“On the Platform of a Packed Train, I Scream Something That Isn't Love —The Grammar of Phenomena—” ①
Synopsis
Yamanobe, who works at a company in Shimbashi, is a worn-out office worker whose only wish is to go home on time and see his two-year-old son's face.
One day, the presence of a man named Sawamura, who transferred into the same department, begins to quietly shake up his daily life. Sawamura always leaves on time without a scratch and never takes on any troublesome tasks. But Yamanobe notices.
That it is not merely a matter of being efficient, but a technique of reading the “grammar of phenomena” of the world and slightly altering the flow of fate with minimal noise.
Within a structure where the giant filtration device called a company sucks only the bad luck from the lower-level people and delivers good luck to the upper-level, the two eventually form a strange complicit relationship.
And then, on the platform of a packed train, Yamanobe screams at the top of his lungs for the first time in his life.
Episode 1: Limp Fabric and the Back of a Foreign Object
I was an office worker as worn out as limp fabric. My only modest wish was to get off on time and see my two-year-old son's face while he was still awake. Truly, that was all. That was the kind of man I was. Until I reunited with him—the foreign object named Sawamura—at this headquarters in Shimbashi.
17:59.
It is the time of day when the air lingering on the floor has the heaviest, most unpleasant viscosity.
The moment I shut down my desktop PC and, holding my breath, reached for my bag under the desk, I felt a black shadow move slightly in the corner of my vision.
“Yamanobe-kun, sorry, but could you handle this by first thing tomorrow morning?”
A voice like sludge descended from behind me. It was Section Chief Asanuma. His cheekbones were prominent, and his bulging, rolling eyes never tried to meet his subordinates' gaze directly. His well-tailored Italian suit looked a bit too big on him. His hunched, gaunt standing posture carried an eerie atmosphere that wouldn't have been out of place in Dark Souls.
Asanuma never yells himself. He always appears silently behind me just before closing time. He pushes the troublesome tasks onto me, a man as limp as a wilted cucumber who never resists.
Today was no good either. As I looked up in despair, Sawamura, at the desk diagonally in front of me, was walking out of the office door with a cool expression.
Just before he stood up from his desk, I thought I saw him shift a thick file on his desk by just a few millimeters. That was all. But as if that tiny movement had become a breakwater, Asanuma's troublesome gaze slid perfectly off Sawamura and drifted onto me.
Sawamura walked out of the office door with smooth steps that didn't feel like they had any friction, drawing no one's attention, as if he hadn't existed in this heavy, oppressive space from the start.
“Yamanobe, you're working hard.”
A voice mixed with sympathy and a slight sense of superiority from relief descended from the next seat. It was Iwamaki, a senior four terms above me.
There is no man more suited to the onomatopoeia of 'gaha-gaha' (a loud, boisterous laugh) than him. With his shaved head and blessed physique, he radiates a strange presence in this coldly managed office, as if he were the only one who had wandered in from a Showa-era yakuza film. He is like a sea monk.
He once even made a new employee tremble by declaring, “What is that long hair of yours? If you respect me, learn from my hairstyle.”
However, only when Asanuma stands behind Iwamaki and whispers something into his thick neck does he become eerily obedient. I have witnessed several times the moment that giant body begins to move as obediently as a marionette. Sometimes, I even think it's a little pitiful.
“Still, that guy Sawamura, he just transferred in April and he's already leaving on time? I wonder if the elites are just good at managing their work.”
Clicking his mouse meaninglessly, Iwamaki continues. I wonder if it's because of his blessed physique that the sound is about 1.4 times louder than anyone else's.
“In contrast, Yamanobe, you're working hard. The gung-ho employees of the Showa era built this company up. Guts are the most important thing, right? Well, we're Heisei-born, though.”
“...Well, I suppose so.”
I answered only that and opened the thick file pushed onto me by Asanuma.
Satisfied with his own witty joke, Iwamaki returned his gaze to his own monitor. As I turned the cold first page of the file, I just blankly remembered Sawamura's unscathed back, which I would likely never catch up to again.
Before I knew it, I was being swayed on the Sobu Rapid Line from Shimbashi.
I gazed at the haggard man reflected in the dark train window. There was my own figure, already five years older despite it being Monday night. When I shifted my gaze outside, in the darkness, cherry blossom trees flickered in and out of view behind the inorganic buildings. Even the breath of spring felt like something from a distant world separated by the window glass.
Gradually, the high-rise buildings became fewer, and about thirty-five minutes later, I got off at Tsudanuma station with a blank mind.
I opened the door to my apartment with the extreme caution of someone cutting the wires of a time bomb. As expected, my wife's hushed voice descended from the back of the living room.
“He'll wake up, so don't make any noise.”
I nodded slightly toward the darkness while still in my worn-out suit.
From beyond the bedroom door, I could hear the regular breathing of my two-year-old son, whom I hadn't been able to see while he was awake again today. It was like the faint whiteness of the cherry blossoms sinking to the bottom of the night that I had seen from the train window earlier; it was an overwhelmingly quiet and innocent realm that I could not touch.
There is a term in society called 'lovebirds,' but it seems real mandarin ducks change their mates every year. Perhaps our couple can no longer be called lovebirds in the way society uses the term. A relationship of passing each other by, exhaustion, and only the minimum necessary business communication being exchanged. But reality is always and everywhere like that.
While facing the dimly lit mirror in the washroom, I stared at my terribly tired face.
Tomorrow, too, I will likely hold my breath at the bottom of this stagnant air and spend the day swallowing the unreasonable mud spat out by someone else.
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