Public Transit

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July 23, 2012

Little Mine Sweeper

Posted by gaijinass under Ikebukuro, Japanese Women, Life, Public Transit, Uncategorized | Tags: , |
[67] Comments 

Little Mine Sweeper

Cycles.

Everyone gets caught in these cycles and it’s just this thing that people do.  People move right and left or they go straight or they go north or south and they make choices and they chose this or that or whatever and it’s all this disambiguation.

I got on the train.  I was on it. It rumbled as it does through Tokyo.  It moved quickly and it made a noise and I heard it but I didn’t.

The summer heat is something that people know but in Tokyo it permeates everything; it makes a statement; it has a conversation with you.  Sometimes you talk with it but sometimes you don’t and if you have lived in the city, and you know the features and the vibration then you might get it, but if you haven’t then you can really only try to embrace some of the colors and concepts and dreams and finally the emotions but without that dreamers spirit you will likely be lost.

I am on the Fukutoshin line, and it’s rocketing through a tunnel someplace and I am ignoring it.

I wipe sweat away, again.  My wash cloth I carry is damp, it’s moist.  My sweat has saturated it.  The long day.  The drastic heat. The intense humidity; it all leans on you heavily.  I look around and people are in various states of subterfuge.  It’s very different from other countries that suffer through a jungle summer.  In Japan, they like to pretend like we are all living in Canada, or Maine; “No problem here, the heat is just one of the temperate seasons.”

A falsehood.

I see her before she gets on the train.  She’s not old, but she’s not young. She’s maybe 28.  This woman doesn’t look at me through the thick glass of the train doors but behind my aviators I’m looking at her and then I notice her carry on; a little girl.

She looks how little girls should look.  She’s tiny.  Her hair’s ridiculously all over the place and it’s nearly down to her lower back. Her skin, which everyone I know would want, is heavily tanned and dark.  She stands next to the attractive almost thirty year old woman but they don’t touch and immediately I think, I know, that they rarely touch.

A chime goes and the door hydraulics go and it all slides open and I move aside.

A lot of people get onto the hot train which is less hot than outside at the indoor station in Higashi-Shinjuku.

They get on, the once very attractive woman and the little girl burnt by the sun from so many afternoons on playgrounds and in parking lots and who knows where.

I don’t know why they caught my eye but well caught it was and I couldn’t help but look on, guilty as I am.  The woman, I sigh for her now, but she was as so many people can be that exist in that realm; near to Kabukichou. Existing in that equation and to them that is reality, and everything she said to the world physically was that she had ridden that ride already and had the T-shirt and it was all done and now, there was something else.

That something else was the little sun brown dwarf not on her thin arm.

I take both of them in greedily.  The woman, tall for Japan and well-built with breasts and hips and an ass and all the trappings of someone who could turn heads but lacking any interest.  She’s not looking.  She’s not looking because of the little kid that is being transported with her.  The little brilliantly brown dwarf that won’t touch her Mama.  Even when I look at her and smile, she doesn’t touch Mom. She doesn’t touch she just angles slightly. That’s it.

The system has been in place for some time; don’t touch mommy on the train, ever.

This is not a baby sitter. Only a mother could be this cold to her own.

And in the end what the fuck am I? Who am I to catalogued this?  What am I recording?

When the train arrives at Ikebukuro station, the doors slide open and they both get out.  I do too and I walk slowly behind them, watching them not touch, or even converse or communicate at all, as we all approach the escalator.

I step onto the escalator slowly.  Then, I look up at the  ceiling creeping by and let out a long sigh.  My weight now feels immense as we just creep along.

When I look back down, I see the little  girl in front of me, a couple of steps up, and her mother in front of her.  The girl is looking at the long steel median between our escalator and the one across from us and her little tan hand is hovering over it.

All my attention, every part of me, all the fibers and components, the focus of complete celestial bodies all wire in and become transfixed on her little brown hand.  Her tiny fingers are dancing lightly over the shiny steel divide; prancing lightly up and down drumming out some rhythm that only she knows.  I don’t look away but I know her lips are moving and she’s singing a song to herself.

Her fingers keep dancing lightly over the steel and her nails are incredibly white and clean.

At the top, her and the mother get off and walk away.  I scan my card over the ticket gate and walk through the station passing a thousand people as I go home.

It isn’t until later that night, in the dark as I’m walking down a hot street covered in sweat that I finally decide what it is that the little brown fingers with the honest fingernails and lack of damage mean  or represent and it’s not a set or fixed value but if I had to choose I’d say that my analysis is correct.

