the night train to ginza

There is a distinct sound that occurs when a human body and a train make contact. To the untrained ear, it’s not a particularly harrowing noise, but I venture to say that that specific sound will be seared into my auditory cortex for the rest of my life. As you can imagine, it’s a rather grim topic and there aren’t many opportunities to bring this tidbit of information up in casual conversation. However, once in a blue moon, if the company and mood are right, I’ll mention it.

The first thing they usually ask me is if I felt morose after knowing someone died, but it’s more of a formality question. What they really want to know is specifically what sound it makes; how it’s different. They often are skeptical.

“Surely it sounds like any other animal, no?”

And if they had asked me that question after the first time it happened, I’d be inclined to agree. In fact, on that day it did just sound like a plain, ordinary thud. But since then, it has happened two more times and the sound has always been the same. They demand more clarification, but unfortunately, I don’t have such a great answer to give them.

No, the best way I can describe it is like when you hear the phone ring and you just know it’s bad news even before the person on the other line says a single word. Some things in life are more intuition than fact-based and that’s how I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that someone had just died on my train ride to Davis, California.

That distinct thud and screeching of breaks occurred almost simultaneously. The jostling motion that followed forcibly broke the gaze between the passengers and their phone screens, and with concerned looks, they began to scan their surroundings, looking for any information that could clue them in on what was happening.

“Someone jumped in front of the tracks,” I said with a monotone voice to my new companion, Andy. He briefly looked at me as if he had missed something, but didn’t question what I said. Instead, he just furrowed his brow. It was a look I would see quite a few times that day… a day that continued a series of numerous delays.

Not even 48 hours before, I was staring at myself in the bathroom mirror of a back alley Ginza hotel room wondering what I was doing with my life. I tend to do that a lot when I have unexpected free time. It’s a bad habit and the reason why I like to keep my idle hands busy. My plane ride to San Francisco had been canceled… inclement weather. Fortunately, the last three weeks had taught me enough basic Japanese to string together a few broken sentences to secure proper accommodations at the last minute.

Perhaps it was because it was late on a frigid Monday night, or because the room I had booked was the size of a matchbox, but the hotel felt extra depressing. In fact, besides the receptionist at the front desk, I didn’t bump into a single soul as I made the trek up to my room. Though I was starving from the back and forth commuting to the airport, my feet were aching so I wasn’t too keen on traveling all over Tokyo for a meal. I made my way down the hall to see if there were some vending machines. It’s important to note that vending machines in Tokyo are quite different than the ones in New York. In fact, you could eat like a king if you find the right one. From cheeseburgers to fresh pizza, you can find it all.

Alas, the vending machine gods were not with me this day. Only beverages. As I grabbed a Pocari Sweat, I noticed a code dispenser next to the vending machine. These were used if guests wanted to purchase rentals on the hotel televisions. After checking the available movie selections, it didn’t take long to realize that this was mainly to view pornographic films in your room. While I couldn’t understand why someone would even want to pay for porn in the age of internet ad-supported revenue, I was fascinated by this dynamic. Between Soapland advertisements, ultra-sexualized anime plastered on store shop windows all over Akihabara, and the occasional multistory sex shop, it was a reminder that for all the generalizations stating that Japanese culture was reserved, Tokyo was vehemently refusing to fit that mold. Either way, I was lonely, but not that lonely yet, so I opted to go for a walk instead.

There is a myth that Tokyo is always bustling, but just like any other major city, it has its lulls. Except for the occasional drunken salaryman, the streets were as quiet as a church mouse tonight. I walked into the closest 24-hour Lawson and went to the onigiri aisle. I forgot what colors coordinated to which filling, so whether I was eating seaweed and rice with fish, pork, or an assortment of vegetables would be a mystery I would soon find out. I contemplated using my translation guide to ask the sales clerk what the colors indicated, but her tired eyes made me think otherwise. Some questions aren’t that important after midnight, especially when your stomach pangs are so sharp you’d even eat those candy corns they give out at Halloween.

