Train Goers

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By Darwyn Dashawetz

I looked up from my computer screen; my eyes were starting to hurt. The bright LED lights glared down at me. The air pierced my lungs as I struggled to breathe it in. The staleness was almost too much to bear but I had to get through it. My cracking hands moved around the keyboard excruciatingly because they had been deprived of moisture day after day. I glanced at the bright red clock on the wall. It was one of the few things that didn’t lack colour in this office. It told me the time: 3:00pm. I had three hours left until I was allowed to clock out. But ‘allowed’ was really the key word, wasn’t it?

A work time of nine hours was only suitable for the dirty underachievers; for those who dared to test the managers enough to get themselves fired. I couldn’t afford that.

Twelve hours a day, six days a week, sometimes more. That’s how much time I spent in this office. No matter how much time I spent here, my managers would still guilt me into spending more so I could “get that promotion”. No matter how many promotions I got, my parents would still see me as a failure. But no matter how many people would tell me that I was a failure, my wife would always love me.

But I was worried, I could feel that love slowly fading away. She complained so often. She complained about how much time I spent here, in this office. How much she wanted me to come home. How sad she was. She didn’t realize how good she had it.

All she had to do was cook, clean, shop and take care of our son, whose face looked back up at me from the picture I had on my desk. Was that really too hard for her? Resentment filled my body. I looked at the picture of us on our wedding day. That day lives fondly in my mind. We looked so happy. We were happy. A smile crept onto my face. All I wanted was for things to be just like they were on that day, before my life was destroyed by this office.

Then I remembered what would happen if I lost this job. If I failed this terrible responsibility instilled on me ever since that day. My responsibility to be the one and only, most important, forever unhappy- my thought was cut off by the clacking of black leather loafers of the new boss, headed for my desk.

“Hey, you! What’s your name again?” I looked up. It was him, towering over me.

“Sato, Sir,” I answered.

“Mr. Sato, I haven’t heard your keyboard in a while. I sure hope you weren’t slacking, again.” He paused and a look of shame overcame me. “You do want that upcoming promotion, don’t you?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Maybe put in a few more hours of unpaid overtime tonight, Sato?”

“Of course, Sir.” I responded. I thought he was about to walk away, when I saw his eyes dart around my desk and he smirked.

He pointed, “Who’s that?”

“My wife, Sir.” His eyebrows rose in both amusement and envy.

“She’s cute,” he laughed. “I’d love to meet her. Maybe at the new years party. Get her all dressed up for me. I want to be impressed.”

Pressure built up in my head as I sat there, incapable of doing anything. I was stuck. Sweat pierced through my skin as I nodded and Mr. Yamamoto’s freshly shined shoes strutted back to his shiny glass office while I had to sit there, working.

One by one, I heard the beeps of men’s work ID cards swiping into the machine that lets us know we’re free for the night. Chairs got tucked in and lights were turned off. Soon, the only light left was the one of my own computer screen and the only sound heard, my own breathing.

The red clock on the wall was calling my name. Packing up my stuff I looked at the empty office. An office like a stack of neat little boxes conveniently placed under the thumbs of our bosses to do whatever they please while we’re here.

The cold air of Tokyo’s winter nipped at my neck as I ran to catch my train in a moment of tranquility.

It was crowded, with my kind: commuters. On one side of Tokyo there are people like me, not going anywhere but home again. Insanity, repeating our days over and over as if they were on a tape skipping. We are the train goers. On the other side, there are the people with lives. Going out, living a movie, getting anything they crave served to them.

Pigs, all of them. Sweaty, fat, hungry pigs. Looking at my wife like that. With their impure eyes, ogling. I could only imagine the things they would do to her. Observing her body with such lust. Licking their lips in greed and desire. I could kill them. I could kill him, Yamamoto.

Maybe I should. Bring a knife to work one day or buy a gun off the black market. “One day, he just snapped,” they would say. Maybe I’d be a legend or a ghost instead of what I am now. Be locked up in jail instead of the office. Maybe my wife wouldn’t think I was a coward.

I was knocked out of my fantasy when the train swayed a little too much and a man fell on me. His sweat left a print on my shirt. You and I are the same, I thought. We both are going nowhere. Everyone in here is going nowhere. The places we have been will never be revealed. Our lives and stories remain secret as if they were written in locked diaries, stuffed in boxes under beds, just like our boxes in the office.

What an idiot, thinking that. Getting distracted by silly little delusions won’t do anything. I need to focus on providing for my family, not my anger. Maybe I should get mad. Maybe it’s my right. She’s my wife, my property. She chose me!

If she had a choice, I don’t think she would pick me. Not anymore.

“Arriving at Hakusan station.” The train announced. I needed to push my way through the mob. “Next stop: Sengoku station. Time: ten thirty pm.”

As soon as I stepped out of the station, the wind had another chance to gently assault me, drying my blue shirt of the man’s sweaty face. My own brown leather loafers crunched in the freshly fallen snow. It felt like the elevator would never reach me but it did. A young couple was inside. That was us once, wasn't it? The doors shut and I was surrounded by my dilapidated appearance. My eye bags looked back at me. They were so dark. I forgot what I had been transformed into. Fitting into those stacked boxes, I didn’t look like myself. How could anyone love me?

When I got to it, the door was open. My Hana stood in the kitchen, beautiful as ever.

“Haruto, you’re home,” she said while turning to look at me.

“Sorry, honey it was late today. The boss asked me to work a few more hours overtime.” She looked me in the eyes. “It was unpaid, for the promotion.”

“Well, I made you dinner.” She sighed. “I had to put Hiro to sleep. He really wanted to see you tonight.” she looked down. “I uh, anyway it’s in the fridge. I should get to sleep. It’s late. Don’t stay up for too long.”

My beautiful Hana. What I would give for us to be happy. She looked tired. I knew it was hard on her. She never smiled anymore. She was lonely. I set my stuff down on the floor beside our shoe rack. Hana was at the sink, staring. I craved her affection; To put my arms around her. I wanted to tell her how much I love her and appreciate her. I wanted to kiss her and make her feel loved, like we did when we were young.

“Goodnight Hana. I love you.”

Without turning, she said, “I love you too, Haruto.”

Watching her walk out of the room broke me. I crept into Hiro’s room. I stroked his black hair for a moment, as I watched his sweet, innocent face. He should never have to bear the weight I do now. That’s why I am doing this. I kissed his forehead before I left him there.

As I undressed myself and got into the shower, tears ran down my face. I’m failing them, I thought. I’m failing them with no way out. I must continue living this miserable life, for her. For Hiro.

In our bed Hana layed there peacefully asleep. My spot reserved beside her as the one and only, the most important, forever unhappy work husband: Haruto Sato.