Espresso Love (A Dystopian Japan Novel) #Wattys2014

Things Are Changing

On the bus, it's a typical morning: typical people, typical noises, typical dusty city streets in a blur through typical glass windows. The bus driver today looks typical as well. He has a small still-growing beard at the stub of his chin and thinning hair. I know his hair is thinning only from telltale signs at the back of his head and his sideburns, as on top of his head is a very typical hat, a standard issue uniform cap. From what I can see, he's not old enough to hope for retirement, but not young enough to be enthused by the typical traffic jam before him. Two elderly ladies sit across from me, well-dressed, hands folded on their knees almost like identical porcelain figures with varnished eyes from a vintage store. Down the aisle, a high school student in uniform, skirt tucked up high on naked thighs, hair dyed ochre. I can't recognize the crest but I assume the school isn't very prestigious if she can go to school looking like that. She's on her cell phone, the newest touchscreen model from SoftBank. Behind her is a young man and his North Face backpack, curled up in the corner, earbuds in, on his own phone. Their fingers move with frightening intensity and inhuman dexterity.

I probably look about the same when I'm using a cell phone. Suddenly, reality disappears and tunnel vision is the only vision. To the observer, we become a bizarre species, a strange phenomenon to study and criticize. "How can young people be so obsessed with their gadgets?" "You can die of a heart attack in front of them and they would never know." "The world is coming to an end." But I can no longer see their fingers dance as a storm of salarymen fills my vision. Outside, beyond our little glass box, the streams of pedestrians are unceasing as the flow of traffic tapers to a halt. A thin limb diverges from the main current and feeds itself into our bus. I can almost feel the metal frame and its hinges creak and expand violently while knees brush against knees, buttocks against legs, legs against hips, arms on elbows, necks on shoulders, hair in faces, gazes sly and wandering and dissecting the air to seek empty parking spaces. We are a tangle of body parts; bodies violated and armpits sweat. But no one will mention anything. It is not proper etiquette to disturb the peace; etiquette is everything. Even keeping my eyes on my lap begins to feel strangely unpleasant now, as if my gaze is too near my crotch and an act of self-violation. So I fetch my cell phone to create a safe sanctuary for my eyes.

The bus starts again, and its gentle rocking, a minute shiver, sends its standing passengers teetering and I feel an invisible force pulling my body one way, while I fight towards the other.

Once it's going, the process is insignificant, the destination sure, but the method unnoticeable. The slow lumber, the lurching rhythm of the bus, the constant speed; if I close my eyes, it's like I'm not moving at all. But the time that passes by, chipping off days and years of our lives, disappears without a trace. In twenty-five minutes or so, I would open my eyes and there I would be, in front of Kinokuniya, like always. Nothing changes. A typical passage of time, a typical day, and a typical Kinokuniya.

There is nothing wrong with taking the bus. I look around at the typical faces of the passengers. All seem fixated on their current disposition. Surely, no disastrous accident or premeditated assault awaits. I trust in my ability to remain ordinary and unnoticed. Clean sideswept hair, not too long, not too short, black rimmed glasses to hide my eyes, button up shirt as to not appear shabby, a cardigan to conceal my lankiness, grey parka to hide my thin neck, an ambiguous messenger bag with no implication as to whether I'm on an errand, off to work or attending school. It's not like I've selected anything too carefully, but it isn't of random spontaneity either. I prefer to remain in balance. I'd checked the mirror and I, an ordinary person, should be left to live an ordinary life.

"The next station is Shin-Akinoseki," an automated announcement tells us now. It's a young woman's crisp voice, devoid of any dialect or accent, neutral and composed, standard Tokyoite, maybe an air of easy nonchalance. Such a voice might have soothed hearts had it been another day, another time. But it's not her voice that attracts my attention. No, something is different, like someone cracking a joke I'm supposed to understand, but I haven't quite gotten. Somewhere, someone else is laughing, maybe at me. What could go wrong with an automated announcement? But I hear her voice again: "Shin-Akinoseki."

Perhaps I may not have paid much attention on prior trips - there is no reason to memorize all the stops of a bus route: most passengers are only concerned with getting from point A to B. If issue may arise, an app or a quick search on a website would usually provide an answer and mitigate concern. Still, I have an impression that there had been no such station yesterday. From Akinoseki to Shimanomachi, it had been a continuous route through quiet residential corridors – starkly quiet compared to the last station. There's a Seven-Eleven store open 24 hours a day that sits in the middle, such that it would be impossible to visit the store, without doubling back from either station. Of course, it's entirely possible that the next station had its name changed, or there had been a request for a new station for those who wished to visit that specific Seven-Eleven - who would file for such a thing, I have no idea. It just so happens that today is the day the automatic announcement has been updated. If so, there is no reason to be alarmed.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch the woman on my right - she's wearing a black Burberry belted trench, immaculate and rigidly clasped over her body, and clutching a purse to her chest. I can't see her eyes; she's wearing large sunglasses. On my left, a mother and her child who's adorned with a bright yellow kindergarten uniform and a puffy down jacket to match. The only standing passenger not in business attire steadies himself on his guitar case in front of me. It looks to be a Gibson or something similar. I choose one of them at random and smile and lean over as if to share a secret and I ask, quietly, for the next station. She tells me Shimanomachi is after Shin-Akinoseki. She shows no hesitation, like I am to blame, guilty for missing a fact of life, a shared universal experience that everyone else had clued into. I thank her good-naturedly and the woman in sunglasses offers the faintest tip of her head. We pretend I had never asked. Outside, a little Daihatsu stays parallel to me and I crane my neck to get a better view out the window.

Sure enough, the Seven-Eleven pulls up in sight. It looks desolate and defunct, its dull red, orange and green seems almost grey, embedded into a wall of shabby monochrome apartments. The balconies above are lined with old air-conditioning units and cords drying cold laundry – bras, boxers, bedsheets. They waver uncertainly and a woman, in her mid-thirties maybe, tries to take hers down. She doesn't look down at us, doesn't look at the Seven-Eleven below. The convenient store is out of place, but at the same time, it had grown into its surroundings, like an old rival one can't quite part with. It hadn't moved, still in the same exact middle between the two bus stops – though yesterday, the bus might have passed right by.

Instead, we roll to a stop with a loud squeak of the brakes. There is a solid lurch. The woman-with-sunglasses next to me clears her throat as she tries to keep her shoulder from brushing against mine. The child on my left watches me with wide eyes and the mother gives me an awkward smile.

We have arrived, Shin-Akinoseki, the Shin-Akinoseki in front of the Seven-Eleven.

The announcement parrots the name. "Shin-Akinoseki. Shin-Akinoseki."