But something’s wrong at Komagome Station. I hear the announcements, but I can’t get a good read on the situation. All I know is that there’s a situation. OK, they’re saying something about “the power grid”. Outside loop’s down. Down how? How down? I map the Yamanote in my head. The dot for Komagome rests near the northern edge of the circle—Hamamatsucho is towards the south-east. (Counting stations after the fact: Hamamatsucho is twelve stops from Komagome on the outside loop—seventeen stops on the inside.)
OK. Change of plans. The inside loop’s still running, so I’ll take the loop the other way. I’ve already lost several stations’ time—gotta fly.
The train shows up, and it’s packed. Full of people who got turned around, like me. Therein lies the beauty of the loop—it’s a simple detour, go the other way. I force my way onto the train. It leaves Komagome, making brief stops at Sugamo, Otsuka, Ikebukuro. Then, a few hundred metres shy of the Mejiro platform, the train grinds to a halt. I didn’t know about the guerrilla attacks on Tokyo’s power stations. That information wasn’t available on the trains. No one had a cell phone—because the train was stuck in 1994. “Synchronized attacks,” the media would call it the next morning. What the fuck, extremists? Now my train’s stranded between Ikebukuro and Mejiro—the most distant point on the loop from where I need to be. Well, shit. Even the air conditioner is out of commission—in this record heat. The train was hot to begin with, and overcrowded—we’re all dripping with sweat. I hear a beat, leaking out of someone’s headphones. Tick-tick, tick-tick. Tick-tick, tick-tick. Almost like a time bomb about to explode.
A time bomb inside of me.
In this heat, we’re all an inch from losing our shit.
An announcement comes over the speaker. The conductor levels with us: We don’t know when we’re going to be moving again. Please stay calm.
And that’s when I lose it. “I want to get off!” I scream.
Within a couple of seconds, everyone else loses it too: “So what!” “Suck it up!”
You don’t understand, I say. If this train doesn’t start moving, I’ll miss my flight. I’ll never get out of Tokyo. I’ll lose my girlfriend. So—“OPEN THAT FUCKING DOOR! LET ME THROUGH—I’LL OPEN IT MYSELF.”
They try to stop me as I struggle towards the door:
“THE TRAIN WON’T MOVE IF THE DOORS ARE OPEN!”
“DON’T TOUCH THAT FUCKING DOOR!”
But justice is on my side. “MOVE,” I demand. And I push. “I’M GETTING OUTTA HERE.” If I can get off this dead train, I can get a taxi on Mejiro Avenue, or hightail it to Takadanobaba and take the subway. It’s not too late. I can still reach her. So—“OUTTA MY WAY, ASSHOLES!”
I start elbowing, pushing, throwing punches. But the whole train’s seething with rage. When I let my fists fly, fists come flying right back. The harder I hit, the harder I get hit. Action and reaction. I started it. And now they’re ending it.
I’m knocked down, beat up, blacked out.
Yeah… No way out.
BOAT FIVE
ALMOST LIKE PERPETUAL MOTION
Doesn’t look like rain’s coming after all. My prophecy: Christmas Eve, 2002. You shall not know rain. Then the dark sky looks down on me, taunts me. That’s right. Feel the cold—feel it all over. Can’t you see what’s coming? I’m still trembling like I was before.
I make my way over Teleport Bridge. On one side, Tokyo Teleport Station on the Rinkai Line. On the other, Odaiba Seaside Park Station on the Yurikamome Line.
It was ten minutes to noon when I woke up on my stalagmite. Meaning I was out for a good two hours. That long? Something’s definitely calling to me. But it’s not time yet. That’s why the dream cut me out.
Let the memories come. Let them dig in.
Think archaeologically.
I’m standing in front of DECKS Tokyo Beach. Not a real beach. It’s a building made to look like a cruise liner, but it looks more like a ghost ship to me. Time for a little detour. What does Odaiba look like to you? A resort? A glimpse of the near future? A celebrity hotspot? All those images crumble before me as I make my way up the coastline.
