The world in which I was living at the time was foreign to me. I had lived there long enough that surprises no longer surprised me; that the discovery of the bizarre had become mundane and the mundane had become uncomfortable. My peers were my coworkers with whom I communicated more like a baby than a man; my only friend, Thomas was another foreigner, an American fresh from California who was still surprised by the surprising.

It was Friday. On Fridays Thomas and I would go out with our coworkers. We would get drunk somewhere in the shrinking industrial city down the road from the town in which we worked. It was always fun as we would all slip into relaxation and broken conversations as the alcohol began to take hold. But this Friday was special. It was the last day before winter holidays and the bosses were coming out. Reservations were made at a restaurant in a city further away, a city with newer buildings and brighter lights than our usual city.

The restaurant charged by the table, no limits on food or people. One of my coworkers drew a diagram of the tables with people sitting around it--we would, he showed me, get three tables and 12 people would sit at each table in a single room of the restaurant.

"It is," my coworker said, "a famous restaurant. We are with luck to have three tables. We will all share the tables"

A flood of laughter and intoxicated babbling filled the lobby of the restaurant as we waited for our three tables to be prepared. The host and waiters were clean and professional, moving quickly and silently through the hallway to the different rooms. There were no tables or an open dining room, only private rooms and hallways. The lights were low and they glowed gold, giving an air of sophistication that seemed to battle the resonating din coming from the rooms.

The host motioned stiffly to our group. The odors of smoke and alcohol floated over the false walls of the rooms we passed by. As we entered our room pitchers of beer waited for us on three waist-high, smooth wood tables, each six feet long and three wide with a stepladder at the end.

"No chairs?" I mimed to my coworker. He laughed and shook his head as he handed me a cold mug of bad beer.

"You boys," he said, motioning to Thomas and me. "You boys have good fun tonight. Tonight you learn special ancient custom."

Thomas and I leaned against a table. We drank. We all drank. The laughter grew louder and the smoke in the air seemed to thicken. More pitchers came in, more beers were poured, and the energy of the men around us was infecting. The office boss slurred through a short speech and everyone laughed. He held up his mug for a toast, we all drank, put down our mugs and cheered. Thomas looked at me as he clapped, as if I was knew what was going on. I shrugged, clapped, and turned to the doorway that our coworkers were now watching.

Three men came in, dressed in white linen shirts and tall hats, each carrying with him knives and a heavy cutting board, atop which rested fresh, raw fish. Each chef stood at the end of a table. Our coworkers were still watching the door.

Three women wearing matching robes entered, each carried an overflowing tray of food. Our coworkers cheered, found their drinks, and drank. Each woman went to a table and spread the food around the table. A coworker elbowed me and said something too fast for me to understand. Then the chefs helped the women up onto the tables. The women, one by one, removed their robes and each lay down on a table, pristine and naked. The woman at our table maintained a faint smile as her glassy eyes gazed at the ceiling.

She had her dark hair styled high on her head and held with two simple, painted dowels of wood. Her skin was pale, her neck slim and long. The light makeup on her face seemed too much for the nakedness of her body; the gentle curve of her breasts and the simple elegance of her slim stomach rose and fell as she breathed. Her muscled legs, one slightly bent at the knee, extended down from the small triangle of black hair below her bellybutton. Her skin looked as if one could dip a finger in it and swirl it around; it was soft and flawless. Her nipples grew hard. Her breasts hardly moved as she breathed and stared at the ceiling with empty eyes and a painted smile.

Thomas stood staring at the waist-high table. My coworker filled my mug and smiled, his face red with alcohol. I drank my beer down.

At the end of the table the chef was slicing the raw fish fast and efficient. Beside the girls head was a vat of rice. The chef reached in with his bare hand, his eyes cold and meaningful, scooped out some rice and began rolling it into small ovals. He rolled the sushi quickly, and waiters came in with new fish and fresh rice and took the sushi that the chef had made and place them, with long, black chopsticks, on the body of the girl lying before us. She didn't move as the sushi was placed on her. No one moved as our meal was spread. Everyone watched and drank and watched.

When the food at each table was laid, our boss let out an excited yelp and everyone aside from Thomas and I lifted their wooden chopsticks and began to pick the sushi off the naked body of the girl on the table. Thomas and I watched.

"This must be why none of the girls from our office came," he said.

"I would say that's probably accurate," I said.

My coworker elbowed me lightly. "Eat, eat," he said, motioning with his chopsticks to a piece of sushi resting on the girls nipple, rising and falling with every breath the girl took. I watched, chopsticks in hand. My coworker laughed. He picked the sushi off her breast and placed it on a small plate in front of me. "Number two good piece for you. Number one piece, down there, for boss" he said, motioning to a piece of sushi resting on the small patch of the girl's pubic hair. As we ate the chef began replacing the sushi on the girl's body.

Our coworkers kept drinking and kept eating and smiled at Thomas and me. We were their naïve children learning about the world. They went from table to table, making sure to get a piece off each girl. One of the chefs silently handed Thomas a full plate of sushi for us to eat. The girls were like breathing statues. Our coworkers began trying to feed them the sushi that had been resting on their soft bodies. The girls smiled and tried to refuse. The chefs continued to make sushi. The girls gave in and ate the sushi. Our coworkers cheered. Thomas and I drank. One of our coworkers brought us a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. He laughed with us but his eyes seemed sad.

Some time later we all staggered out of our three-table room. As we left the girls stepped down from the tables and robed themselves. Then they began to clean the tables. The chefs were gone. The host smiled and waved as we left the restaurant.

It was two weeks before work started again after the holidays. On the first day back, Miss Takasaki asked me softly, "Did you have a good time at the party?" Miss Takasaki was the only Japanese English teacher at the junior high school that Thomas and I taught at. She spoke fluent English. She'd lived in Chicago and London, but she came back to her hometown to take care of her mother, who was dying.

"It was very strange," I said.

"Yes," she said, looking away from me. "Strange and sad. Japan is a strange place, yes?"

"Yes," I said.

"Maybe someday it will be more like America. Or London. Or anywhere else. I hope someday there are no more restaurants like that. Many times I do not understand Japan at all."