From My Veranda: Corporate Espionage in Japan

Walking back from my bus stop to my apartment, I saw a familiar sight.  The building next to mine is the headquarters of a large food company.  Well known, I would have a hard time finding someone in Japan unfamiliar with their name and products.

To be fair, I've seen this sight before.  Three men in black suits and white shirts are bowing to a black car (today it's a Lexus) pulling out of the company's private parking garage.  The three men in black bow in unison, rise in unison, bow again, rise again, and then stand there until the Lexus turns right and out of sight.  I watch all this and them follow them with my eyes as they walk back indoors to merciful air conditioning.

This scene takes me back to one I experienced as a child.  I'm in the train station with my father.  We're waiting in the lobby for someone to arrive.  We are not alone.  The lobby is a large rectangular room with food kiosks on one side, ticket machines and salespeople on the other.  In front of us is the gate from which people come and go, and behind us are large glass doors leading outside.  In other words, it's a pretty typical Japanese train station.  What's different about this scene today are the men in black lined up in two rows.  They face each other.  The line begins from the turnstyle all the way out the door.  The men in black are yakuza (the Japanese mob).  Some wear dark sunglasses.  Some have tightly permed hair.  Some are bald.  Large, really large, and then more average, they stand silent, facing each other all in black.

Our family is standing near the doors.  Not because we need an escape plan per se, but because it's generally a good idea to give these guys as much space as they feel they need.  Today, we chose to be near the door.

Then it happens.  Clearly the honored and exalted guest, either this faction's bigwig or his boss or his boss has arrived.  Entering in a dark gray and black Japanese kimono, grandpa-boss has large earlobes.  That's what I noticed first.  One by one, the men bend at their waist, each hollering the I'm-a-guy calling of, "Ooooos" as heads bow in domino-fashion.  Perfectly synced, they were precise and exact.  The combination "Ooooos" and bow was indeed so perfect, that this was being undertaken in public for all to see by bad boys to the bone, let's just say it was comical.

My father saw the beginnings of a grin on my face and gave me the "Absolutely not now" look and I froze.  Nothing is funny about the deepest forms of respect the yakuza can give their masters.  No.  This was not funny.  I was not going to laugh, smile, grin, smirk, or snicker.

I bring up this domino-bowing story only because the three men in black today reminded me of this long ago event.  That's not my story today.

I've now lived in this apartment in Tokyo for over 18 months.  During this time I've realized a key factor about my neighbors--the food giant.  My floor looks straight into what I've decided is their product development department.  From my window or small veranda, I can see directly into their offices.  They never close the blinds.  I've seen them taste test new products, and I've seen them compare their brands with their competitor's.  All I need is an ordinary pair of binoculars and I would be able to read their computer screens and actually see next year's item currently under development.

This is supposed to be a secret, this new product.  What's the point of a new item on the market if a competing company gets wind of it and puts out their brand first?  Enter in the question I've harbored for 18 months.  Why don't they close their blinds?  Why don't they take more care to be secret about their research?  Mine is not the only apartment facing their floor where the next hit item will be born.  Any one of us could take their research and offer it up to the highest bidder.

Clearly I've read too many spy novels and fancy myself the modern-day Mata Hari.  Obviously I'm not going to steal their secrets and make money off of their sloppiness.  But, the point is, I could.

This lack of concern on the part of this food company is not the only reason I say the Japanese are lax when it comes to protecting their product, ideas, or name.  Just the other night I was invited out to dinner with friends who own a large food company of their own.  As the president consumed more liquor, he became more insistent towards the chef/owner of the establishment that he copyright the name of his store before expanding into other Asian countries.
"They'll steal your name," the president says, "and then the fact you're famous here in Tokyo is moot.  Everyone will associate the other company with your food.  Since you can't control how good their food is, and it can't possibly be as good as yours, you and your restaurant look bad.  Got to do this now," the president continues, "to protect yourself.  You know how they are about stealing names to make consumers assume they're the real deal when they're only copycats."

I won't mention which countries the president was referring to.  While pirating is evidently not seen as a moral issue for these countries, it's the fact the chef/owner never thought of this that is proof yet again how many Japanese are oblivious to the fact their products might be of interest to others.