They represent hope.

If you like this, you might like:

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June 9, 2011

A Chikan of Many Colors

Posted by gaijinass under Japan Life, Japanese Women, Life, Public Transit, Rants/Raves | Tags: , , , |
[9] Comments 

A Chikan of Many Colors

Chikan: A guy that feels on girls on the train (according to Websters)

If you live in Japan or if you simply have a an interest in this countries diverse selection of Erotic “how-to-do-it-yourself” Adult films, then you have heard of Chikan.

It’s even more likely that instead of just hearing about it, you in fact have experienced it.  A crowded early morning, or late night (pick your poison), train.  No place to move. You think “Bodies haven’t been packed into train cars this tight since Auschwitz!” Yes you do, you think that.

Anyway, you begin to “go monk” and allow the zen to over take you and just as your inner eye begins to open, “grope-grope”, someone is rubbing your ____________ (body part) with their ______________ (body part) that you hope is their _______________ (case, satchel or other baggage item) that you then sadly realize is their _______________________ (body part the bathing suit covers).

It isn’t the worst thing in the world, especially if you’ve ever been to prison or have watched an episode of “The Mentalist“, but it’s no party with free beer and bikini girls either.

"I thought you said BIKINI GIRLS not HELPLESS RAPE TRAIN!"

Now, I am a guy- A big guy at that, so my experience is sure to be limited, on the receiving end anyway- wink wink (Ha! come on, that was funny), although it does exist.  So, if someone as non-approachable as me has had trouble, then all you women out there are sure to have been well worked over.  Especially when you keep dressing all slutty like that…come on, you know you do it on purpose.

Today I had the misfortune/fortune(?) of witnessing some fairly dedicated (skilled?) Chikan shenanigans  on the Chuo line as it rushed out to the Hachioji area and I think these  deserve a talking about.

Before I explain what transpired, and before I try to detail the whole fairly ridiculous mess of it, a much-needed word on….

Uniformity

So far, I have heard many  stories of the Chikan variety and every time such a story is told it initially begins with something like…

“Holy shit you won’t believe what just happened to me!”                                                      ”Hmmm….some guy just grabbed your tits?” This is when I sip my drink and look bored.  ”Oh my god totally!”

Then, what comes next are the intricate details as party X tries to explain to party Y what level of Chikanery (I invented this word, now) has transpired.

Today I propose to circumvent all that shit.  If I wanted lots of details about anything other than hot women and their preferred tastes in lingerie, complete with sizes and preferably photos, than I would start dating a vegan named Andrew and I’d subscribe to International male or just buy an i-pad (Burn! You know who you are, FAG).

Let’s save everyone some time.

From this day forward I propose that we simply use a simple color coding system to quickly and efficiently explain what level of Chikan we were/are dealing with.

See table Chikan-65.

Now we all have a universal system with which to impart our shock and disgust.

An example of the new paradigm in action:

“Oh my god yeah, total Chikan code Yellow but then, when more people got on, it became a “Shallow” yellow-orange. Fucking gross!”

This is going to save a load of time and cut down on a lot of nonsensical talking and listening and empathizing.  But really, when it comes to it, this would help big time.  On the train, someone is Chikaning you something serious, a friend near by that also loves this blog and reads it obsessively is near at hand and you scream “Code Orange, Code Orange! He’s a fucking Code Orange!”  Your friend leaps into action and voila, you have a decent shot at getting some cash from this pervert.

Notes: Please do not abuse this system.  This is being put in place to help those who find themselves either tongued tied after these experiences (so much easier to come into the bar, head down and just mumble “Another Code Yellow…another…damn yellow…” than to give details) or too terrified to think rationally during the event.

Note #2: If you find yourself all the way in a “Deep code Red” either bite the bullet and give him your number, or realize that this won’t end until you sprint away or he tells you about his favorite game that  predictably rhymes with “grape”.

Rainbow me Chikan

The Chuo line whipped along and somewhere around Mitaka this guy got on with a stripped shoulder bag.  He wasn’t too tall, about 165, but he was built. Particularly in the traps and shoulders.  This is why I noticed him initially.

I know, that sort of sounded gay. It wasn’t.  You should see my collection of Hetero-sexual books.

Brownish and red dyed hair with a large flop of it hanging across his face in an attempt, I think, to hide his acne which betrayed his age as not being above 22 or 23.

