The train was packed, as usual. It was 8:10 a.m., the busiest time of a weekday: students, salaried workers, men, women, young and old, mingling together and hoping for an early end to this daily, unwanted, close human relationships. A few are reading newspapers here and there.
Some people just don't care if the edge of their papers is on someone else's head. I once had an experience like that: a man in his late 20's, wearing suits and ties, standing at the corner of the doors, facing the other passengers, as if he was the lord of the tiny bit of space there, looking down on the peasants in his manor or whatever.
That's when I got on the train. As I moved into the car, he didn't move his hands holding the paper, and the paper rubbed against the side of my head. I lowered my head a little, hoping he would realize what his paper was doing to my head, which is in an increasingly accelerated process of losing hair. I was scared of a negative impact the paper might have on it. Anyway, I wriggled a little and secured my position at the door, the back of my head facing him. I kept my head low for a little while, maybe 5 seconds, while the paper was on my head, but he just didn't care. What does he think I am? One of his slaves? A lover? A pillar?
I couldn't stand it any longer. I jerked up my head, pushing the paper up with the back of my head toward his face. He didn't say or do anything. The train just kept going, the passengers paying no attention to us whatsoever. The next station came, some passengers got off, and I moved further into the car, and turned toward the doors. He was still holding his paper, and didn't even look at me. I stared hard at him, sending an invisible ray of pure hatred toward his eyes, willing it to penetrate deep into his brain and destroy what little nerve cells he might have had left in there. He just didn't care.
The train arrived at Naka-Meguro Station. The doors opened, and a mass exodus began. I kept my eyes down, trying not to step on other people's feet. As I was about to walk across the gap between the car and the platform ground, a shoe lying on the platform, just outside the doors, came into view. A red, women's shoe: Are they called "pumps"? I didn't think anything at all; I simply and naturally bent down and extended my right arm, picked up the shoe, and placed it beside the doors where it wouldn't be kicked away or stepped on by the other passengers. I didn't even look up and try to find the owner. I kept moving, or kept being pushed forward, rather, by the people stepping outside behind me. It was a series of elegant, flawless, smooth movements, as I recalled later: Bending, picking, placing, and walking away.
Then I heard someone say, "Ah, thank you...," It was a woman's voice, sounding hesitant and shy. I looked up and saw her.
"Oh, you're ... we've met at the station, haven't we?" I said, genuinly surprised.
"Yes. What a coincidence!" she said. She was the one who had dropped the 500-yen coin that I picked up the other day. The pretty woman with a pony tail.
"It sure is. It's been a couple of weeks, right?"
"Yes, I guess. So you've helped me for the second time. Thank you."
"Ah, I seem to be looking down on the ground all the time, don't I?"
"Haha, you're right! And pick up something for me all the time," she said.
"(Chuckles) Well, be careful next time! Bye!" I said, and she said "Bye! And thanks!" as I walked away from her.
I didn't bump into anyone this time.
