, I was dead asleep. Suddenly there came resounding the sound of someone harshly pounding, pounding at my motel door.

I answered the door, trying to think of the kindest way to tell what I assumed to be an elderly cleaning lady to please fuck-off. However, it was not a Japanese woman before me, but rather Shmalex. Shmalex, sans hoodie and sans shoes.

I asked where these wayward articles might be, and Shmalex answered thusly:

“Bro. Okay… So, like last night, I went home with that chick. And, like, we got to her place, and we started getting into it. I was pretty exhausted, and she was taking the lead, so I kind of just let her do her thing up top. Only… she was pretty small, y’know? And like… she didn’t really have the hip muscles to like really work it.

“So after a while… I kind of psyched myself up, and then I grabbed her hips, rose up, and flipped her over onto her stomach. And I said, ‘American Style!’"

“… It was at this point I realized that… not only was I tipsy from last night, but I was also still hungover from the night before.

“So then I vomited down her back.”

“No,” I whispered.

“Yes,” Shmalex nodded, solemn. “So she kind of froze, and then she screamed, and squirmed away… kicked me in the groin and shouted at me to get out. I managed to grab my shirt and pants, but….”

“No shoes or sweater?” I answered.

“Yeah, and then the worst part happened,” Shmalex continued. “I was not aware that the Tokyo subway stops from 1 AM to 5 AM. So I basically was trapped in the station, looking like a hobo, for about three hours.”

“Mm,” I nodded. “Hold on, so you shouted the words ‘American style?’”

Shmalex nodded.

“And then you hurled on her back?”

Shmalex nodded, again.

“... So,” I finished. “What does she think American Style is?”