For whatever reason, he stood just next to me.  I was as usual tucked into a corner by the bench and door reading a book (the non-gay kind) and checking out the morning talent.  I don’t know why but this guy caught my eye and it wasn’t just the jeans and the plaid shirt and the faggy bag or the traps and delts (indicators that he trains, is a possible physical threat so I have to CARVER the situation and decide how to kill him if necessary. Really, I do this routinely.) or the greasy hair.  It was his posture.  He was standing very still.  This caused me to look at him and although I couldn’t confirm it, just in front of me to my 11 o-clock was a junior high school girl, a KID, about 13 or 14 and grease ball was standing almost directly behind her. Danger Close.

The train was busy but there was some space. No need to be “butt to nut”. The lights then went on in my head and I started paying attention.  The girl gave away none of the tell-tale signs: posture going erect, flinching, moving to the side or looking down at the floor.  So I thought that although his hand was out of sight, I might be jumping the gun.

Well I wasn’t.

Next station the kid got off and a late 20 something woman got on. Sort of cute wearing a light black cardigan and beige knee-length shorts she got on the train then turned around to face the door.  That’s when he, grease ball, clearly went CODE YELLOW, and I could see it all.

He slid up to cover the few inches separating them but left enough space so to me, and only me, his hand was visible.  Back of the hand, gently brushing up against the middle of the girls butt.  At first again, the motion was so subtle I doubted what I was seeing, but like the chart says, he began to move his hand more assertively.  Then after the third or fourth rub the girl sort of stiffened up and it was time to do something.  The younger girl I figured out had been too short. He would have been rubbing her lower back.  It wouldn’t have set off the same alarm bells.  Now, he was right in the area where the cleavage of the butt rolls down into the “valley of abundant pleasures” as my ole cell mate liked to say.

Now, for various reasons, I avoid cops at all costs.  This meant slugging this guy was out of the question.  In addition to that, frankly, Code Yellow is not something that I think warrants a fist, or even a word to be passed between the Chikan and whoever else is around.

In a code Yellow situation, I honestly feel that the victim can move. On this train in particular, this girl had a wide variety of options yet she didn’t move away.  I have heard the tails of mothers telling daughters, that if they stop a Chikan he will follow her home and rape her till her eyes fall out.  But in all likelihood, this paralysis,  it has more to do with power and institution having so much legitimacy in Japan.  Chikan, for better or worse is a sort of institution here and at its lower levels, Yellow and even Orange, most women tolerate it.

They endure, they “GANBARU!”.

Maybe they do this out of fear, but more likely it’s simple embarrassment or perhaps they don’t want to “make a scene” and involve other passengers on the train.  Whatever the reason, frankly I don’t care, or respect it.  If someone is rubbing on you in a way you dislike and you do not move, you get little sympathy from me.

Conversely, if you move and he follows, I have to do something.  So when she finally  began inching away, in the most meek way physically possible, and he adjusted his position to compensate, it wasn’t really about protecting her, but more about me being offended that this guy didn’t even have the tact to TRY and hide this and that annoyed me.  I felt like he was involving me in his perv show without my consent and that well, groped, me in the wrong way.

So I leaned forward and stepped on his foot,  really hard.

“Oh…Su-mi-ma-sen.” I said and put on my best shit eating grin.

That is when things got really interesting.

At that moment as he turned to look up and over at me, the train stopped, the doors opened, the girl jumped out and took off and then our eyes met.  He looked right at me with a stare that had no anger in it.  He was not trying to convey wrath or dislike or displeasure in any way.  What his hollow, bored expression said to me so clearly he might as well have written me a note and held it in front of my face was:

“Really? You give a fuck?”

I have to admit, I was rather taken a back by this.  Because at that moment I realized I actually didn’t.  I think it’s crummy that he rubs on girls, but unless I saw him do something more grievous, I doubt I could get upset enough to smack him in the teeth.  My mind also expanded a bit and I understood that no matter what, short of breaking his legs or stabbing him with a broken bottle or strangling him with an old, rusty bicycle chain, he was going to do the same thing whenever the hell he felt like it.  That is, until some woman puts a stop to it.

As all this was processing the train was rolling and we held the stare for what felt like an hour but was likely ten seconds.  Then he glanced over his shoulder, then looked forward, and almost as if he had it timed to the second, the train switched to another track, giving his balance a reason to falter and he “fell” back a bit, his left hand going back and firmly touching the rump of the women behind him. Palms down.