The moral of the story is this:  close your curtains if you're doing something you don't want others to see, and be smart about branding yourselves if you want to control your name.  That said, I'm not implying all Japanese are lax about protecting their identity, new product, name, or corporate secrets.  Just saying.

"Did you know there's a company called Honda making motorcycles in *****?" the president asks us all.  "Not the real Honda, but another Honda."  I counter with a "No way.  Honda, the real one wouldn't stand for that," but the president shakes his head.  "You're wrong.  You'd be amazed."  I am.  And then I remember the people across the street from me.  With no concern over those of us who can see into their offices, perhaps it's no wonder there are two Hondas making the same product.

Food for thought.

The Swaggerer

There was a time in my life were I was sort of a cop.  I say "sort of" because explaining what I really did gets complicated, and it's not necessarily untrue to say I was "sort of" a cop.  So ... I'm sticking with it.  I bring this up to tell you a story.

One day my partner and I were out on a stakeout.  Yes, it was one of those scenes-you-see-in-the-movies stakesouts.  We were in our car.  He had his giant camera with this super-charged lens and we were waiting for the bad guys to show up.  At one point, a group of people passed our car, so he quickly hid the camera and hissed, "Yell at me.  We need to be having a fight."  Happy to oblige, I started telling him what a loser he was, how "completely annoying you can be sometimes" and in short, let it all out.  I felt wonderful.  He was pretty amazed I could spew venom on cue.  I wasn't.  (He could be pretty annoying at times.)

When the bad guys started showing up, he'd click away, shutters rattling off one captured frame after another while I sat and tried to figure out who was who.  See, here's the thing.  We knew who they were, we just didn't know which one was which.  We had to match faces to names.  (It's a long story.)

Then I saw him.  He got out of his car (I think it was a Volvo) and after he chirped the car alarm he walked towards the meeting place.  Here's the clincher:  THE MAN SWAGGERED.  I kid you not.  It was definitely a swagger.  He was swaggering.

"That's so-and-so," I said to my partner.
"How do you know?"
"He's swaggering."
"I can't put that in a report!"
"Write what you want.  That's the guy.  That's the boss."

Here's where my partner started to guffaw.  I mean tears-and-snorts kind of a laughter with lingering giggles still minutes later.  Annoyed (which is why it was so easy to yell at him earlier) I stood my ground.  As it turned out, I was right.  He was the head honcho and his swagger proved it.

I bring up this story because I saw a man swagger today.  From the back, I swore to myself here was a Japanese mobster in Cambridge, Massachusetts.  The odds of me being right this time were slim.  But, the man had that swagger.  The same one Japanese yakuza guys have.  As do the arrogant, "do-you-see-this-giant-chip-on-my-shoulder" guys, and the "I'm-such-a-badass-you-can't-touch-me" guys who aren't really bad but want the world to think they are.  It takes a unique Japanese male to pull off a real swagger.  This guy today had it down pat.  When I saw him cross the street and climb into his cab, I was very sorry to admit there was no way this guy was a Japanese badass.  A wannabe, maybe.  But not the real deal.  It amazed me, though, that here would be a middle-aged Asian man who looks the part, walks the part, has that "I'm-a-tough-guy" routine all tightly choreographed, but is only a taxi driver.  (And I use the word "only" here with the utmost respect for taxi drivers.)

There's a swaggerer I work with up north in the Tohoku region of Japan.  He's one of these "I-want-to-look-bad" guys, and his reputation could be better.  He wouldn't be happy if he knew I was spilling to the world he's not nearly as badass as he thinks he is.  But, here again is that swagger.  With him, it's more a "get-out-of-my-way" walk but it's there.  People do scurry when they see him.  Children don't like him.  He's "that scary uncle" to most kids, and if they know he's coming for dinner, they'll find homework that didn't get done earlier or preparation for tomorrow that they swore they didn't need when asked before they knew of uncle's arrival.

Men who swagger are truly a breed of their own.  I hope some day you see one only because you really must see to believe.   And, try not to laugh when you do see them.  That act wouldn't be appreciated.