Free Generation X by Douglas Coupland Page A

through Tasmanian gaming h o u s e s with an L.A. blonde on each arm.
    "Miss Ueno looked really stressed. I asked her why. She said she w a s n ' t s t r e s s e d b u t a n g r y . S h e was angry because no matter how hard s h e w o r k e d s h e w a s m o r e o r l e s s s t u c k a t h e r l i t t l e d e s k f o r e v e r—a c r a m p e d c l u s t e r o f d e s k s b e i n g t h e J a p a n e s e e q u i v a l e n t o f t h e v e a l fattening pen. 'But not only because I'm a woman,' she said, 'But
    a l s o because I'm a Japanese. Mostly because I'm a Japanese. I have ambition. I n a n y o t h e r c o u n t r y I c o u l d r i s e , b u t h e r e I j u s t s i t . I murder my ambition.' She said that Mr. Takamichi's appearance
    s o m e h o w s i m p l y u n d e r s c o r e d h e r s i t u a t i o n . T h e h o p e l e s s n e s s .
    "At that point, M r. Takamichi headed over to my desk. I just knew this was going to happen. It was really embarrassing. In Japan you get phobic about being singled out from the crowd. It's about the worst thing that someone can do to you.
    " 'You must be Andrew,' he said, a n d h e s h o o k m y h a n d s l i k e a Ford dealer. 'Come on upstairs. We'll have drinks. We'll talk,' he said, and I could feel Miss Ueno burning like a road flare of resentment next t o m e . A n d s o 1 i n t r o d u c e d h e r , b u t M r . T a k a m i c h i ' s r e s p o n s e w a s b e n i g n . A g r u n t . P o o r J a p a n e s e p e o p l e . P o o r M i s s U e n o . S h e w a s right—they're just so trapped wherever they are —frozen on this awful boring ladder.
    "And as we were walking toward the elevator, I could feel everyone in the office shooting jealousy rays at me. It was such a bad scene and I could just imagine everyone thinking 'who does he think he is?' I felt dishonest.
    Like I was coasting on my foreignness. I felt I was being ex-communicated from the shin Jin rui —that's what the Japanese newspapers call people like those kids in their twenties at the office— new human beings. It's hard to explain. We have the same group over here and it's just as large, but it doesn't have a name —an X generation—purposefully hiding itself.
    There's more space over here to hide in—to get lost in —to use as
    camouflage. You're not allowed to disappear in Japan. " B u t I d i g r e s s .
    "We went upstairs in the elevator to a floor that required a special key for access, and Mr. Takamichi was being sort of theatrically ballsy the whole way up, like a cartoon version of an American, you know,
    talking about football and stuff. But once we got to the top he suddenly t u r n e d J a p a n e s e—s o q u i e t . H e t u r n e d r i g h t o f f —like I'd flipped a s w i t c h . I g o t r e a l l y w o r r i e d t h a t I w a s g o i n g t o h a v e t o e n d u r e t h r e e hours of talk about the weather.
    "We walked down a thickly carpeted hallway, dead silent, past
    small Impressionist paintings and tufts of flowers arranged in vases in the Victorian style. This was the western part of his floor. And when this part ended, we came to the Japanese part. It was like entering hyperspace, at which point Mr. Takamichi pointed to a navy cotton robe for me to change into, which I did.
    "Inside the main Japanese room that we entered there was a toko n o m a shrine with chrysanthemums, a scroll, and a gold fan. And in the center of the room was a low black table surrounded by terra-cotta colored cushions. On the table were two onyx carp and settings for tea.

    The one artifact in the room that jarred was a small safe placed in a c o r n e r—n o t e v e n a g o o d s a f e , mind you, but an inexpensive model of the sort that you might have expected to find in the back office of a Lincoln, Nebraska shoe store just after World War II—really cheap
    l o o k i n g , a n d i n g r o s s c o n t r a s t t o t h e r e s t o f t h e r o o m .
    "Mr. Takamichi asked me to sit down at the table whereupon