SEPTEMBER 21st 2010

The Salaryman

Several alarms go off, he rubs his eyes, stretches, and in a trance relieves himself, shaves, showers and heads to the kitchen for his ritualistic morning glass of water, the rim of which triggers a thought, a memory, a voice as it touches his lips; "physical today. No food. No fluids." He places the glass on the kitchen counter, puts on his slacks, buttons his short sleeved business shirt, styles his hair, kisses his boys and wife goodbye, puts on his shoes, opens the door, and steps outside.

The Old Lady

The sky is a cool grey, calming, soothing the atmosphere as the old lady nears, with slow, precise, cautious steps, the empty bus stop. Peering through her thick, dated and loved spectacles, she examines the time table. 7:11am, she turns away from the time table and takes a step towards its neighboring bench, catching, though perhaps not noticing or caring, a glimpse of a middle-aged man in a short sleeved business shirt, careening down the bordering street, creating a fierce whisper as he passes along with the morning's breeze.

The Train

The train pulls up to the station's platform, a horde of college students get out and are simultaneously replaced by a mob of salarymen doubled in population. The train is packed, overflowing as if each of the regulars had invited all their friends and family so they too could experience this most majestic of times; the commute. A melody signaling the closing of the doors sounds, one last salaryman wedging his way into the mess of beat commuters at the very last moment, just as the doors hiss their way closed.

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The train arrives, footsteps trample up and out of the subways and along the streets of Akihabara; Tokyo's famed electronics district. A security guard greets a stream of inflowing salary men as they pass through secured gates. Time-cards beep as they enter the system. Computers boot. Passwords are entered. Emails checked.

The Veteran

Worker drones herd their way out, through, and into various secured entryways, guided by disposable signs and friendly hand gestures, eventually finding themselves in a meeting room, specifically converted for this day in particular into a temporary hospital, each of the drones filing into a waiting area of chairs. Names are called, the subjects are guided from station to station, test tubes of urine are exchanged, dimensions measured and recorded, organ movements and proficiency tested; worker efficiency evaluated. A nurse, the veteran of the assembly-line proficient team, calls the next subject in line, her voice raspy with age, yet calming, comforting. She begins to ask her subject to roll up his sleeve, then notices his short sleeved shirt and comments that it was a good selection for the day. She asks some questions, pulls out a handful of test tubes and a syringe, and warns of a little sting. The subject watches the needle sink slowly into his arm, perfectly, painlessly. He watches his blood flow into test tube after test tube, its color so perfect, so alive, bringing to mind the Sangre del Cristo. She removes the needle, places a bandage, and directs the subject to a neighboring seat before an eye testing machine. The subject stares into the machine, into a virtual room of diagrams and numerals backlit in a hazy white, perhaps similar to any number of proposed heavens. She asks the subject to identify the various shapes and symbols, offering a "bzzz", reminiscent of the old Wheel of Fortune sound effect, for every incorrect answer. She records his scores and bids him a friendly farewell, directing him out of the building to a bus labeled, "Digital Radiography System" parked across the street to have some X-rays taken and thus complete his physical.

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A man in a short sleeved business shirt exits the bus's lead based curtains, buttoning his shirt as he returns to his office.

The Boss

He approaches the meeting room a minute past schedule, stopping before opening the door as he notices the silhouettes of the past meetings remaining participants. Sensing his presence, they swiftly evacuate the room, bowing their heads to him as they pass with apologetic, perhaps frightened expressions. He steps through the door, and the meeting begins. His hair is immaculately sculpted with a perfect balance of conservative professionalism and lingering teenage rebellion. His attire is vaguely fashionable; firmly pressed pitch black slacks matched by meticulously shined shoes of the same color and countered by a perfectly ironed and starched stark white shirt, which he unbuttons down to the fourth button (known commonly as "upper management style" around the ofice), showing off his chest and revealing an inconspicuous floral design running along the button track of the shirt. His face is serious, exhausted, his eyes blood red and watering, but his mind is clear, focused, as always and his speech is considerate and productive, as always. The meeting goes on, it's participants sharing ideas and laughing out its course.