Fucking CODE ORANGE.

Right there in front of me.  The balls on this guy.

My mouth actually opened a bit in shock and surprise.  This guy is good.  He’s horrible, but he is really good at what he does. Him doing a backward 180 degree ass grope looked as natural as two gay guys fighting over whose mustache chafes more.  Amazingly, the woman he had grabbed, a late twenty something in a long light blue skirt, didn’t seem to respond at all despite the grab being a clear and healthy palm, full of her ass.

I guess my conclusion is simple.  It’s the only one I could take from this incident.  If women are not willing to make their physical space very well-known and define boundaries clearly in these situations then frankly they can shut up about it.

I am not a knight in shining armor who can spend his mornings patrolling the trains looking for damsels in distress who refuse to do something as easy as clear their throat loudly and flick their shoulders hard to ward off a Code Yellow in progress.

Ladies, you have to help yourselves.  If I see a gang of guys trying to pull you into an alley, it’ll be all fists and front kicks but on the train, you need to step it up.  Fuck the institutions, and “Gaman” can go to hell. Stick up for yourselves.

"Remember, Japan invented arm breaking, so never forget that everytime a wrist snaps, a Zionist gets hit in the eye with a Palestinian dirt glod. It's called Karma, I invented it."

Read more about Chikan culture in Groper Train: Search for the black pearl or read about the time this crazy girl tried to rape me in Crazy Woman gropes me on Train

 

December 27, 2009

Crazy Woman Gropes me on Train

Posted by gaijinass under Japanese Women, Life, Public Transit, Shinjuku | Tags: , , , , , , , , |
[53] Comments 

Chijo gropes me on the train

This is Pretty straight forward, and is in fact, exactly what it sound’s like.

This whole event took place about two weeks ago but I couldn’t summon the intestinal fortitude to commit it to cyberspace until just this morning and then, only after a serious cup of coffee. Hot, strong and black (sorry, I will NOT add “How I like my Women”, but… maybe?).

December 13th, I went to Korakuen Hall to watch some knock down, drag out, “get some!” style kick boxing.  The event was hosted by the the New Japan Kickboxing Organization and a few of my friend’s and acquaintances had fights, so there I was, drinking beer after beer after happy beer and screaming like a mad man.  I went to this event with my associate
Rionne (thats pronounced like “Ryan” but with an “O”, not like “Lion” or “Riion” or…whatever.)

After the action we made our way back to Suidobashi station, boarded the sobu line and headed back toward Shinjuku, finally parting ways at Yoyogi.  I was feeling pretty good despite having watched two buddies of mine literally get the shit kicked out of them for what really amounts to pennies, but thanks to the beer, and my general appreciation for gore and violence I was, like I said, feeling pretty good by the time I meandered onto the Shinjuku Yamanote line platform to go back toward Ikebukuro.

I wandered around till I found a line that looked decent: No old people, no kids, a couple hotties and no Nigerians.  I got in line. Great.

Then what happened next is all sort of a blur, and not because I was shit faced, that would happen later.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw this figure moving in a bee line for me across the platform.  I turned my head (all slow motion now in my memory, like some bad horror movie) and this little woman, about 155 centimeters tall, with jet black hair pulled back into pigtails on her head, was looking up at me and she was positively… beaming.  The biggest smile I had seen since my friend told me over drinks some time ago “Dude…my wife actually LIKES anal!!!” Hand shakes and High fives were shared that evening, I assure you.

I sort of flinched when I realized she was staring at me and I looked away, quickly forcing my brain to scroll through my memory banks and try to get my facial recognition software to do something useful.  Questions that ran through my mind:

Do I know this girl?

Was she a private student of mine in the past?

Did Keith post another classified personals ad under my name, this time with a photo? And, oh god, my schedule?

In the split second it took to ask those questions, the woman had moved to stand, literally, should to shoulder with me and I had a moment to gaze, in horror, at her outfit which was some type of nondescript lime green sweat shirt, beige-ish sweat pants with generic sneakers that were gleaming white and, in both hands she carried paper shopping bags packed to the brim with magazines and various periodicals and to top it all off, she wore this tacky, awful blue jean back pack that you might expect a 7 year old girl in Kansas to wear, on her way to stay the night with her pedophile uncle “JD” while her parents have their usual Thursday  “Applebee’s and Motel 6!” night out.

