Black Lives, Like Mine

Warehouse Home

I stood in a ticket queue again today.

The youngsters in the queue eyed me with suspicion, my unfashionable clothes, the grey in my hair, my wrinkles. I had no right to stand there with them on the pavement under a large poster of five perfect, young boys in bright suits. I, an old man who has never even heard of this pop group.

When the ticket booth opened-- the electric blinds slowly rising to reveal a young woman in a smart, clean uniform -- I took out the phone and pressed the parts of the screen I had been instructed to by my employers. When the woman nodded, I said "500" and put the phone up against the sensor by the glass window. 

I do not know how these things work. I only do what I am instructed. 

Our transaction completed, I turned to leave and was almost knocked against the booth and to the ground by youngsters rushing forward, terrified to not get their tickets. I had to fight my way around them. 

I understand. I was young once. 

But the phone is not mine. I must always return it. And it cannot be damaged. 

The crisp, morning air was full of petrol fumes.  The hot-spice smells of frying spring rolls and City Convenience restaurants stirred up growls from my belly as I walked to the drop point. 

The streets of Mahsu-Chome were choked with taxis and cars.  A man in the back seat of a taxi stared at me as I walked past. I bowed to him. He did not bow in return. His eyes were glazed as if seeing a different reality. So many people. So many lives. So easily overlooked. 

At the central crosswalk, the rapidly changing advertising screens above our heads informed us of the time, the temperature and a new hair dye. I stopped and read the news running on a red ribbon across the bottom of a screen, while behind it dinosaurs galloped after car tyres, and pretty girls smiled and held up mobile phones like the one in my pocket. An airplane sailing through clouds invited me to visit a foreign country. A robot shaped like a toothbrush reminded me to tend my teeth. 

When the light changed, I crossed with the crowd. Like a normal person. 

I returned the phone to the man in dark, expensive clothing at the third table by the window, as instructed. He slipped the device into his jacket pocket and left without wasting a word on me. The rental fee for the 15-hour use of my valueless time left carelessly abandoned on the table top. 

I ordered my first hot meal in three days.  

Delicious miso soup.

The drizzle had turned to rain when I finally returned home. 

Long ago it had been a warehouse for textiles. Now, a small, hidden corner on the top floor is where I live.  The smell of age and old cotton greets me as I ascend the squeaking metal stairs, and I am reassured once again that no inspector, policeman or outsider has found my dark corner. 

I take off my jacket and my shoes and begin to sweep the tiles of my warehouse home. The flowers on the ancestors' altar are starting to die. I remind myself to find more. 

Sleep is coming, weighing down my eyes. I have been awake for a long time today. I put away the broom and lay down on the pile of blankets I use as a bed, pulling more blankets over my head to block out the light. 

And now I think I hear the spirit workmen arriving and I smile into the under-blanket darkness. The sounds of their boots as they lug bales and cloth bolts across the cracked, tile floor, the cracking and creaking of wood. 

I sometimes think I hear fragments of their laughter, their jokes. I am happy they are here. I am lonely, and the never-flagging sounds of the spirit workmen  keep me company in the darkness. Perhaps though, I am only starting to dream. Not unlike the bright youngsters who will pay the yakuza men horribly inflated prices for the tickets I stood in the queue for.

I imagine the youngsters.  All of them in the dark of the concert, dreaming collectively, as the lights dim and they wait, knowing they will see the visions they were promised. 

The visions of perfect lives they paid so much to see.  And they will be happy. They will not feel alone. 

Their dreams will keep them company in the darkness. 

It is my wish to stand in many more queues, even though it is so tiring and I am no longer young.

The miso was too delicious. I want another dark, steaming bowl of it. 

We all have our dreams. 

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A/N 

In Japan, the number of homeless is rising, but very few of them beg as they do in the West, because it is considered dishonourable. Rather, the homeless prefer to do menial tasks for cash-in-hand for mafia groups or gangs. One of the most common jobs is standing in line for concert tickets.