graceful truth

CHAPTER TWO:

You Take the High road and I Take the Low Road and We`ll Get Stuck in Traffic Anyway!

7:00 am came screeching into the day, along with it a fully packed express train going from Hanashiki to Osaka station. The train packers waited on the sun sparkled platform with white gloves and smiling faces, looking a bit like Mickey Mouse gone wrong. Why was I here? No answer. The question evaporated into the steam of the approaching train. " geshuku!" which under the circumstances probably meant all aboard- must learn the language. Glancing at the fierce determination behind eyes that belied the smiling lips, one had the feeling that it was probably better translated as "I am going to get every assholehere on the train, no matter what!"

The crowd began to heave like a bulimic after dinner. I wondered why people even bothered to push. It was alive on its own. The crowd, the mass of flesh that wanted or needed to board that train seemed to be moving mindlessly through the freshly opened doors. The train was bursting with human bodies, only to be forced to take a few more. It’s like the Japanese have a thing about no space. They know how to manage more out of practically nothing! It is not only a necessity turned to art, but an art turned into an addiction.

With a burst of new-found energy, one train packer positioned his back against the last of the chosen. With his back planted strategically against the express-train-acolytes, feet dug willfully into the ground, hands placed firmly on his partner’s shoulders he began to push in a manner that would have made a Lamaze instructor stand in awe. All this without taking one damn breathe.

"Washoi!" I was sure he was bellowing "son of a bitch!", and even that was not working. We all wanted them to just shut the god damned door and let us go. Air was scarce, and with three more, suffocation was insured. If there were enough air, we would have all begun to yell. Oxygen was scarce, therefore our minds dulled into resignation. The fact that we had no choice but to wait, stopped the scream dead in our throats. Determined to squeeze in the last chosen three, the train-packer-with-a-mission lowered his head with a red grunt, and then like a holy roller lifted it again. He shouted,with eyeballs rolled back, "Washoi! "They were in! Mission made possible.

I was knocked into a seat, oddly enough, not the luckiest spot. A nameless crotch pressed towards my face. I felt that queasy uneasiness that precedes the recognition and acceptance that one is in an uncompromising position.The owner of this crotch seemed to enjoy this little inconvenience as he performs a subtle hula in front of my cheek. Again, the crotch lunges at my face without any reason, as the train is moving slowly and has not given any ground for such a move. Something hard is growing in the material of this expensive suit that smelled of last night’s stay in the after-work bar. I have a nasty feeling that this thing will reach its way to my mouth!. I feel an uncontrollable yawn coming up…better not. Pinching my lips together, my nostrils flair to release the trapped air. My aching arms are pinned somewhere below, between someone else’s indistinguishable body parts. I dare not even try to move. No telling what harvest my numbing hands may reap.

Claustrophobia begins to creep in. To keep the panic down, I search quickly for a distraction. I see a plain faced dowdy man whose eyes glint with passion and power. Adjacent to him is a small Japanese woman, biting her lower lip, not in pain, or excitement, but in shame. A tear falls reluctantly down her cheek, and I wonder. Her head begins to move side to side, as if looking for the owner of the hands that have found their way into her probably plain white underwear.

Being an American I would have said, get your hands out of my snatch you fucking pervert! But this would not be possible for her, besides I am sure if they have the word “snatch” in Japan. Omeko. Yes, that was it. Omekozuruzo! What a cute sounding word, but never say it out loud! Letting the linguistics go, I return to the scene of the crime in action. Live.

Her facial expressions changed and now glistened with shame and pain, while the uninvited fingers made vicious little circles that slipped into her private passages thrusting fiercely as in effort to reach the vulva. His joy was in the power, the anonymity, not in the act, meanwhile the train jolted innocently along towards its destination.

Despite the anger and shame, excitement rushed in to confuse matters and her eyes squinted in determination not to let it overtake her shame. I hate to admit this, but I became excited. Hmm, wonder how I would feel if it had been me? Better yet, what is to stop me from reaching for a crotch or two? No one would ever know. Hanakamatsu, or whatever, the first stop, it would be mine. The human glob pushes for the door carrying me with it like an oceanic undertow. The woman disappears; the man? Probably discreetly smelling the fingers, that with a quick side look right and left, would slip into his mouth to taste the winning of the day. Going to work in Tokyo rush hour is more than a notion, and can be summed up with the old Japanese proverb: “The reverse side also has a reverse side”.

