Their white MP helmets glowed blue in the moonlight as one marine in tailored uniform swung his club smartly with one hand while resting the other cowboy-style on his 45 holster; the other MP in fatigues let his stick hang from his garrison belt while pin wheeling his M-1 round nimble fingers. They sauntered down the Yokosuka’s thoroughfare, confident no swab-jockeys on shore leave would violate the Occupation’s curfew, yet itching to find an offender so they could confiscate some cigarettes.
In the shadows of a kimono and curio storefront, two sailors pressed against the window as though frozen while the marines passed by. “Don’t start that damn hill-billy humming again,” one sailor whispered huskily to his mate who was breathing into a half empty beer can.
“Aye, mate,” he gulped as he rolled one side of his face to the window with Japanese writing all over it and tried scraping off the strange lettering.
“Keep quiet, Tennessee! You can’t scrape off what’s inside, you idiot....And what the hell is the matter with you? Can’t you see they’re the same bastard gyrenes that bushwhacked us out of one house already. If they catch us again — it’s the brig for sure.”
Tennessee rolled his head to his mate. “Oh, yeah, Joe, the ones that aren’t really like the navy’s shore patrol. I heard from the scuttlebutt that these guys are combat marines and they hate this chicken duty.”
Joe, relieved that the marines were out of sight, said, “All the more reason to be careful if we’re ever going to get laid tonight.”
Tennessee squinted at the window dimly lighted. “Say, what is all that shit over there? — they all look alike.”
“Aw, Red, don’t they teach you nuthin in Tennessee? Thems Buddhas.”
Hey, let’s break in and steal a couple for souvenirs and a kimono for my girl back home.”
Joe shook his head in exasperation. “Oh, yeah, that makes a lot of sense. Those marines would dash back and club us like cattle....”C’mon, let’s get movin while we can and head for the whorehouse our P.O. 
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told us about, you know the fancy one.”
Red nodded, took a final draft from the can. He crushed it and raised his arm to throw it. Joe grabbed his arm. “You dumb ass, throw that and I’ll kick your teeth in. Marines are ear-trained; they’ll jump all over us.” He took the can and quietly placed it on the walk.
“Na, they’re a good block away,” Red in stretching his view from the shadows, speculated.
“That’s nuthin to fast movin marines.” Joe hugged the storefronts as he edged down the sidewalk beckoning to his mate to follow. “I think that house is the next alley up from here.”
Stealing one last look through the window, Red asked, “Hey, Joe, what’s Buddha doing here anyway? I thought he was from India.”
Joe replied, as he yanked Red’s arm, edging him along the building, “Aw, all these Orients think alike.
“Yeah, but the Indians,...” He chuckled. “Indians! — jeez, that sounds weird, Joe.”
“What does?”
“You know, when you say Indians, you think of...”
“Johnny Mack Brown and his feathered friends, I know,” Joe extrapolated.
“Anyway, India Indians don’t have slanted eyes and yellow skin — so what the hell is Buddha doing here?”
“How the hell do I know? I’m from Jersey....Now, forget it and let’s find that house and get some — we’ve had too much sea duty and I’m hurtin.”
Red relinquished. “Roger and out, but I still don’t get it.” They paused at the end of the storefronts.
“Well, if you looked hard enough you’d see that they fattened up Buddha and slanted his eyes.”
“Oh, yeah, like their fat wrestlers!”
Joe peered into the alley. “Bingo! This it!”
“How can you be sure — it could be any alley.”
“No, the P.O. said it’s the only one with fancy lanterns.” They turned into the dimly lighted corridor flanked by rows of houses whose eaves seemed to overlap onto the next.
Red observed, “Jeez, this place looks like Knoxville’s nigger quarters....Can you imagine what an atom bomb would do to these shit houses!”
“Wouldn’t need that; just a single napalm would cover it, Joe piped. “Ah, look! — that’s no shit house!” He gestured toward one large house clearly separated and set back from the others; it was gaily illuminated. They cautiously looked around before crossing over to the wide wooden steps leading to a porch bedecked with artistic lanterns.