After paying, I went back to my hotel, ate my mystery food (spoiler alert: salmon, tuna with mayonnaise, and a pickled vegetable of some kind), and went outside to smoke a clove cigarette. I was eager to bump into someone as the loneliness of travel was beginning to kick in. Hopefully, there was another tourist in the same predicament, perhaps even on the same flight. There weren’t many hotel options available this late at night, so it was a plausible scenario.

Eventually, someone came up to me asking for a light. He wasn’t a foreigner but spoke English fluently. He dabbled in the import/export business and said Trump was making the profit margins more difficult. I feigned interest. I had heard enough about American politics back home, but that being said, it felt comforting hearing my native tongue. As we finished our smokes, we exchanged pleasantries and I headed back to my room to turn in for the night.

The next morning, I took the red line to transfer to the Narita Express, which would take me to the airport. It’s important to note that almost two years ago, on the Tokyo Metro, is where I witnessed my first train suicide. I remember I heard that distinct thud, not knowing what it was then. Two minutes later an announcement was made in Japanese. I asked my friend, Ryō, (who I was visiting at the time) what they were saying. Very casually, he replied, “Someone jumped in front of the track so there will be a slight delay.”

After responding, in an almost knee jerk manner, he went back to playing an RPG game on his phone. I looked around the train car… nobody really seemed to be bothered. In fact, it looked like an ordinary day on the metro. If someone felt a certain way about what had just happened, it was to remain within, completely invisible to the naked eye.

Four minutes later, we were moving again. My arm was visibly shaking as I gripped the metro pole for stability. Someone died and just like that, we were on our way to the next station. It felt so surreal. I wanted to say something to Ryō, to almost demand an answer to why nobody looked like they cared, but I was worried I would sour the mood. After that, we had an ordinary evening, as if nothing had happened. At first, I was appalled by my friend’s nonchalant behavior, but I would eventually learn through first-hand experience that it wasn’t about not caring, but more so that life goes on.

As the train pulled into Narita Airport, I snapped out of it. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, so my flight took off on time, and like a good surgery, it was completely uneventful. When we arrived at SFO, I quickly made it over to baggage claim, grabbed my luggage, and requested an Uber pickup. I looked at my watch; it was 4:30 PM. I would definitely get stuck in some traffic which would be perfect. That would give me at least an hour to talk to my cabbie. I was excited to speak to anyone about anything. In Japan, I felt it was hard to express myself fully. In addition to the culture generally being a bit more reserved in public, no translation guide could make up for the lack of command that I had on the Japanese language.

As I got into the taxi, I saw a sign on the back informing me that my driver was deaf and that I could text him if I needed something. It looks like I would have to wait a little longer to have that conversation I was hankering for. They say that deaf people generally make better drivers (fewer distractions), and while I didn’t have much of a sample size to compare with, the ride was smooth.

Behind the driver’s seat was a giant iPad hooked up to the speakers with a note instructing me to play whatever I like. I put on Tribulations by LCD Soundsystem. I figured the bass could do both of us some good. I took the slight bobbing of his head as a positive sign. Perhaps we were talking more than I thought. Besides, they say that comfortable silence is always the best sign of a good friendship.

As we pulled up to my hotel, I was suddenly hit with a wave of fatigue. Jetlag had finally kicked in. I quickly checked in, sorted out my stuff, ate some Thai takeout, and then went to bed. It would be a long day tomorrow, as I would be heading to UC Davis, via the Richmond train station, to see my younger cousin who had contacted me unexpectedly to ask if I wanted to see her tomorrow. I figured a familiar face would be fun to see, so I was eager to say yes.

In the cab ride to Richmond, I kept checking to see if any indigo had leaked on my white shirt. I was tired of wearing the same clothes, so I decided to throw on a dyed blazer that I had purchased from the Tokyo airport while I was killing time before my flight. They recommended washing and drying it a few times to ensure it didn’t bleed on anything. I was hoping that a quick dunk in the hotel bathtub and hanging it overnight by the heater vents would be sufficient enough. It was a trick that I had used to wash and dry clothing while I traveled. Sometimes you just don’t have the money or time to use a proper cleaning service.

As we pulled up to the Richmond station, my driver told me to be careful and stayed an extra minute or two by the curb to make sure I made it past the turnstiles. When it came to safety, I was usually more concerned about the time than the place. Some of the safest streets I’ve walked during the day have become uncomfortable and unfamiliar when night falls. Either way, I heeded his words. Experience has taught me that it never hurts to err on the side of caution and cab drivers often have their finger on the pulse of a city.