A car beeps and jolts me back into the reality of the 4:30 traffic which is jammed every way but right. Why in the world would I run out to Barnes and Noble at this hour? The churning in my chest reassures me that I had no choice; in need of a fix, I sweat out the ride. Dreams of Tokyo rush hours and Nara temples have appeared again after months of vacation. Where is this all leading me or, better said if I were in the correct emotionlogical condition, where am I taking myself with all of this? No time for deep questioning, fool! You have deep books to buy.

Again, the fruitless search in the “organizer”. The internal diarist makes note: will buy a new bag, right after the book! Surprisingly the ritualistic purse rummage ends with the unexpected pleasure of actually locating my wallet with 2 gropes instead of three, this is going to be a great day! While driving into the parking lot, which is one of those spiral numbers that feels more like a staggering plunge into concrete Hell, I flip open my wallet to see if-yes I got it – the all mighty credit card! Plastic cash which seems to pleasantly smile and say, “your day is saved -shop till you drop”. Oh my God! I completely forgot how sharp the curves were, I almost ran into the wall. Fortunately, I got my eyes back on the road just in time. Whew, you never knows how ambidextrously talented you really are until in such situations; searching for a credit card which of course falls inconveniently on the floor of the passenger’s side and driving like mad down a spiral parking lot.!

To add insult to injury, after all of that drama, there is no vacant park place!. Okay, there in the “Definitely No Parking” area. Let me just turn the wheel one more time hope it is here when I come back...there, there, yes that does it! The car is parked, however, before the dizziness from the rapid descension can subside, a new companion strolls arrogantly in, taking her sweet old time-Claustrophobia,! I look frantically for the exit sign that is the closest to the desired store while my internal diarist writes madly: “ do not forget where you parked the car! Level K number 1056. Level K number 1056! You are putting the ticket in your right coat pocket .You are putting the ticket in your right coat pocket! You are…”

I guess I get the point ! The internal diarist rolls her eyes and with a sigh stops writing.. Barnes and Noble, the sign rises like a warning I do not heed and follow it anyway. I push through the revolving door a bit too enthusiastically causing the old man who was slowly pushing his way out, to do a double time step to keep up with the momentum. I head for the ever moving escalator. I step on and begin to rise. If only self-improvement were this easy…just step on an emotional or psychological escalator and and let it do its thing- or as Maya Angelou would say “I rise! I rise! “

The ride was over before I could finish that thought and I stumble into the self help section of rows and rows of “ways to do it.” If I only knew how! As a matter of fact, I didn’t even know what type of book I wanted, no clue! I head down the first aisle with a controlled frenzy. There is a church like hush and the only sound to be heard was the occasional turning of pages by other seekers of a way.. The books stand in quiet authority bound in different colors, shapes and forms. Each one seeming to burst with information, enlightenment and invaluable tips that promise results in 30 days. There are things to think about, affirmations to affirm, empty personal goal pages to fill out. I run my hands down their backs, slowly hoping that one will speak out to me. The textures vary, giving me simple pleasure. I pause. Did I hear one speak out to me? No; I move on. Something stops me. I return, my head goes into its tilt over the right shoulder position, the eyes squint to capture the title that has pulled me back. There it is, the new one! The title screams out for my attention, which I give whole heartedly. It reads:

What You Don`t Know Can and Does Hurt You.


This is definite must have item!. Without looking at the price sticking arrogantly on its back, I head for the counter. Like the alchoholic buys the miniature bottles at the check out counter. I fumble for my wallet; plastic will do today. I pay, and it, my new fix, drops itself snuggly in the garishly multi colored paperbag. I leave the store head down, eyes sunglassed, and feeling like I have a brown paper bag despite the green, pink and yellow that scream otherwise. Adjusting my shades, I decide to pull myself up and do a Breakfast at Tiffany`s walk, to pretend confidence. The 30 pounds more than Audrey would ever consider sway had an elegance all their own. Before I knew it I was on the verge of humming Moon River.

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