A train chock full o' nuts
(This article, which first appeared in the
Japan Times of Sep. 16, 2006,
is reproduced here in Eyes on Japan by kind permission of the
author.)
They're not my family, they're not my
friends. They're . . . my "famuters" — those familiar
commuters who ride the train with me each and every day.
I don't know their names. I only know
their faces. Some have ridden with me on the north Tokyo rails for years.
Others jump in for a season or two and then are gone
— drawn away perhaps by a job change
 Mostly we sit or stand in the same
places every single morning, as if our positions were reserved. When a
stranger usurps somebody's spot, the whole ride seems wrong and each of us
begins our day slightly out of sync.
We never speak. We don't even
exchange looks, our eyes bouncing off each other as if we were but human
wallpaper purchased for the Seibu railway.
But I know them. And I wager they
know me. These, my famuters . . .
The Ventriloquist is a worn
down office lady who often stands before me. She dresses in flat colors
that probably match her workplace, some nondescript office in the dour
maze of Tokyo. The Ventriloquist grips the commuter strap and talks . . .
to herself, yet without moving her lips. The words squeak out with the
high "Mommy! Mommy!" tone of a child. New riders twist their
heads to see who might be speaking. Or where the child might be concealed.
The Ventriloquist, meanwhile, stares straight ahead, her eyes not unlike
those of a wooden dummy's.
"Well, I'm happy if you're
happy. . . . Of course I'm happy. Don't I look happy? I'm as happy as a
bug. Why would you even say that? . . . It was just an expression. . . .
Yeah? Well, screw your expressions. Say something sensible or shut
up."
Next comes the Swinger, a
petite office girl who often sits to my left. In her case, I have never
seen her face. She sleeps with her head down and her hair cascading
forward. She is sleeping when I get on the train and sleeping when I get
off. Who knows? Maybe she lives in that seat.
She is the Swinger because she . . .
swings! She swings to the right, she swings to the left, snuggling into my
shoulder for a tender moment until — with a lurch of the train —
she swings back to the right. All the while her head rocks like a
dashboard doll. It's amazing she doesn't have whiplash.
On my other side is scrunched the Gamemeister.
He is a knob-kneed office worker somewhere between the ages of 22 and 42.
It's hard to tell. He spends his train time with a Game Boy drawn close to
his boyish grin, his teeth fanned out like playing cards. His pupils and
thumbs move constantly. I wager he's not married. And never will be.
In the corner by the door stands the Nutty
Professor — a slender man with wind-blown gray hair and fishbowl
eyewear. Every day the Nutty Professor wears the same clothes: a thin blue
blazer and a necktie-free white shirt. Winter, summer — weather
and temper- ature don't matter. Some formula in his noggin absorbs all his
thoughts, leaving him no time to waste on wardrobe. Eccentric = Mass of
Commuters Squared.
For several years, the Ventriloquist
was joined on my left by Mr. Sag, a high school boy. Mr. Sag was
fond of exposing his underwear by belting his trousers around his thighs
rather than his waist. If I would have grabbed his knee and tugged once,
his pants would have shot to his ankles.
But I would have never done that to
Mr. Sag, who seemed like a pleasant enough fellow. Yet I was pleased to
have him disappear, because he also funneled music into his head at full
blast, never realizing his headphones barely muffled the sound
— always some recording of gorillas pounding on drums. This made it
impossible to hear the Ventriloquist.
And where did he go? Unless he has
brain damage, I suspect Mr. Sag is now exposing his boxers on some college
campus.
Behind the Ventriloquist is the Snorer.
Fat enough to take up two seats and with an open mouth wide enough to
hangar a monarch butterfly, the Snorer does what snorers do — he snores.
His is a gentle log sawing, however, with only an occasional SNNNORK!
brought on perhaps by a dream of train car filled with nuts of a different
variety.
Then there is the Babe. A
starlet type who stands by the other door, with her bosom turned to fend
off eyeballing, a failed effort due to the reflection of the glass . . .
in which she shows an expression of abject unhappiness, her almond eyes
almost dripping with tears, as if she were auditioning for a part in a
tragedy. Most of the men feel the tragedy is that she will not turn
around.
Last is . . . the Furrener —
me. I sit — when I get lucky — and balance a thick English book on my
lap. Sometimes I read it, sometimes I daydream and sometimes I listen to
the Ventriloquist argue with herself about how happy she is. It passes the
time.
Only once have I ever run into any of
these people off the train. I saw the Nutty Professor at a Seiyu
supermarket. He was wearing a casual shirt and chuckling with an elderly
woman mincing at his side. I found the vision unsettling.
Why . . . the man has a real life!
And a family! He dresses, acts and looks normal! He even speaks!
For a nano-second his eyes met mine.
Perhaps he thought similar thoughts. ''Why . . . the Foreigner is not a mannequin at all! He exists even
outside the train! Incredible!"
Then we glided past each other
without so much as a nod.
On the next morning train everything
was back to routine. The Snorer snored, the Swinger swang and the
Gamemeister set records for points scored. Across the way, the Nutty
Professor didn't even glance at me, his gaze fixed outdoors, or maybe on
the reflection of the Babe.
"I'm so happy I could
puke," said the Ventriloquist. "Oh will you just stop! What are
you anyway? Some kind of nut?"
And our train rolled on.
© Thomas Dillon for the Japan Times 2006. All rights
reserved
Editor's note: Sincere thanks to the author for
his kind permission to republish the above article, which first appeared
in his regular Japan Times column "When East Marries
West".
This page last updated 2009-12-31
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