I head towards Rainbow Bridge. I follow Shuto Expressway 11 as it veers to the left.
I step into Daiba Park.
Look. This is where Tokyo ends.
The park sits just a few metres above sea level—on a stone-wall embankment. This is the third daiba. There used to be six. No. 3 and no. 6 are the only ones left. What’s a daiba, you ask? An artillery battery built for coastal defence in the late Edo period. To keep the Black Ships at bay. Construction began in the summer of 1853, when Commodore Perry sailed into Uraga. All six daiba were ready for action within a year and three months.
Six stations with cannon. That’s what “Odaiba” means.
See? Fuji TV wasn’t Odaiba’s first station.
This is the front line. On the waterfront. Man-made stations for defending Edo—the city that became Tokyo.
Daiba 1-10, Minato ward. The present address for the third daiba.
Black pines stand on the bank, continuing their meaningless guard. They sway in the wind and shadow—just like they have since the Edo period. Behind the trees: the remains of a barracks, a few ammunition stores. Other traces of war: anti-aircraft guns. (Or “high-angle guns”, depending on who you ask… The army and navy had different names for them. Fucking idiots. Looks like the Japanese have been the Japanese at every point in history.) A story forms in my head. That all of this is left over from the Pacific War. Odaiba’s daiba remanned. Back to your stations, men—America’s coming back.
The front line comes back to life. To defend Tokyo once again.
Tokyo’s history is called to arms. It comes in waves.
And my own history—it’s the same story.
The smell of salt hits me. Shards of memory pierce me.
They dig into me.
And my train fails to arrive at its destination.
I leave the third daiba and get on the Yurikamome Line. Aim for Shinbashi Station, the end of the line. But I’m freezing-cold, so I stay on the train, where the heater is. We cross Rainbow Bridge, but I’m too cold to lift my head up to look for the sixth daiba, adrift in the sea below. I curl up like a ball. To warm up. My brain is moving now—set in motion by unearthed memories. I draw a map inside my head. Almost like I did with the Yamanote Line when I was nineteen. But, this time, I chart the flight of the Yurikamome. The elevated track traces the shape of Odaiba—like a giant U turned on its side. To the north-west, the line crosses Rainbow Bridge, then circles around. It forms a head. The 800-metre bridge is like a long neck. Making the sideways U… a body? Ariake has to be the tail. A dragon’s tail? The second I see the dragon shape in my mind, I fall asleep.
I fall. Suddenly into sleep.
The automated train pulls into Shinbashi Station, stops there for a few minutes, then heads back to Ariake again. But I don’t wake up—because I’m already somewhere else.
There. In that dream.
Back in that “room”.
The one in my memories. That hotel room. I wake up same as last time. I wake up as a character in that world. Am I seeing things from the same angle? Just off the ground? Hard to say. But I’m back in that cabriolet, same as last time. It feels like I’m living the scene over and over.
It feels the same—but it’s not.
Last time, I was leaning back in the chair. This time, I’m leaning forward. Like I was when I fell asleep on the train. Like… like I broke through the wall just like that. The thick wall that divides reality and dreams.
Channel your senses, I tell myself. Get a good look at the place.
This world. This “room”.
Where’s the CD? Back on the desk—like last time?
I know it’s important. I can feel it in my bones. I train my eyes, and there it is. The yellow jacket. The man with the saxophone: Sonny Rollins. The dust is thicker now—like the volume’s been turned up. Is time moving? Is the “room�
� getting older? I grab the CD from under the dust. Déjà vu. I take the dream’s generous gift in my hands. I’m surprised by how thin the case is—same as last time.
I flip it over. White letters on black background. Same thirteen tracks as before. In the same order—at least I think so. Which means, I reason, this CD really exists. It still begins with “The Stopper” and closes with “I Know”. But only one track jumps out at me (even though I don’t know why—not yet). It’s the same one that brought me back from sleep on the stalagmite. “On a Slow Boat to China”. It overpowers the other titles—all of which begin to blur.
“On a Slow Boat to China”.
