SHE CHAMELEON

Karl M. BAXTER

While women seem to be on the lookout for “marriageable material,” men seem more interested in having a “little bit of fun.” I know I am. In fact, for that purpose I even hint that I may be interested in marriage. Also, as this true story shows, it’s not just the men who are dishonest.

This happened last summer. I was going into a station when I noticed a beautiful young lady standing there. She reminded me of a lizard. Now, this doesn’t sound like much of a compliment, but what I mean is that she had a kind of alien beauty. She had skin of a strangely suntanned orange color, eyes of contact-lens green, and hair that seemed silver and blonde at the same time. Her skin was also extremely smooth, almost like a plastic doll. It was impossible from her face to read what she was thinking, or if she was thinking anything at all. Anyway, she was intriguing and exotic, and I was hooked. What more can I say?

When I started speaking to her, I realized that she hardly knew any English, so I switched to my slightly better Japanese. She turned out to be a first year college student, aged 19, but she looked more like the typical “kogyaru” high school student. She seemed to like me and said she was a fan of hip hop music and “Could I play basketball?”

But when I asked her if we could have a date, she started to brush me off. “Could I phone you sometime?” “Sure,” but she was very busy for the rest of the week. “Okay, how about phoning you next week?” “Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t have my own phone.” “What’s that little portable phone in your hand, then?” “This belongs to my friend. I have to give it back to her tonight.” This wasn’t going anywhere, so I clicked my heels, thanked her for her attention, and walked away.

I was curious who she was waiting for, so I went into a conveniently located coffee shop and kept an eye on her. After 10 more minutes, a fat, sweaty, bald little salaryman came up, looking like he was playing truant from work. He was even mopping his sweating bald head with a handkerchief, but she was all smiles and soon they went off together arm-in-arm. I didn’t bother to follow them. It was obvious what was going on. She was on some kind of paid date. I just sat there drinking my coffee and wondering about human nature.

Nothing happened for the next couple of weeks, then I saw her again, standing outside the same station. She didn’t seem to remember me at all, but, once again, she was friendly and we started chatting. “You remind me of my girlfriend back home,” I said, trying to make her jealous and knowing that Japanese women have an inferiority complex to Western women. Maybe it was this, or maybe it was something more random, but this time she actually gave me her number — printed on a card with a picture of Hello Kitty — and asked me to call her in the weekend.

When I phoned her a couple of days later, she told me she wanted to meet me again. At the ritzy little coffee shop we went to in Aoyama with European waiters, she told me that she was a bad student in high school and neglected her English studies. Could I teach her? She asked. Of course, I agreed, but the first lesson was mainly compliments. “You’ve got such beautiful almond-shaped eyes,” I told her, and, “You’re almost as tall as me. Are you sure you’re not a model?”

I met her some more times. We went to a club and a movie, and I told her all about myself. I told her that I was nearly 30 and wanted to have a family in the near future. I also told her that my eikaiwa (English conversation school) was thinking of promoting me to manager. She asked me about my Western girlfriend and seemed strangely content when I told her that we had broken up. I could see the way things were going.

One night after a meal at a fancy restaurant, I walked her home. We were just about to kiss goodnight, when I told her that I had something important to tell her. She invited me into her tiny apartment and nervously started making coffee. But when she sat down next to me we didn’t even touch our coffee as w e embraced passionately.

Afterwards as I lay there in the dark with her gently sleeping next to me, I realized she had given herself to me because I had misrepresented my intentions to her. Indeed, the thought of spending the rest of my life with such a woman made a chill run down my spine. Basically, I had got what I had come for, and now I was disgusted by the situation.

When she woke up a few minutes later, she had quite a surprise. I was already dressed, ready to go, but I was looking at her with an angry expression. “What’s wrong, Karl?” she asked. “This!” I shouted, hurling down a bottle of fake tan lotion and a hair dye product.

“You lied to me!” She was shocked into silence at first, but then she started to look upset. “What do you mean?” she cried, coming closer. “Your beautiful blonde, silvery hair — it’s a lie!” I shouted. “You just dyed it. Even your skin tone is false. And what happened to your eyes?” I sounded surprised. “I took out my contact lenses,” she stuttered. “My eyes are brown, like all Japanese.” “Not green? And you’re shorter,” I gasped. In her bare feet, she was a good 6 inches shorter than in her platform shoes.

“I’m sorry, what can I do?” “I don’t want you to do anything, because everything you do is just a lie. You’re a she chameleon, not a human being.” I pulled away from her and walked out, slamming the door. As I walked down the street my anger started to cool. I realized that I wasn’t angry with her anymore. I was just angry with the system that forces men to lie to women and women to lie to men.

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