Gate Four

Camp zama is an American Army base nestled in a sleepy exurb twenty- six miles southwest of Tokyo. A chain link fence and barbed wire mark its perimeter. The most significant thing about Camp Zama is its eighteen- hole golf course, which covers roughly half the base and drives nearby Japanese men nearly mad with desire.

Gate One, grand and impeccably manicured, is the official entrance. It is manned by American military police—always serious, scowling men—to give the impression of austerity and authority, to serve as a warning that this quiet base in the middle of nowhere is not to be trifled with, never mind that as far as strategic importance of military bases in Asia goes, Camp Zama ranks nearly last. The Pacific Rim, for as long as anybody can remember, has belonged to the Navy and Marines.

Traffic is heaviest through Gate Four, which cuts through a swath of trees and is the gate closest to the local train station. Back then, before 9/11 changed everything, Gate Four was manned by locals; usually that was Hitoshi, short and goofy and eager to please. Rumor was that he came from a family of yakuza and had taken this job just for fun, which everyone believed, because he barely glanced at the driver’s ID card as he cheerfully waved them through. They could have just as easily flashed their video rental card. He was so pleasant that nobody seemed to mind how poorly he did his job. He would chat with the base inhabitants returning from the train station with his garbled English, entirely unembarrassed—or perhaps not aware—that he was not making any sense, and they would nod and agree and wish him a good day. Plus, this was Japan, not Korea or Kuwait, so security was the last thing on anyone’s mind.

On weekend nights, young local women dressed in their finest huddled just outside Gate Four, availing themselves of the pockmarked soldiers who came from distant places like Odessa and Dayton and that town off the interstate midway between Las Vegas and Phoenix. These soldiers were often less than a year out of high school and would drench themselves with Davidoff Cool Water, the haute eau de toilette of choice. Feeling manly, they would strut to the gate to select their date for the night, to escort them to the enlisted club and then later to their barracks. Sometimes, they bypassed the club entirely, which the women were more or less fine with— whatever it took to achieve marriage with a white boy and obtain a green card.

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While the women waited at the gate, they chatted animatedly with Hitoshi, who, despite himself, could not allow them on the base until they were signed in by their date/future ex-husband. They bantered over celebrity gossip and American movies and television shows, anything to make the time pass more quickly. Hitoshi was well versed in all things pop culture and was a brilliant storyteller, enrapturing them all with his latest dramatic spiel, and occasionally they would look up in surprise, Hitoshi included, and find two soldiers standing nearby, impatient, their choices having already been made.

Hitoshi was familiar with most of the locals who worked on the base: the short order cooks and custodians and construction workers and bus drivers—Zama City, like many overseas cities that host American bases, was a hardscrabble town, and jobs were hard to come by—and he waved them through as they entered for the start of their shifts.

Tomoko was one such local, a server at the golf course dining club. She was twenty- nine, thirteen years older than my friends and me, fluent in English, with a contemplative expression that exuded calm. She had the gift of kindness, and she effortlessly weaved between tables with plates of Reubens and Spam fried rice while greeting regulars and occasionally comforting the devastated golfer coming off a terrible round.

When we cobbled together enough money from our odd jobs, my friends and I piled into Aleki’s Honda Civic hatchback and headed to the golf club...