I let the words sink in. “Slow”, “Boat”, “China”. Right—I can feel the story they’re making. That’s what pulls me in.
I get out of the chair.
Where am I?
Look around.
There are parts of the “room” I still haven’t seen. Like, where’s the door? And where’s the bathroom? They have to be around here somewhere, right? Over here? Beyond the left side of the desk—a carpeted hallway. This new part of the “room” comes into focus. I see the door. I head right for it. I want to open it and get out of this place…
I grip the knob, but it won’t move.
It’s like a wall made to look like a door. Like a fake door. Is it fake?
Maybe. But it won’t get me down. I had a feeling it wouldn’t be that easy. My history is called up. I’ve known doors like this before. Doors I tried to open—only to be yanked back, beaten senseless. My past knows what the future holds. It asks: What if the door won’t open? Are you gonna lose your shit?
Nope. I tell myself: This isn’t the way out. Calmly.
I don’t have any emotions in the dream.
The bathroom’s next to the door. I take a look inside. Tiny. The shower curtain has lost most of its colour, like the dull coat of an old lion. There’s the toilet. Lid down. Next to that, the sink. The mirror is murky. I can’t even see my own reflection.
A sign by the faucet, written in red: DON’T WASTE PRECIOUS WATER.
I turn to head back to the desk, but—right when I turn around—I can see that something’s changed. Something small, but significant. On the other side of the chair, there’s a round table that I’m sure wasn’t there before. I get closer. There’s an ashtray on top. Full of dust—no butts.
I don’t smoke.
This is a weird table. It’s weirdly low… and the legs are screwed to the floor. To keep it from moving.
Looks like neither of us are going anywhere.
All of a sudden I feel tired, so I lie down on the bed. I’m looking down at my feet when I feel it. The vibrations. What’s shaking? The floor? Maybe the bed? It’s constant—but without rhythm. Almost like perpetual motion.
No, it’s not the bed. Not just the bed.
Everything’s vibrating now. The ceiling, the walls, the floor. The “room”.
Or maybe it was always vibrating. Maybe I just didn’t notice.
I look up at the ceiling.
Is this place really a hotel? Whatever this “room” belongs to. Whatever it is, it feels like it’s changing. Because I caught on.
It’s forming. I can feel it.
That’s where I wake up.
I wake up.
The train is about to arrive at yet another final stop—Ariake Station. I don’t see any other passengers around. I try to get my bearings, but I have a hard time wrapping my head around falling asleep in a dream and waking up in “reality”.
I’m not shaking any more. Thanks to the heater.
Maybe I’m still forming, too.
But what does that mean?
CHRONICLE
—1994—
A homeless girl on TV dared us to give her money. May 9: Mandela was named President of South Africa. “The Surgeon’s Photo” of the Loch Ness monster was revealed to be a hoax—sixty years after the fact. In Matsumoto City, Nagano Prefecture, eight people were killed by an unidentified gas. Kansai International Airport opened on a man-made island in the Seto Inland Sea. Sept. 20: Ichiro (playing for the Orix Blue Wave) notched his 200th hit of the season.
THE TROPIC OF CAPRICORN (OR “THE END OF THE LINE”)
By Kaku Nohara
In the end, it was the underground loop. The Marunouchi Line.
Our Tropic of Capricorn. The line the sun hangs over on the winter solstice.
Masuo Hashiguchi poses the question: “Where’s our Tropic of Capricorn?”
I answer: “Has to be the line where we dump our trash.”
“Huh?”
“Think about it. Yotsuya… Mitsuke…”
Nothing but blank faces.
I take a deep swig of canned coffee (BOSS, to be specific). What a pain to explain. All right—here goes.
The five of us were in college. We spent freshman year drinking and singing and chasing girls. But not sophomore year. We were sick of cheap booze, karaoke was repulsively mainstream and—thanks to semi-permanent girlfriends—our chase was on hold, for the time being.
Shigeru Kaji: High time we found another way to have fun…
Me: High time?
Takeru Igarashi: We’re sophomores now. We’re in the big time…
Hisashi Iwata: But our girlfriends eat up all our cash.