“Boy, this place must be jumpin....It’s the only one with lights behind the shit paper windows,” Red mused.
“Yeah, busy all right, look at all the shoes lined up by the door,” Joe noticed.
Red added, “And they’re not all shoes; plenty of clod-hoppers — that means civilians. Say, I don’t see any G.I. shoes.”
“It’s probably for a reason. I doubt that any marine or sailor is stupid enough to leave them out for kids to swipe or for the MPs to spot them.”
Red, stroked his chin and said, “Gosh, that’s right; we can’t kick them off or we’ll be sitting ducks.”
Joe agreed. He knocked on the door. Suddenly all the lights in the house went out.
“Jesus, they’re going to bushwhack us!” Red yelped.
“Na, the damn marines run this town. The P.O. tells me that the whorehouses are warned not to open for sailors,” Joe said in sizing up the situation, while shaking the sliding door.
“Maybe we shouldn’t chance it, then.” Red took off his skewed cap to wipe his forehead. When he turned around to check the narrow street, the same marines were coming toward them on double time. “Joe! We’re cooked! They’re back.”
“I ain’t come here to give up now — besides, my balls are hurting. I gotta get some ass.” Joe shook the door again. “Christ, open up.”
A voice on the other side squealed, “Nyai, we...Geisha...nyai gollies!”
The marines jumped the steps, the one smartly dressed, pointing the club at them; the other inverted his rifle, menacing the hapless sailors with its butt. “Well, swabs, to enter a place like this,” the one with the club stated with authority, “you must’ve gone back to the ship store for more cigarettes.”
“No way,” Joe said, turning toward them. “When you frisked us earlier and cleaned us out, we was humbled — felt like the Dodgers in the ‘41 World Series.” The other marine slung his rifle on his shoulder and began to frisk them. “You know, the routine, jockeys, up with the bell-bottoms so I can check the socks.” The sailors complied; there were no packs stuffed in their socks. The marine looked over at his mate, “Damn, it seems we struck out this time....What’ll we do with them?”
The marine in tailored dress, noted, “We ain’t pirates;...can’t take their money....Besides, they’re going to need plenty we’re they’re going.” They both laughed.
Red gulped, “You’re takin us to the damn brig, eh?” The marines laughed again and went back down the steps.
"Balls hurtin--that's precious," said the club marine.
"Aye, and they'll be swollen back at the ship, too," remarked the rifleman. They guffawed all the way out of the alley.
“Whew, I can’t believe they let us go!” Red vented.
“Aw, all they care about is cigarettes for the black market.” Joe stretched a look down the alley to make sure the marines were gone, then turned to the door and resumed shaking it.
The voiced squealed, “Nyai, nyai,...Geisha!”
“Bullshit! Open up!” Tom yelled back, and almost shaking the door off its track. Gradually the lights came on again. The door rolled partially open. A tawny elderly woman peered round, waving a veined hand, while beseeching them, “Nyai gollies...we Geisha,...Nyai.”
“What the hell are you talkin about, old lady?” Joe snapped. “We’ll see for ourselves, Mama-son.” He rolled open the door all the way. He stepped in and motioned for Red to follow.
“Nyai, nyai,” the woman screamed, pointing to their shoes digging into the soft straw mats.
“Yeah, mama-son,” Red said as though she understood. “Like walking on straw hats.”
Joe shook his head. “She wants us to take them off, jerk. Where’s your oriental manners?” Joe began to unlace his shoes.
The old woman screeched, “Nyai loom, nyai, no loom!” She motioned to the rice paper doors surrounding the entry.
“Oh, I get it...no room, eh?” He grinned at her and pulled off his shoes, got up and headed for one of the doors.
Red stopped him. Jeez, man, are you nuts? What if there are marines in there? We’ll get our asses whipped with their heavy belt buckles.”