I was in a state of mild shock as the train pulled up and the door’s opened. Some how, as if I was floating or being carried I was transported into the train car and then to my sick amazement, the woman moved right next to me.  The car was not crowded, there was plenty of room, yet there she was, shoulder to shoulder with me again and having set her bags down, she immediately began rubbing my left thigh with the back of her right hand.

As the train moved, the back of her right hand became the palm of her right hand and her light rubbing became an insistent squeezing. And then just as quickly the insistent thigh squeezing became, for a split second, before I recoiled in disgust and shame, an energetic rubbing of my package.  More thoughts ran through my head:

Am I being filmed now? Is this a Joke? Am I on TV?

Do I KNOW this woman?

Dear god…have I….slept with…this…woman?

Inshallah NO…

Paralyzed by her groping idiot powers, I could do nothing more than move slightly out of her reach (as the four women seated on the bench in front of me pretending not to watch, continued to pretend.) and I pulled out my mobile and sent a text message to Rionne.

ME: dude, some woman is groping me on the train.

His reply came swiftly.

Rionne: Ok. Is she hot?

Clearly I was alone to deal with this.  Nobody was coming to save me.  I had to take matters into my own hands.  Ok, what would George W. Bush do in a situation like this?

The train stopped and doors opened, people got off and people got on and I took this opportunity to move myself to another area of our train car then, I watched as SHE followed me, all her bags, full of god knows what, in tow.  This time when she arrived at my side, like some faithful depraved hunting dog from the abyss of my worst nightmares, she bent over in order to set her bags down and by doing so, with her small stature and the rocking of the train, naturally put her round, disturbingly clean-looking face into the office woman’s lap sitting on the bench in front of her. I looked on with no small amount of sick fascination  and watched her, her face LITERALLY touching the woman’s thighs and groin, and this coupled with the trains rhythm giving the odd effect of well, some sort of “girl on girl” action being accomplished right there on the Yamanote line, car 7. I know, admittedly, this was not so bad, at all. Admittedly, I have thought of this since.

The office woman however, clearly revolted and disturbed, performed quite the contortionists act as she slipped out of the seat, adjusted her skirt and said politely “oh, please sit down.” Then quickly vanished.

I then spent the next 5 minutes watching the little, evil, crazy Nymphomaniac stare at my crotch, literally hard staring, mouth agape, heavy breathing, the works.  I also noticed all the people on the train who noticed as well.  This was not the kind of attention I had been looking for really. No this is not the celebrity status I seek.

At Ikebukuro station, I waited for the last possible moment then bolted for the doors, dashing out.  But she was too fast.  Oh god, was she fast.  Bags and all, my new friend came dashing after me.  I then proceeded to engage in some text-book counter-surveillance techniques and spent 15 minutes wandering around the Ikebukuro J.R. terminal, all the time, the cherub faced little psycho was not far behind me.  I did switch backs.  I checked my background in reflective surfaces.  I nonchalantly perused a menu outside a cafe, I considered buying a ball cap.  Finally I exited at the Metropolitan gate.  As I walked away I had to, was forced to, could not refuse looking back to make sure, and as I did, sure enough, like some Sentinel at the gates of hell there she stood just inside the ticket wicket, peering at me, smiling, mouth wide open, tongue partially hanging out.

I found my way home (after stopping for a stabilizing “drink” at the Hub, which spiraled into 4 gin tonics and some waffle fries, and a talk with this Turkish guy and the two Japanese girls he was with about the goods and bads of the Obama administration, and, Subway sandwiches) and although I refused to allow the memory of that little stalker to haunt me, I could not bring myself to beat my genitals into my nightly self-imposed orgasm.  Not that night.

She had won that battle.

I drifted off into a dreamless, dark and uneasy sleep….

If this wasn’t good enough for you, try these:

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November 26, 2009

Rush hour Drunk girls

Posted by gaijinass under Life, Public Transit | Tags: , , , , , |
[2] Comments 

I have to get up stupid early in order to go to work.

I get a train from my station at 0602 in order to get to Shinjuku and catch the Chuo rapid headed toward Kabe at 0633. Normally it is mildly crowded, all seats are taken, and some people are left standing. One thing that is constant however is the stone cold silence and in the early morning I am pretty certain this is something we all appreciate.

This morning however this was stolen away….I saw the culprits reach the platform almost as the train was pulling in. They went from line to line until for whatever horrid reason they stopped behind me giggling and jabbering away like school girls on crank. Two then dashed over to the Kiosk and bought “Calpis”, whatever the fuck that is, some kind of liquid in a bottle that frankly seems to have the consistency of ok…use your imagination: think “facial”, and dashed back just in the nick of time to board the train with yours truly.