The Editors

Two editors, one male and one female, sit quietly, patiently, focused upon the computer monitors before them. The male is dressed casually, roughly, freely, with a pair of headphones attached to his ears, offering an alternative world, an alternative reality. The female is dressed formally, respectfully, neatly and restrained. The screens flash, inches from their eyes, an endless stream of idols in bikinis, forever frolicking on the beach in a myriad of unnatural poses, with a myriad of unnatural facial expressions. They study the work at hand carefully, thoroughly, seriously, making sure it is perfect, their hands precisely navigating over the editing panel, their eyes steady without a blink.

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Documents translated, presentations created, graphic conversation on censorship over various genres of pornography.

Five Angry Men

Five men enter q room designated "A", taking seats in its class-distinctive black leather seats, this meeting room normally reserved for the COO & CEO. They open the tops of their cold green tea, an essential accompaniment to this weekly gathering, and the meeting begins. They discuss colors, functions, designs, placement, perception, characters, personalities, behaviors, marketing, cultural exchange, art of varying genre and its impact on its observers, its participants. The wall clock ticks on and on, the seconds becoming minutes, the minutes becoming hours, and the hours multiplying upon each other. Five and half hours, three rounds of green teas, one round of snacks, two bathroom breaks later, and one million whiteboard markings later, the meeting comes to a close, though nowhere near an end. The five, not at all angry, men exit the meeting room, weary but high on that buzz that creation conjures, and offer their appreciation to one another and bid their farewells.

The Colleagues

Three of the previous meeting's five members, the last remaining in the office, clock-out, and sign a mandatory and security guard enforced form acknowledging their late hour of retire. They walk along the naturally dark, but electrically illuminated streets of Akihabara, discussing what to eat. The leader of the group stops in front of a very inviting sushi bar. "How about here? My treat!". The two accompanying lesserthans follow him through the entryway with drooling smiles. They converse about work, the meeting, music, family, life, all the while gorging themselves on vividly colored raw sea creatures; happily snapping the heads off of supposedly dead shrimp and sucking out their brains, faces illuminated with Christmas morning grins. They close the feast with a perfectly complimenting cup of steaming hot green tea, the leader pays the tab and the three wonder, in a daze of satisfaction, back out into the Akiba night.

The Lesserthans

The three arrive at the station, pass through the turnstiles and part their ways; the leader to the blue line and the lesserthans to the yellow. Aboard the yellow train, the two stand, clasping the plastic Os dangling from the ceiling for support, and converse; comics, art, music, focusing the majority of their dialogue focused on Japanese noise. They converse in smiles, comfortably, like friends rather than colleagues. The train reaches its destination, the two, in mid conversation on live event venues' purpose and function, part their separate ways with a slightly awkward goodbye, telepathically acknowledging that the conversation is nowhere near finished. One, wearing black thick-framed spectacles and a light blue dress shirt buttoned to the top, exits the station and meanders home. The other, wearing a short sleeved business shirt and course five'o'clock shadow, transfers to the local.

The Passengers

Beat. The passengers of the late night local train, on the last stretch of their commute, their journey home, sit and stand in their respective communal isolations without a word, without an action, deathly silent. Four minutes and thirty-three seconds pass, the silence containing nothing more than the whirrs and hums of the train's engines and various components, the occasional monotone announcement from the conductor, and the hollow hissing of the cool night's air streaming along the train's exterior.

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A speckling of salarymen and office ladies meander their way aboard the last bus. Engines start, hydraulics boost, and the bus departs, travelling calmly throughout the city's tranquil night.

The Boys, The Misses, and The Grandmother

The salaryman opens the door of his grandmother-in-law's home, quietly, discretely, expecting to find a dimly-lit factory of dreams in the making, but is surprised to find the misses and her grandmother wide awake and deep in conversation. He joins in the conversation, taking more of a sideline stance, drinks some iced barley tea, interjects the tale of his day thus far feeling (though not quite sure how to express it) thankful to his wife for making their family possible while he pretends to do important things, removes his slacks, unbuttons his short sleeved business shirt, and tip-toes into the neighboring darkened room, serenely silent save the subtle absolute beauty of his boys' breathes, deeply asleep with the furnaces at the factory running full blast churning out, undoubtedly, the most sublime of nocturnal adventures. He kisses their foreheads, places his ear to their chests, listening to, feeling their beautiful beating hearts before squeezing in, curved like the letter "S", in-between their slumbering bodies, his feet hanging off the futon onto the tatami mats below as he drifts off to sleep.