東京通信

The Ying and Yang of Commuting

Seated on the train in a suit with a nice briefcase on my knees, you would never suspect that the guy who bites his nails opposite me is starring in the cheap horror movie inside my head.

You would think that people have their sensible heads on when they are going to work, and unless you are fighting for your life in rush hour, or you worked in the Oval Office until recently, I expect this is largely true. So, it is disconcerting to admit to harbouring very dark thoughts indeed about fellow commuters and large amounts of ketchup. Why him? I’m not sure, but I really have it in for him. Sometimes he crosses his legs and leaves one foot sticking out into the aisle, while he eats his own collagen. This is unacceptable as it gets in the way of other people and so he deserves to have it cut off by a chainsaw-wielding man in a hockey mask. He is also mid-fifties, and anyone who bites his nails at that age should have them stuck in a blender.

I have concluded that the cause of these feelings is the freshly-inked phenomenon of Irrational Casual Hatred Of A Fellow Passenger.

This complete stranger is not the first; I have amassed quite a cast. There is the guy in the carriage I used to use before it got too much for me, who spends FIVE minutes folding over a page of his perfectly smooth and aligned newspaper. I want to send him to Sweeney Todd. Yet another chap has suit trousers which are too short, and wears sports socks. A piano wire surprise from the zombie of Michael Jackson. A woman who wears a surgical mask and covers herself with a jacket every morning, touching fellow passengers with the sleeves? Squashed in a cell with Hannibal Lecter. Toothy child laughing loudly with his friend playing a PSP? Duct tape in a well with Chucky.

You may think that perhaps I am grumpy some mornings. I cannot deny it; the outside world does not become my friend until my face forgets the memory of my pillow. And it just so happens that certain individuals push certain buttons that ‘gather my brows like gathering storm’ as Burns would say.

However, there has been a development in my investigations. This man, let’s call him Horrible Little Man, was taking a break from his finger stump breakfast and I caught him giving me the most evil stare I have had since I farted at a funeral. I had just finished taking the ten necessary sips from my bottle of water to hydrate myself properly between Tokorozawa and Higashi Maruyama, making sure the cap is securely replaced each time to avoid spillages, when I was scowled at over knuckles. Me! The cheek!

This is when I realised that I was not alone in my condition. Horrible Little Man also has Irrational Casual Hatred Of A Fellow Passenger. I know that it is irrational because nobody can have a rational hatred of me; I’m a wonderful person. I say hello to old ladies, smile at babies even if they are really ugly, and have impeccable personal hygiene.

I share this with you because you may catch yourself in Irrational Casual Hatred Of A Fellow Passenger and think that you need to be locked up in a padded room without your belt or shoelaces. Don’t call for the men in white coats just yet. I’m here to help. Over the course of several gin and tonics last night, I painstakingly devised a complicated system of therapies on a napkin. I have since lost it, or may have swallowed it, but the main thrust is to be especially and randomly kind to other passengers on the way home to balance your daydreams of homicide in the mornings.

An easy one is giving up your seat for old, pregnant people on crutches, very short people, and women who look really great. This is hard, especially with old people who tend to protest until you start pushing them.

Another one is strategically placing yourself between the schoolgirl with the ridiculously short skirt and the drooling, reeling, businessman who after a gallon of sake thinks that close-range staring is the most effective kind of foreplay.

Number three is my favourite. Let someone else on/off the train FIRST. I cannot begin to express how much fun you can have with this simple, illogical act of heinous social transgression. Some people won’t trust you- they’ll stay where they are and look for concealed weapons; others will stare like you’ve just called their mother a bad word or just been decapitated; and still others jump right in with that smug, maniacal look that screams, “The Fools! The Fools!” rubbing their palms together gleefully as they head for the exits and world domination.

In these ways you can restore the equilibrium in your soul, making your total commute a harmonious experience. Unfortunately for Horrible Little Man though, I slept badly last night, so a school of piranha are about to get him for crimes to his fingernails. Action!

SF 26/11/08