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.

What the handsome man had to say

Oh, if I could just make these stories up.  Fantastic imagination that I have, what happened today is not a scene I could concoct.  Here's the story.

I'm with an American camera crew and we've driven around shooting Rikuzentakata for hours.  We've pulled into the parking lot at city hall and are about to part ways for the day when a tall man in a crisp white shirt and pressed black pants comes up to us.  I don't notice him at first, but then he becomes impossible to ignore.

"You scratched this car," he says, pointing to the little green thing parked next to mine.  Collectively, we turn and look at him.
"Who the hell are you?" I'm about to say but don't.
"See, here," and he points to, and there it is, a scratch.  "You scratched the car when you opened the door to get out."
I'm not happy.
"Is this your car?" I ask.
"No."
"Whose is it?"
"I don't know."
"Then what business is it of yours?" I also don't ask this.
"In Japan, we're strict about these things," he says because we're a bunch of foreigners and presumably we don't know the rules.

He's right.  Every time I've rented a car the rental car agency man and I walk around the car as I point out every dent, scratch, mark, tar spot.  I've even wiped away black dots that turn out to be bits of mud left from the wash they've given the car before they entrust it to me.

The man is tall with short cropped white hair.  He's young, maybe in his thirties.  Not that I'm proud to have to include this last tidbit, but he's really handsome.  (Not that this matters.)  If he weren't such an ass, he'd be the kind of person I'd consider introducing to my friends.

But he is an ass.  He goes on and on, asking what we're going to do about this all while I hold back the steam rising up in me.

Along comes a man who turns out to be the owner of the car.
"They dented your car," he says, because he would.  He points to the scratch.
"You should get their cards," he continues, because this teeny little scratch will surely need repairing.
"It's a rental," the strange man none of us know says in what is almost a whisper.  He is surely regretting his timing, showing up into what will turn into a blow out in the next few minutes.
"Then you really need their cards," the good looking man goes on saying.  "They'll charge you for this ding."
The Japanese interpreter working with the crew offers up his card.  "Have the agency contact me if there are any problems."

I've had enough.
"Give me your card," I say to the man I will never introduce to my friends.
"You're the only one who saw us ding this man's rental car.  If the agency wants this man to pay," I point to the poor man who desperately wants to drive away, "then you're the only witness.  They agency will want to contact you I'm sure."

Clearly unaccustomed to having women speak to him this way, and much less a foreigner (god forbid) he stares at me for a minute and says, "Just play dumb, then.  Don't tell the rental company there's a scratch."
"But, they'll notice," I counter.  "You said so yourself.  Japan is strict about these things.  We'll need your contact information."  I am clear he understands I'm not asking, but telling.  This is a command.  Not a request.

And then it comes.
"I'm not someone you want to mess with."
Under any other circumstance I would bust a gut laughing at anyone who has the gall to say this, but because this man is serious I dig my nails into my palm to keep from laughing.  I don't say anything.
"You don't want to mess with me," he says again, because clearly we didn't hear him the first time and this bears repeating.

What I want to say is this:  a). "Oh, honey ... You mistake me for someone who is intimidated by pipsqueaks like you" and b). "Do I look like someone who is used to being spoken to like that?" and finally those words I have sworn I will never say, c). "Do you know who I am?"

I don't say any of this.  Of course.  Instead I do start laughing, and turn around and walk back into city hall.  I march up to my office, gather my colleagues around me and point out the window.  "Who is that guy?  He just suggested he's someone I shouldn't be messing with."  I tell them the story of what's unfolded down below in the parking lot.  There are seven of us staring out the window at this man who is gesturing and pointing with all his might.  The consensus is he's not a local, and with that I decide he's a badass wannabe and I don't need to worry about him or his thoughts on who he thinks he is.

Curious as to whether I'll ever run into him again, I've burned the image of his face into my mind for posterity.  I hope we meet again.  I think he'll be surprised at who I think I am.

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.

Inked: "I am not a gangster."

It is with much displeasure and great regret I announce the following:  I am now a member of a gym.  For someone who despises sweat and sweating, and for someone who considers exercise to be walking from the front door to my living room (and back) several times a day, the idea of paying to twist muscles, life heavy objects all while my body perspires a smelly substance--this act is a coup.  The recent influx of photos taken on iPhones and other such hand-held devices which show up on Facebook has led me to this moment.  I simply do not look like that.  I refuse to accept or believe this.  But, there's power in numbers.  The more photos show up of me the less I'm able to refute what is evidently fact.  Hence, the gym.  And sweat.  And sweating.  If I don't lose it now, it simply will not happen.  I concede.

Enter an evening spent looking through various gyms and memberships online.  I find one nearby and choose it because a). I like the photos I see of the gym, and b). I like their logo.  This is how I choose where I will sweat.  (I know.  I don't ask you to understand.)

Deciding reading the fine print on the membership rules would be a good thing here, I reluctantly put on my reading glasses and attack the text.  And yes.  There it is.  "No one with tattoos will be allowed membership."  Bugger.

Undaunted, I read on.  Surely they mean "no Japanese with tattoos"?  There are simply too many servicemen and women with ink on their shoulders.  To exclude those is a bad business decision.  Yes?  No.  They mean everyone.  "No one with tattoos" means just that.  No one.

To be fair, I know the reasons behind this.  Those inked in Japan have traditionally been members of the Japanese yakuza.  These are Japan's gangsters, mafia, mobsters, bad guys--they're beautifully inked scary men.  There has been an effort made by police and politicians (more on this some other day) to keep these bad boys at bay, preventing them from using public and private facilities and buildings by instituting policies refusing entry by "anyone with a tattoo."  

Back to my application form.

Then I see it.  It's a good thing I chose this one day to read what I was agreeing to because it's there:  "Unless our club determines your tattoos are acceptable."  Hmmm.  What's an acceptable tattoo?  Mine.  Right?

I decide this is not a question I can ask on the phone.  Because I like their prices, location, the look of the gym (and their logo) I make my way down to the building which will serve as my own personal torture chamber.  Feet apart, I stand in front of the nice, healthy looking young man and say, "I'm interested in your gym, but I want to know what you mean by 'acceptable tattoos.'"  He smiles at me as if he gets this question a lot.  "We need you to promise to keep your tattoo covered from the moment you enter this gym," and he points to the door "until you leave."

Pffft.  That's nothing.  I can do that.  I make an appointment for a tour and leave.

Today was my tour.  I like the place still, confirmed their tattoo policy, and signed the papers.  I am now a member of society who pays to sweat.  I'm not at all sure whether this is a good thing.

I signed documents, paid, had my photo taken for my ID card, and just as I'm about to put my coat on and leave, the woman who handled my paperwork hands me one more form.  "Read this and sign, please.  It's about your tattoo."  I glance down.

There are five boxes I'm to check.  The first one reads, "I am not a gangster."  I am to check this to swear, certify, and promise I am not a member of the Japanese mob, the yakuza.  It's funny but it's not.  I check it, and read on.  Boxes two through four are so insignificant I honestly don't remember what they said.  Box five was interesting.  The gist was to agree I will be kicked out of the gym if any member notices my tattoo and complains about it.  Well now.  That's rather harsh, isn't it?  Evidently they take this quite seriously.  Fine.  Check.  I keep coming back to this same thought--it's funny but it's not.

So, for the record, inked that I am, I am not a gangster.