by Cyn Bagley

Created on: August 07, 2007   Last Updated: October 31, 2008

It was 1990. The U.S. Navy, after training me to be an electronics technician, sent me to Misawa, Japan. It was my first duty station, and I spent many hours and shifts working hard, repairing radios, computers, and other equipment.

After a long shift, I would slip out the front gate to a little Japanese restaurant that was a couple of blocks from the base. At this place, I could get a hot bowl of ramen or cheese sticks. I would sit at a small table and relax, watching the patrons: some Americans and some Japanese.

At the corner of the room was a machine with speakers that came to about my chest. There was a microphone connected to it. Whenever I came into the restaurant I would wonder what the purpose of the machine was. Finally I asked the waiter.

"What is it?" I pointed to the black box machine.

The waiter was a middle-aged man. His eyes twinkled as he patted my hand.

"You see" he said, "You see, soon."

Okay, I would see. But, I was totally confused. The restaurant was a small room. The black box took an entire corner. I couldn't see why anyone would have it taking up so much space. I knew it wasn't a juke box. But still.

One night a few weeks later, I came into the restaurant totally exhausted. I sat in the corner opposite the machine and began eating my usual ramen noodles.

An older Japanese man dressed in a dark business suit walked into the restaurant straight to the machine. I sat straight and watched carefully. He turned it on and played with some buttons. Once the machine was set up to his satisfaction, he went to each table and talked to the Japanese customers.

I was the only American there that evening. It was easy to tell that I was not Japanese with my long blond hair and white skin. I supposed that I looked exotic to the other customers, including the older man.

Eventually he made it to my table. "American?"

"Yes," I nodded and smiled. He said nothing more, just smiled at me. I figured that that word was the end of his English. I contined eating my ramen.

"I sing," he said. Then he went back to the machine. His first song was Elvis Presley's "Love Me Tender." His voice was deep and rich. He never looked at the words. He went to the next song and the next song.

As he sang, he smiled at each of the women. I was entranced. You see, I come from a musical family. My father plays the violin and my mother sings. Each of my brothers and sisters have learned to play the piano and sing. I have been around music most of my life. His voice was beautiful.

At the end of his set about forty-five minutes later, he blew a kiss at me. I think I blushed.

This was my first experience with a karaoke machine. Since then, I have heard people sing to the karaoke machine. I have heard them try to keep up with the rhythms and tunes. I have wondered if any of these people really knew how they sounded.

But this first time was magical. An older man. A beautiful voice. A Japanese evening in Misawa.

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