I got on first and took a seat near the door. This is when I got my first good look at them. Four girls, all early twenties, 23 at most, and, had clearly been out all night and had spent that night drinking, alot. Cheaply dyed blond hair was badly frazzled and eyes were beat up and looked horribly tired. Makeup looked stale and old. Body language was slow, uncoordinated and messy and along with all of this traveled the smell of both Alcohol and something else…maybe it was Kimchi? Fried meat? Someone stepped in shit? I had no idea and I still am clueless.

Two of them plopped down on the bench next to me and the other two stumbled, then teeter tottered until they fell down onto the bench across from me. It was quite a site to behold. The train car was now full and everyone was quiet like corpses except for these four clucking and sputtering and talking like four Yakuza guys playing cards. If you have been in Japan for a while you would know what I mean. Lots of “Omae”s and “Maji Suge”s and “Fuzakena”s etc. All the while laughing it up because clearly, this was high comedy. Oddly, nobody else seemed to “get” the joke.

The girl across from me, both of them actually were dressed very similar. Both were petite and wearing heels, black tights with booty short jean cut offs over them and equally colorful and silly tops, one of them sporting a jacket that I initially thought to be a life preserver and the other wearing mid drift tan leather that could or could not be a “coat”. I think I saw a character wearing something like it in “Mad Max: Beyond thunder Dome”. High Fashion.

Both of them sat with their legs fully sprawled out and open and were gesticulating wildly recapping an event with another friend who apparently, became so drunk she passed out in a pool of her own urine, face first, after she urinated on the street, in Shibuya. Fascinating.
I was thinking “High class”.
I was thinking “My type”.
The older people on the train took turns, as if they had all worked out a schedule, giving these girls looks so full of disdain I actually checked my tie and sat up straight, my close proximity to these four putting me in the line of fire.

At Nakano station a man sitting next to the one across from me got up and de-boarded and the girl then took this opportunity to pass out and she fully did this, collapsing across the briefly open seat in dramatic, face first fashion. The old woman who had been making her move on the seat stopped in mid stride and simply did an about face and strode off. Clearly she was impressed with these examples of Japanese youth.

The three girls that were still conscious then began taking photos of the girl lying prostrate on the bench, first of her face, then taking photos of her whole profile, then the girl next to her, I swear to god: started taking photos of her crotch which was turned up facing her as she was laying on her side (not a bad back side if I might put forth this observation but…anyway). Thank god the girl, her friend, had jean shorts on. Then one of the friends on my side tossed her a “Calpis” bottle, about the size of a 20 ounce coke bottle and the one taking the crotch shots began pushing it against the girls jeans (vaginal region here folks) and they all were cackling uncontrollably and one of them was taking video with her phone and the one doing the dry humping with a bottle said in a great mockery of a dirty old man voice “Dou da? Koko ga? Kimochi desyou?” or “Hows this baby? You like it here? Feels good right?”
And at this point I finally lost my shit and began laughing.

I really tried not to but come on…this was getting way out of hand. My snicker apparently spurred the closet case Lesbo on because she got more animated, for about 30 seconds (god knows what she had planned next..sure…I was/am curious), until the passed out friend suddenly came to life covering her mouth and gesturing wildly. A friend lurched across the car and pushed a plastic bag, likely the one the “calpis” came in into her hands just in time for her to launch a very impressive flow of vomit into the bag. Not once, not twice…but three solid purging’s. Well Done.

The best part is…THEY DID NOT GET OFF THE TRAIN.

Despite what I can only describe as a heavy feeling of total and intense loathing coming from everyone, even me as the vomit smell wasn’t working for me at 0700, they stayed in their seats and got off the train one at a time as various stations came up. By the time my station arrived, the only one left was Puke bag girl, her eyes half open, her head leaning against the side board of the bench, drool leaking from her mouth like some ominous icicle and vomit on her black life preserver coat, her legs hanging as wide open as physically possible in that posture, her bag of goodies had been tied to her wrist by I’m guessing, her friend. Her friends had totally left her to “make it home safe and sound”.
With friends like….right?

I am not here to judge. God knows I have done or been witness to some of us (gaijin) doing some pretty stupid, vapid and just ignorant shit over the years….but come on….On Thursday morning????

Part of me still hopes she got home, wherever in hell that is, ok.

 

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