Me: The price of courtship…
Hashiguchi, Kaji, Igarashi and Iwata all nod.
Shopping was never our bag anyway. So—what else could we do for kicks?
Work. That was the answer to our prayers. Nothing beats short-term employment. You can choose what you want to do, and every workplace comes with its own discoveries (varies from person to person). Best of all, you get paid. Talk about the ideal hobby.
Sophomore year. The five of us landed jobs.
Different jobs doing different things in different places.
But our work hours weren’t all that different.
We always met up on the way to work. Mid-commute, in a subway station. At first, our rendezvous was Akasaka Mitsuke Station. It’s well connected—it has the Ginza and Marunouchi Lines. I had to get to Honancho on the Marunouchi Line (switching or not switching trains at Nakano Sakaue). Akasaka Mitsuke was on the way. Pretty much every morning from August to September, we met up in Mitsuke. To share an underground breakfast before heading to work. Proof of our friendship. Whenever a girlfriend prepared something for one of us, we split the spoils five ways.
We were working for fun. It was just a hobby—so we didn’t stay in one place for long. We switched jobs at breakneck speed. And when we changed jobs, we changed stations, too. The location changed—but our morning ritual was constant.
When we were done eating, the trash had to go somewhere. But some lines had better trash cans than others. If you ask me, the Marunouchi Line had the best bins in the business.
Masuo Hashiguchi: That’s how you think of the Marunouchi Line? The one with the trash cans?
Me: Pretty much.
Hisashi Iwata: Oh.
Shigeru Kaji: I think I get that.
Me: The day before yesterday was the solstice…
We crush our empty coffee cans.
Me (continuing): And I was on the Marunouchi Line—heading to Yotsuya. You know how it’s always dark, because you’re underground, then right before you get to the station you surface and the sun hits you? The other day, at that moment, I felt like the sun was right over me. Then I got off at Yotsuya and met up with you mugs.
Hisashi Iwata: Oh.
Shigeru Kaji: I get that.
Masuo Hashiguchi: Works for me. Real poetic. I guess I was thinking kind of literally. Like, some tropical location somewhere.
Me: What made you ask anyway?
Masuo Hashiguchi: I dunno. Guess I was daydreaming. About a little getaway, just us and our girlfriends.
Me: In the middle of winter?
Masuo Hashiguchi: Haha, yeah… Like those celebrities who fly to Honolulu for New Year’s or something.
&nbs
p; Takeru Igarashi: Sign me up, man.
Masuo Hashiguchi: You serious?
Kaji and Iwata and I all nod. Unanimous.
Masuo Hashiguchi: Is it just me… or is it getting hot down here?
The end of the line?
We didn’t know our underground breakfasts wouldn’t last forever.
We didn’t know about the 1995 underground gas attack. Or the citywide removal of subway station trash receptacles that would follow.
A future with nowhere for trash to go.
Nobody saw that coming. Because we were still living in 1994.
BOAT SIX
YOU? IN BUSINESS?
About my third girlfriend.
Fast-forward six years—to 2000 A.D. Except, well, I wasn’t some boy in a bubble. Things happened in between. So let me fill you in real quick.
A detour before we get around to my third escape attempt and its inevitable failure.
Remember my rival in love? Yakisoba Man? Well, I thought he was my rival, but I guess that was all in my head. Yakisoba Man never made it to Haneda, either. That’s right. My second girlfriend caught that plane to Okinawa, plus none. She was totally devastated when I didn’t show. It makes me want to cry out at a hundred decibels: YOU’RE WRONG!
But how could she know? She had no idea I was blacked out on a train on the Yamanote Line. Typically, I’m the great misreader. I like to think I hold the patent on getting things wrong. Shit, I probably could have sued her for patent infringement.
This is what I get for going behind his back…
I bet she was crushed. Clueless and crushed.
She got on that flight (the seat beside her empty), connected in Naha, and landed in Miyakojima.
Did she find Shangri-La there?
Slow Boat Page 5
