Kotaku
by Brian Ashcraft
"No, not the Shin Shinbashi Building," I tell the middle-aged woman sitting behind the ticket counter. "The New Shinbashi Building. 'New' as in the English word 'new' not the Japanese 'new.'"
Tokyo's Shinbashi has two New Shinbashi Buildings — Both on opposite sides of the station. One of them uses the character "shin" (新) which translates as "new." The other uses the English word "NEW" in all caps. What's more, "Shinbashi" means "New Bridge." Confused? You should see the woman behind the counter.
The middle-aged woman behind the counter pauses, then turns to another middle-aged woman behind the counter. An Abbott and Costello routine ensues until I make it perfectly clear: The New Shinbashi Building, not the Shin Shinbashi Building.
The New Shinbashi Building, not the Shin Shinbashi Building, is a stop over. I'm writing a feature on Japanese arcades — I've already visited famous game centers like the dirt cheap, ¥50 per-play Shibuya Kaikan and Akihabara's shooter heaven Taito Hey! This, this is a diversion.
A row of taxis lines up across from the New Shinbashi Building, not the Shin Shinbashi Building. An old lady is laying in the street, and I can hear the rhythmic siren of an ambulance. Businessmen in ill-fitting suits move in transit from work to bars, and a gaggle of young girls wearing thigh-highs and mini-skirts cluster near the doorway, putting on eye liner and talking on cell phones.
The whiff of wet cigarettes and the roar of spinning metal balls and stale techno hits me as I enter the New Shinbashi Building. To my left, there is a large pachinko parlor. Signs in front advertise new pachi-slot machines. Shoe-horned in is an ad for a movie theater showing porno flicks. All of the other shops appear to be either sporting goods retailers or cosmetic counters. Nothing that I'm looking for. I'm looking for game centers, for arcades.
Somewhere between the aluminum baseball bats and the cherry lip-gloss, I see it: A drawing of a Sprinter Trueno or a Skyline — I can't tell. It's an ad for Initial D, a racing game based on a manga of the same name. An illuminated sign reads "World Game," and the Initial D is a front of sorts. The back is packed with mahjong arcade cabinets. Businessmen circle silently, smoking. Nearby, there's "Pit in Game," another arcade. Likewise, nothing remarkable and mostly mahjong. Neither game center is being staffed.
It's looking to be a bust. Two arcades on the first floor, that's it. There are four stories, so maybe, just maybe there are more. Four or "shi" in Japanese, the number itself is unlucky. The word "shinu" (to die) begins with "shi." I double back around, and that's when I find it: The escalator leading to the basement. I descend.
The basement is packed with restaurants. Salarymen with loosened neckties and red faces smoke more cigarettes and laugh. A short order cook grills egg-plant, and fat waitresses stand out front, hoping to catch passer-bys with offers of all-you-can-drink.
"No, thanks," I tell the umpteenth fat waitress. Up ahead, there's a poster. Says King of Fighters. There's an arcade called "Game Shigeru." Two banners for Konami's Mahjong Kakutou Club are out front. I don't go in.
"Doc Well" is split into two parts. Or three parts. The one game center spans several store fronts, but it's all "Doc Well." And it's all filled with mahjong machines. Staffers are no where to be seen, and it all appears to be autonomous. There are a few Virtua Fighter 5 cabinets, old cabinets. Catty corner to the "Doc Well" row is "Diana." Two women in bland business suits play darts. There's Gundam, too. And mahjong.
Mahjong in Japan is primarily a male pursuit. Pro female players in Japan are a rarity, and woman in mahjong parlors are doing one thing: Serving drinks.
Up ahead, "Game Wonda." There's a chance game out front with prizes like Cuff-in-the-Dark and Jungle Undies. Below the toy prizes, gray bags contain adult videos. Step inside, there are mahjong cabinets.
I stick my head in "Gameland." There's a UFO catcher. A crane hand tries to pick up hard-core adult videos. They're not in gray bags, but out for all to see.
Besides the New Shinbashi mahjong arcade game standard, there is a poker-type game with foreign women. An old man sits down in flannel, stuffs a coin in and begins playing. His fingernails are dirty, and I write down the game's title: Cherry. Bonus. IV.
