One of my favourite times of the day is the moment when my morning train ascends from the tunnels under Tokyo and, on a good day, is flooded with sunshine as the train climbs above the roofs of the city's hinterland. The gray concrete slabs of housing estates, box & packing factories, and suburban schools are turned peach pink by the low, early winter sun.
The residents of the 6.52 from Mitaka consist of the usual morning's quarry. At the other end of the bench from me, a couple of kids, who probably met for the first time the night before, lean symbiotically on eachother, sleeping with serious faces. The boy's laces have become entwined with some of the straps on the girl's handbag. The train crosses a bridge. The Pacific is almost visible through the mist of diffused exhaust fumes.
A woman at the end of the carriage is awakened by the enka theme of her phone. She commences a conversation that is slightly too loud for the sanctity of the carriage. She seems confused by the person at the other end of the line. She speaks only in aggressive, bewildered questions. Other passengers look at her, worried that they may have to interact with her in some way. To their relief, she gets off at the next stop, finishing her call as she walks, determined towards her exit. The train goes over another river. The world's most unappealing hotel floats past, sharing a small island with a large industrial plant.
At the top of the carriage, a woman stands, apparently unaware of the embarrassment of free seats around her. She is wearing a black suit and looks effortlessly elegant, bordering on cruel. It is as if she has been mistakenly plucked from a street in Ginza, and as yet has not deigned to notice. She uses her phone and nothing can be heard. The train pulls into Myoden station. Terminal.
The doors open. People begin to get off. The man opposite sleeps on. He has a child-like look of contentment, in his dream the soundtrack should be Louis Armstrong. He is wearing a suit and has clearly slept past his stop. He should never have left the tunnels. There is a slight stain of some kind of condiment on his collar. The man from the Metro jumps onto the train to check for stragglers. He shakes the man's shoulder. "Wake up, wake up, sir", he says, much more softly than I had expected. The man's face changes as he gradually comprehends. It is like watching someone go from the hope of early childhood to the worry of middle age in a couple of seconds. Sorrow touches his face for just a moment before it is replaced by the panic of his situation as he jumps and stumbles from the train in a vain attempt to reach the train now stopping at the opposite platform, to make his way back to the office in time.
Another day starts in Tokyo.
