WHOOPEE CUSHIONS

Shortly before our family left Japan for good, we went to a department store so that we could buy souvenirs for friends and relatives in America and the U.K.  The children did the brunt of their shopping in the brand new Hyaku-en shop, the Japanese equivalent of the pound shop, where you can buy all sorts of rubbish for only one hundred yen a pop.

The kids went wild. Plastic snakes, water pistols, multi-colored inflatable paper balls, take tombo, (a Japanese toy made of bamboo), painted wooden tops, plastic balls with bells inside, and whoopee cushions. These latter items were particular favorites, so the kids bought well over a dozen.

‘Hang onto those bags,’ I warned them. ‘Dad and I already have enough to carry.’ I should have known from past experience that hanging onto their possessions was beyond their ability, but my husband and I were buying our own presents and souvenirs and were already carrying as much as we could comfortably manage.

Somewhere between the lacquer ware department and textiles, my eldest tearfully reported that she had managed to lose one of their bags. ‘Which one?’ I asked wearily. The one full of whoopee cushions and plastic snakes.  Oh, great.

The kid was despondent: she had used her own money for a change. So doing my best to suppress the I told you so that naturally sprang to mind, we made our way to the Lost and Found desk and, feeling extremely foolish, I attempted to describe the contents of the bag.

The plastic snakes, of course, were straightforward, and no presented no linguistic challenge. The refined, middle-aged woman behind the desk, carefully noted down Plastic snake novelties, children’s playthings, and the approximate value, Six hundred yen. It was the whoopee cushions that gave me pause.  The lady behind the Lost and Found desk looked so respectable and genteel that I hemmed and hawed and wracked my brain how to describe the items in question without sounding rude or offensive. As it happened, I didn’t know the word for whoopee cushion in Japanese.

‘It’s like a small bag,’ I stammered. ‘Um, rubber, with a narrow neck, and you blow it up first, and then. . . ’ I faltered, completely at a loss. The woman looked at me, nodding sympathetically, but obviously not getting it. We had already established the bag contained nothing but toys, and that I was not talking about balloons.

‘You put it on someone’s seat,’ I went on, a little desperately, feeling more and more ridiculous. All of a sudden, the light of reason dawned in her eyes.

‘I know,’ she exclaimed eagerly, without even the tiniest hint of amusement, ‘you place it on someone’s seat, then when the person sits down, it makes a farting noise. Is that right?’

I nodded dumbly. The way she said it sounded so refined, so genteel, so cultured.

‘Just a moment,’ said the woman, and I saw her writing out Whoopee cushions in Japanese. She then picked up the telephone, punched a series of numbers with one flawlessly manicured finger, and spoke into the receiver.

‘Oh hello – Lost and Found here. Yes, we have a couple and their children here, and they have lost a bag full of children’s playthings. Plastic snakes and whoopee cushions.’ Not one snicker, not one glimmer of amusement from her as she spoke these words. ‘I see,’ she said into the receiver.

‘I am so sorry,’ she said, after making two similar calls. ‘But no one has turned in such a bag yet.’ Her voice was filled with genuine sympathy. If it was feigned, the woman ought to have been in Hollywood or on the stage.

By this time, my face was a nice shade of rose, and I was filled with admiration for this woman. I could never have kept such a straight face! I could never have managed to make a whoopee cushion sound so respectable!

Just as we were taking our leave, the phone rang and the lady picked it up. She listened for a moment, then smiled beautifully, murmured a gracious response, and hung up.

‘Your bag has been found in the lacquer ware department,’ she told us, genuine relief in her eyes. She smiled at both children in a friendly way. ‘Thank goodness! I’ll bet you are relieved!’ she said. They both nodded.  We expressed our thanks and left her desk to retrieve our bag of whoopee cushions and plastic snakes.

Afterwards, my husband and I tried in vain to imagine a similar scenario in either the U.K. or the U.S.  We tried to picture approaching a Lost and Found desk to report the loss of a bag of plastic junk – including whoopee cushions. I might be overstating things, but even the thought of doing this in New York or Los Angeles makes me weak in the knees. My husband swore that if he were in the U.K., the bag would be a lost cause. He’d go buy more whoopee cushions any day.

For so many reasons, I am glad that we no longer live in Japan. It is nice to be able to walk down the street and look like everyone around us. No longer do we fear being catcalled or referred to by all and sundry as gaijin, (foreigner).  It is nice to be able to walk into book shops and libraries and browse any book I like without the use of a dictionary. But when I remember that woman’s genuine politeness and effortless poise, oh, how I miss Japan.