When I got to the platform, I saw a young man frantically checking his watch. He was dressed in a business suit and was carrying a folder that said UC Davis on the top. He looked very haggard and a bit flustered. After five minutes of pacing, he introduced himself as Andy and asked if I was taking the train to Davis; I told him I was. He told me he had missed the last train to Davis and couldn’t afford to do so again.

Five minutes later a train pulled up to the platform, and almost instinctually he began to walk on the train. I grabbed his shoulder in an aggressive manner. He must have been pretty tired because when he turned around, he didn’t even look alarmed.

“It’s the wrong train,” I said to him. “Ours will be here in seven minutes.”

He replied with just a half-hearted smile, which was probably all he could muster up at the time. Eventually, we got on the right train and he asked if he could sit next to me. I was wondering if it was out of genuine interest or if I had now become his tour guide. Since he looked rather young, I asked him if he was studying at UC Davis. He said he wasn’t, but was actually applying for a research position there. He had gotten his Ph.D. overseas in Korea and was currently living in Pittsburgh with his family. He was hoping to find a better job opportunity… plus his family wasn’t too fond of the cold winters. He asked me what I did, and I told him I was just traveling and figuring things out. He said that sounded nice and that it had been a long time since he had an opportunity to do that. He told me to appreciate it as there would come a time when I wouldn’t have that luxury. I told him I would.

Just then, when we were about twenty minutes out from Davis, I heard that distinct thud and then the screeching of breaks. Before the formal announcement could even be made, chatter from the first car began to work down the track.

“I heard someone jumped in front of the train tracks!”

“How terrible, such a tragedy…”

“Oh, I hope they weren’t young.”

However, not even forty-five minutes later, these sentiments would soon change to frustration.

“Are you kidding me? Can this day get any worse?”

“My husband is waiting for me at the station! Why can’t we start the train again?”

“Probably a drunk who stumbled upon the tracks by mistake. So dumb.”

As the minutes ticked by, patience wore thin. The lady across the aisle from me, who had been talking about animal rights the entire train ride, was now telling the passenger next to her that, “If someone wants to self-harm that’s up to them, but they shouldn’t inconvenience others.” I didn’t have the heart (and apparently she didn’t either) to tell her that this typically takes a while to clean up.

The process for body removal in the United States appears to be a lot longer than in Japan. I learned this fact after the second train suicide in New Jersey. Typically, the train won’t start moving again for at least an hour and if it gets to be very long, the locomotive engineer will let you depart the train, but only if you are near a road which would allow for a vehicle to pick you up. They cannot just release you and let you walk by the tracks as it becomes a liability issue. It looked like my new companion wasn’t making that interview after all.

I finally understood how Ryō felt. It was still disheartening that someone died, but I had become desensitized by it. In fact, after an initial couple of minutes, all I could think of was how Andy was going to make his job interview in time. It sounds a bit insensitive to say so soon after someone had died, but I decided that since I couldn’t do anything for the dead, I might try to help the living.

I checked Uber… only one car was anywhere near the vicinity… Phil in a Nissan Sentra. Though he was a few miles out, I figured it would be better than nothing. I told Andy to follow me if he wanted to get to Davis. Shortly afterward, I told the locomotive engineer our ride was here. She looked visibly shaken up, as she opened the side door to let us out. I can’t even imagine what sound she heard and though I’m not proud to admit it, I wondered if she saw the body before contact. It must be an uncanny feeling to be the indirect cause of someone’s death. I wanted to say something comforting, but I was at a loss of words. Plus, our actions appeared callous, and perhaps they were, but it seems we weren’t the only ones with these ideas.

As we were about to depart the train, a man named Amadou asked me if I had ordered a cab. He was a guest speaker at Davis and needed to get there immediately as well. He just had to run back to his seat to get his bag. He said he’d pay for the ride if I waited. I told him I’d hold the Uber as long as I could, but Andy was already late for his interview so every second counted.