“I doubt it. I think it’s strictly for Nips. The old lady would have called out the marines if they were here,” Joe assured himself. “Probably why the MPs let us go.”
Well, I guess that makes sense,” Red agreed, but then thought, “Wait a minute if it’s strictly for Japs maybe these gals have the clap or worse. I sure don’t want to chance that — our ship heads for the states in a week.”
“What do you use for brains, boy? Japs are very clean and probably more so for their own kind.”
Red smiled and sat down to remove his shoes. “I sure need a woman, too.”
“Then anchors aweigh, mate!” Joe slid open one of the doors. The sailors stepped in. Two Japanese men with robes over their business suits were on their haunches round a low tea table. Two young girls, beautifully bedecked in colorful kimonos accompanied them. One was coyly feeding one of the men a rice cake. All four spontaneously rose up, bowed their heads toward the intruders. The two men eyed each other as they bowed and simultaneously they discreetly moved toward the door, easing themselves round the much taller sailors. The mama-son was heard pleading to the two men as they hurriedly left the house.
The sailors motioned to the girls to sit down. They knelt closer to the hibachi to oversee the rice cakes. The sailors awkwardly squatted by the table. The mama-son entered and tried again to explain herself but they did not understand. She in an authoritative tone addressed the girls. They both blushed a somber innocence. The woman threw up her hands and left the room.
“This floor is cold on the rump,” Red commented as he reached for a pillow once occupied by one of the predecessors.
“That’s why they sit on their legs, you dope,” Joe reminded him as he himself tried to bend his legs back. The girls laughed. Joe reached for the nearest one; she recoiled, but decided to move closer to him because of the heat of the hibachi. He dropped his hand on her knee just as Mama-son reentered.
She squealed the same tune, “Nyai gollies...Geisha!” She tried to remove his hand from the girl. “What are you worrying about, Mama-son? Her kimono is as thick as a pea jacket!”
The woman shuffled round the table, repeating: Nyai gollie...Geisha...hubba, hubba...nyai!”
Joe laughed and put his arm round the girl whose wary face turned to alarm. She wormed out of his grip, jumped up and briskly went to the corner of the room where a samisen leaned against the wall. She cradled it in her arms and began to pluck. The other girl rose up and began to dance delicately to the twanging rhythm. The old lady chuckled and clapped her hands; her tone changed: “Y’e, y’e...Geisha, Geisha...nyai gollie!”
“What the hell is going on here? Joe yelped and leaped over the table to reach for the dancer. “We’re never goin to get laid at this rate!”
Red jumped up and prevented him from interfering with the dance. “What do you think you’re doing? The dancer is mine; you made your pitch for the banjo player. You gotta be cool, man, they’re classy gals. You gotta give them time, finesse them.”
“What gave you culture all of a sudden? Besides you got it wrong; they’re finessing us right out of our hunger for sex! — they’re damn teasers!” Joe sat back down on his haunches in frustration. Mama-son sighed in relief and left the room.
The sailors seemed to succumb to the Geisha charm as the girls elegantly performed with an incredibly demure style. Joe and Red contented themselves by eating rice cakes while observing the performance with growing interest. The door slid open, Mama-son entered with a steaming pot of tea. “No, no!” Tom cried, “ Saki, saki...we want saki to loosen up the girls.”
Nyai saki,...Geisha...tea.” She smiled as she poured the tea.
Red said, “Jeez, this is no whorehouse — it’s a damn Japanese convent!”
Joe lowered his head and groaned, “Just our luck to get hooked up with confirmed virgins.”
Mama-son laughed. “Oy, Geisha...nyai hubba hubba...nyai,...no gollies!”
Red blurted, “Jeez, I think she means girlies! — like the girly magazines back on board ship.”
Joe, staring into his tea, growled, “I’m afraid so — and I bet our P.O. knew it all along — damn joker.”
Red added, “And the marines.”
Copyright © 2004 Richard R. Kennedy All rights reserved. Revised: June 24, 2004.
