Condition Green Tokyo 1970. Neil Goble

mean like those fancy tomato chips and cheese chips? How clever!" She sampled one, and nodded in satisfaction.

      The teenagers suddenly reappeared at the mention of chips, and squatted on the bare tatami floor around the second snack bowl.

      "Hey," Pete said. "Don't I get anything to drink?"

      Dick set his cup down, trying to avoid making a face after taking the first sip. "I don't think you'd like it, son."

      Patty selected a rice cracker, around which was a dark colored wrapping, and opened her mouth.

      "Careful, dear," Alice said. "Someone didn't get it unwrapped all the way."

      Patty gave the tissue-like wrapper a closer look, and Ginger giggled. "Oh, go ahead, Patty, it's okay. That's part of it. It melts right in your mouth. Try it and see!"

      Alice frowned and picked out an identical cracker for inspection. "What is it? It looks like old carbon paper."

      "Kelp," Ginger said.

      "I beg your pardon?"

      "Kelp. Seaweed." Ginger bit into one.

      Alice drew in her breath. "Why don't you choose something different, Patty? I'm afraid we haven't built up an immunity to such things yet." She glanced at Ginger, then picked up another pink-colored chip and showed it to Patty. "Why don't you try one of these? They're edible!"

      Pete was picking around in the snack bowl, and came up with a two-inch long dried minnow which he held erect by its tail. "How about one of these, Ma?"

      "Ugh," Alice gasped, turning her head away. "Peter, throw the nasty thing away! If there's one thing I simply cannot tolerate, it's smelly dead fish!"

      "Hai," Mr. Sakamoto agreed, pointing to her own pinkish chip. "Hish!"

      "Fish? This?" Alice scrutinized the half-eaten bit in her hand; on closer look it resembled pink plastic foam. "I thought it smelled funny. Why is it pink? What kind of fish—salmon?"

      "Mmm, I think . . . ahh," Mr. Sakamoto tapped his temple with his index finger, trying to remember the English word; then he perked up and raked his fingernail across his wrist. "You know?"

      "Blood, I think he means," Pete drawled.

      "Hai," Mr. Sakamoto said, nodding. "Brud. Brud . . ."

      "Blood-fish?" Alice mumbled, puzzled. "Or fish blood . . ." Her nose and mouth twitched, and she let the chip fall to the floor from her limp hand.

      "Dick, can we go pretty soon?" she asked. "I'm afraid Japanese food just doesn't agree with me."

      5

       "JOE, HONEY," GINGER CALLED FROM THE bedroom. "Will you give me a hand?"

      "Chotto matte," he called back over the hum of his electric razor.

      "No, now. You can finish shaving after awhile."

      Joe came in with his face half shaved, dressed in a white shirt and undershorts. "What's the emergency?"

      Ginger had her girdle half way over her hips. "I'm stuck."

      "You're getting too fat," Joe said, tugging at the top of the girdle.

      "Can I help it if my hips are becoming even more fully rounded to complement the rest of my exquisite figure?" Ginger asked, holding her arms above her head.

      "Mmph!" Joe said, straining. "If your figure's so hot, why do you have to wear a girdle?"

      "It doubles as a chastity belt. Protects me from your lusting fellow officers."

      "Without panties?" Joe scoffed. "All it does is funnel their . . . their . . ."

      "Go on," Ginger teased.

      The bell outside the front door clanged.

      "Go see who it is," Joe said.

      "Wearing nothing but a funnel?"

      Joe tossed her a heavy robe.

      A moment later she called, "It's the paper boy."

      "Well, give him hell," Joe shouted from the bathroom. Since Saturday, the boy had been bringing a Japanese newspaper instead of the English-language version. Threatening notes pinned to the front door for his benefit had had no effect.

      Ginger turned on the unsuspecting boy, who had been staring at her, wide-eyed, since she opened the door. "What are you gawking at?" she demanded.

      "Amerikajin!" he croaked.

      "You never see an American before, boy-san?"

      He smiled in gratitude for her bestowing him with the honorific "san." "Asaban Shimbun, ne?" he said, showing his receipt book. The top line had ¥360 filled in; the line for the name was blank. "Bozo," he said, indicating the amount to be paid.

      "Dozo hell," she snapped. "No pay. For months we subscribe to English Asaban. Dai jobu. All of a sudden, all this week you bring Japanese Asaban. Ol' watashi here no can read kanji. Captain no can read kanji. So everybody no can read Asaban Shimbun!"

      The boy stood staring, bewildered.

      "Why you bring Japanese Asaban?" Ginger asked, throwing out her hands. "Why?"

      Joe, who had refrained from reactivating his razor in order to hear the exchange, chuckled. The boy probably didn't know an English language version existed! It didn't sound like their regular boy.

      The boy pointed to the house address, in kanji by their door, and then to his list, as if to prove to Ginger that she subscribed to his paper. He bit his lower lip, trying to recall some bit of English from his schooling.

      "You . . Asaban, ne?"

      "Yes, dammit, we take Asaban," Ginger sputtered. "But not Japanese Asaban!"

      "Asaban . . . first-class shimbun" the boy said proudly, holding out his receipt book again.

      "English Asaban first-class," Ginger said. "Is ichi-ban number one. But Japanese Asaban no damned good if can't read it! Da-me des!"

      "You . . . no like Asaban," the boy muttered, crushed.

      Ginger covered her face with her hands. "Yes," she said finally. "I no like Asaban. From now on I take New York Times."

      They boy made a hasty note on his list with a pencil, then held up his receipt book again, pointing at the figure.

      "Now scat!" Ginger roared, shooing her hands at him. She staggered back to the bedroom, where Joe was now tying a shoe.

      "Get it all straightened out?" Joe asked.

      "I cancelled our subscription."