Five minutes later, Amadou came running out. He was out of breath but seemed very grateful. I’m typically not one to accept false praise, so I told him I planned on leaving earlier, but that the Uber driver got there late. He was startled by my honesty but nodded sympathetically.

“Well, a deal’s a deal, I’d still like to pay for the ride,” Amadou said fishing for his wallet.

In fact, Andy was reaching in his pocket too. I politely refused both of them. I told them, “The first train suicide is on me.”

“First?” they both said in unison.

It was a poor slip on my part, but I continued. “Yeah, this is the third time this has happened to me,” I stated, in such a serious tone that you would have thought I was the one who got hit by the train.

There was an awkward pause and then the usual questions were asked. I answered them the best that I could (which never was sufficient enough), and then there was silence. Finally, Phil, the Uber driver, broke it by telling us all that life was very precious as it can be taken from you in an instant. He told us he had major heart surgery two weeks ago and felt lucky to be alive. I asked him if he should be driving a car so soon after a heart issue. He said he should, especially if he didn’t want his unpaid medical bill to give him another one. We all chuckled, but only because he did first. I had a feeling he had told this joke before.

The car ride was a blur and before I knew it, we were at the Davis train station. The three of us thanked Phil for the ride, thanked each other for the company, and then began to go our separate ways. Andy headed straight to the train platform.

“I’m heading home to see my family. I can interview elsewhere,” he said looking as if he was about to keel over at any point.

I smiled politely. I wanted to know if he truly had a change of heart or if he just didn’t want to show up to his interview extremely late, but it didn’t matter. As Andy waited for his train, Amadou hollered at me to see if I needed a ride. I told him it was only a ten-minute walk to my cousin’s house, but he insisted.

In the car, Amadou told me he knew how Andy felt. “I hate being away from my girls, even if it’s just for a couple of days.” He was married and had two daughters. The eldest was heading to college next year and while he was excited for her, he wasn’t looking forward to her absence. Hearing Andy and Amadou talk about their families made me a bit envious. While I was in no rush, I did desire to have a family of my own one day. I told Amadou that there were a couple of times when I thought it might be the right one, but things fell apart.

We pulled up to a red light. He turned to me, looked me dead in the eye, and told me that falling in love is the scariest risk that I must continue to take. He said, “Some risks you just can’t afford to walk away from, no matter the stakes.” I agreed wholeheartedly. Though my heart had been jilted a few times, I told him that there was nothing sadder than someone who is afraid to fall in love. He smiled in a way that made me feel that everything was going to be alright. Soon after, we arrived at my cousin’s house. As I exited the car, I gave Amadou a hug. I had a feeling he wouldn’t mind. He didn’t.

The time I spent with my cousin went by quickly. It’s amazing how things as simple as eating and talking can feel heavenly with the right company. Before I knew it, the sun was already down and it was time to head home. I gave my cousin a big hug and departed on a train to Richmond. From there I would take an Uber back to San Francisco and hopefully hop straight into bed. The events of the day were finally wearing on me.

It was pitch dark outside as the train made its way down the track. In fact, when I looked out the window, all I could see was my own reflection, cast in front of me, a product of the inside lighting causing a glare. As I stared at myself, a thought popped up. It wasn’t a new thought, but one that had been rattling around in my mind for quite some time. One I was almost afraid to confront as it made me wonder a lot about myself…

After that first train suicide, I felt upset about how it took less than five minutes to literally move on from the fact that someone died, but I now wondered, if we had never moved, and I had spent several hours on that train waiting for the medical team to properly examine the body, would I feel a different way about it? Did I only care because it was convenient to do so? Was this thought pattern isolated to just the train incidents or did it run rampant in all aspects of my life? Did this apply to most people? Do most people usually care only when it’s convenient and easy to do so? I shuddered at the thought.

When I got to the Richmond station, I quickly called a cab, eager to head home and rest after a long day of talking and overthinking. I felt defeated now, but tomorrow would be a new day. On the ride home, my driver asked if it was OK if he turned the volume up so he could pay attention to the Warriors game. I told him that sounded perfect. As the chatter of the radio drowned out my thoughts, I rested my head against the window, closed my eyes, and headed off to dreamland.

*Names have been changed to protect each subject’s identity.