Another Konami banner tells me that "Wing" has mahjong — Along with Virtua Fighter and Tekken. The game cabinets are deserted, and salarymen sit hunched over, lighting cigarettes, putting them out, lighting them again. They don't notice me.
There's a "Wing 2," another arcade, which I peak in.
Take out my note pad. Two floors, nine arcades. And all of them have mahjong games. I toggle through the pictures on my digi-cam. Just to make sure. Somewhere, I can hear salarymen laughing. An attractive woman blows by me with a middle-aged man in tow. The greasy smell of yakitori and the stench of flat beer is sickening.
Second floor. There are numbers on the wall. Crazy numbers, all out of order and mixed up. Red velvet seats and Super Mario. The arcade's name is "221." In the back, two salarymen play mahjong games.
In the breezeway, men stuffed into white nurse outfits like sausages and young boney women also wearing white nurse outfits mill about. One of the boney women stops and stares, then continues down the hall.
A barbershop is wedged between massage parlors and chiropractors offices. Male nurses sit in the doorways, and massage tables are visible under curtains. This isn't sex for sale.
Another nurse, young and pretty, stands near "Jambo." She takes a deep drag and blows out a grey cloud. Behind her, I can make out a horse racing game. In front of me, mahjong.
I pass the "Game in Rido Park Part I." Mahjong. No staffers. I search for "Game in Rido Park Part II," but don't find it.
High heels click by. A worn woman in a skimpy skirt and unfashionable shoes shuffles down the hallway. Somewhere on the second floor, an ad for an adult movie.
The closest thing to an real arcade is the "Royal Shinbashi." It's got Cave's new shooter, Muchi Muchi Pork, the new Time Crisis game, Elevator Action and Densha De Go. This is the thirteenth arcade in the New Shinbashi Building (not the Shin Shinbashi Building). I scan the game center and can't find any mahjo—
The thirteenth arcade also has mahjong. They all have mahjong games. Every single one, and not a single staffer in sight.
Doubling back to the escalator, I pass D-Cup Fashion Health. A sign welcomes customers in, and the 30 minute course rate is broken down by time. It's now evening, so it costs a bit more to have a woman dress up and finish you off. Mornings, they're cheap.
The third floor is deserted. Most of the shops and stores are shuttered shut. Yet, I can swear I hear jazz. There's the odd adult bookstore and the occasional dentist office.
My shoes squeak and squeak on the linoleum until they are drowned out by John Coltrane. The music wafts from a shop — A video game store.
The store's nothing special. But why is it on the third floor of this building? Who shops here? There's a guy behind the counter. Wearing a Yankees cap and spectacles, he clicks though a laptop.
"Excuse me," I say.
He looks up, then slowly: "Yes?"
"I have a question. Do you mind?"
Shuts the laptop.
"Sure, go ahead."
"Don't you think that it's odd they are so many arcades in this building? And that they all have mahjong games?"
He opens the laptop and replies:
"No."
Continues clicking as I linger for a moment and leave.
The fourth floor is silent, save for the high pitched hum of the fluorescent lights. No jazz and no squeaking shoes. Most stores are shuttered and a staircase leads into inky blackness. The sky outside is dull blue as the city four stories below settles in for a long night.
There's a single door open. A woman in a plain office lady-type uniform obscures the view, and I move forward. She serves drinks to four men sit at a table. She leaves, and that's when I see: They're playing mahjong. Real mahjong for real money.
A trio of salarymen appear and pass by, talking loudly and entering that mahjong parlor. Perhaps they were warming up downstairs in an arcade. Perhaps not.
I go back down to the ground floor, to the make-up counters and the pachinko parlor. Pass one of the first floor's game centers, I forget which. A sweaty man in a tacky orange shirt that screams "arcade staff." He's restocking a U.F.O. catcher with stuffed animals. I interrupt.
"I was wondering, why are there so many game centers?"
"What do you mean?" He looks surprised.
"There's something like thirteen arcades in this building. That's a lot. Too many, even. Do you know why?"
"It's always been that way."
"Are they all owned by the same company?" I counter.
"No, they're all separate."
"Why all the mahjong arcade games?"
"Because it's popular."
As I head out of the New Shinbashi Building, not the Shin Shinbashi Building, I think, he's right. It is.
