Commuter

Forget the annoying, loud-mouthed tourists, the anime 'I-cosplay-on-the-weekend' freaks, and the whored-out English teachers. This is me. Company man, thirteen years living in the land of disproportionate vending machines. That’s more than a decade of commuting from suburban hell to a cramped office desk in order to send my wife and daughter to Hawaii every Golden Week.

And yet, I still managed to get on the wrong train.

So much for knowing more kanji than my grunting father-in-law, the dwarf farmer. He would be laughing his ass off with all four crooked teeth showing if he could see me now, watching the lights of my train station fly by the window. Another half hour out of my way. Perfect.

Miyuki’s going to hen-peck me so hard when I finally get home that my eyeballs will pop out of my skull. Typical Japanese wife. She probably just got back from her PTA meeting - or whatever it is that she does in the evenings - and is waiting for me. My only night to come home before seven o’clock in two months, hurray. Like it’s so exciting to listen to her bitch about how I never listen to her. But who would listen to all that constant nagging? After her rant, she’ll probably call her friend, the neighbor, who still speaks baby Japanese to me. Whatever. As long as Miyuki’s not crying like a toddler in order to get her way, I could care less.

Miyuki doesn’t have to put up with this crap. She just stays at home and does laundry a few times a day. She complains of loneliness. I’d trade loneliness for this crowded stench of humanity any day.

I squirm enough in my seat that I accidentally brush my leg against the old woman beside me. Granny shifts so as not to touch the gaijin. I can hear the backwater biases sloshing around in her brain. Gaijin probably has SARS. Better not touch him. She thinks she’s clever, using the reflection of the glass on the darkness outside to stare at me. Stare at the freak. Screw you too, Granny.

To set the mood, the train is overcrowded. The fat guy with headphones beside me practically has his chest in my lap. I can smell the oh-so-sweet aroma of umeboshi from lunch emitting from his lips. Standing near the train doors, a group of high school punks, shirts untucked and pants hanging from ridiculously skinny hips, form a circle so wide that everyone has to huddle on one side of the train to avoid them. Businessmen with briefcases and cute twenty-somethings with skirts over jeans round out the rest of the train. Cell phones clack open and shut, making it impossible to sleep. A normal ride home.

Miyuki doesn’t have to put up with this crap. She just stays at home and does laundry a few times a day. She complains of loneliness. I’d trade loneliness for this crowded stench of humanity any day.

And then, just as I am counting down the seconds until I get off this heap, the train starts to slow down. Within seconds, it comes to a jerking halt, jolting the fat guy awake and sending a few people beside him bouncing into each other’s Louis Vuitton bags. The high school punks find this hilarious and punch each other. Outside, barely visible rice fields stretch out into the neon-lit distance. Salarymen shift their briefcases and sigh. Granny hacks into her handkerchief. None of this puts the train back in motion. The whispers rise to a hiss among the passengers.

A frazzled female voice comes over the intercom, pleading forgiveness for the delay. Just a few minutes, she promises. Her keigo goes into overdrive, but she never gives an explanation. Not that one is needed. We all figure there’s only one thing that stops a Japanese train in the middle of nowhere. A jumper, some suicidal maniac ready to end it all. And we’ll all wait here without even a hint of protest, breath fogging the windows, heaters searing our flesh, because that’s the way it is.

The omniscient voice thanks us for our ‘patience,’ and then the speakers click off. Granny smashes her face up to the glass to get a good look outside, trying to find the cause of the delay. Nice one, hag. Bet that would just make her day, describing the body to her cronies back home. Hell, she’ll probably watch the nightly news just to see the blood smear on the road. Not that I particularly care for the jumper. I should be home by now. Even Miyuki’s whining would be better than this, a crowded, unmoving train surrounded by selfish, ignorant idiots. I reach into my pocket for my cell phone. No e-mail messages. Not even one to ask why I’m late. Strange.

Maybe it would be better not to call her and hear her bitch about putting aside money for Haru’s night school classes. Night school classes for a second grader! Still, I give it a quick dial, pausing only long enough to glare back at Granny when she realizes I am using a phone inside a train. That’s right, honey, I’m using it on the train. The connection clicks. I hope you have a pacemaker, hag.

One...two...three...four rings. No reply. Where is Miyuki? Probably on her cell phone gossiping to the neighbor about me. I think back to many late-night drinking escapades with office buddies. At least it’s comforting to know the other guys at the office feel the same way about their wives. People are fidgeting wildly now, sucking the air between their teeth as their only way to vent frustration. More people crane their heads to peer out the window. A faint red pulsating flash emanates from the road by the rice field. The police. The punks make up stories about who the jumper might be. A deadbeat salaryman. A kid who failed his entrance exams. Everyone laughs hysterically when one kid suggests a nagging mother. They all know the feeling, but no, a self-respecting mother would never jump. She will endure, gaman, up until the bitter, cancerous end.

The train suddenly lurches forward, sending the punks skidding and bumping into other disgruntled passengers. About time. The whole thing has caused me another ten-minute delay. Jumpers. Too caught up in themselves to consider their effects on everyone else trying to lead their own lives. Granny leans forward for a better view as we pass the police cars. She hisses in surprise as she views the scene. Garbled words rise out of her throat, the local dialect. I only catch one phrase. Onna no ko. Woman or girl. I, on the other hand, don’t waste my time looking. Jumper’s already dead, no need to bother.

The train falls back into its pseudo-sleepy silence as we lurch toward the next station. A few minutes before we arrive, I feel my cell phone vibrate. Miyuki. Just in time to rip me a new one for being late as I try to push past all the commuters to get off the train. But it isn’t Miyuki. It’s the neighbor, the gossip. Her question is simple, her Japanese patronizing and slow. “Where is Miyuki?” I don’t know, I tell her. She should be at home, waiting for me, ready to start the tirade. There’s no other place she could be.

By Deborah Marshall

Art by Wayne Wilson

Originally published in the "6 Short Shocks" feature of the August 2004 Issue of JAPANZINE.