una

Cool, y'all seemed to like the writing thing so here's some more. Some of you might recognize this scene from an earlier post, this post is much more detailed though. Hope you enjoy! Oh, and this is completely autobiographical too. The whole story is longer but it's pretty episodic so I'll split it up into different posts soa not to be too overwhelming. Here is Japan: episode 1


I wake up on the plane, and I'm in Japan. Now, my instructions are to take the bullet-train to Tokyo station, and meet Tom there, sounds easy enough. I grab my bags and find the bullet-train station in the airport, no problem. An hour and a half later I'm exactly where I need ot be. I call my friend from a pay phone.
"I made it, Tom, I'm at Tokyo station," I say.
"Good, good. Unfortunately my boss is being quite unforgiving and I can't come pick you up for another hour and a half, I'm really sorry," he says.
I have a feeling this won't be an isolated insodent. Tom isn't the most consistent person, but now he's all I have.
"fine," I say, "I'll just get dinner and call you back at eight thirty."
"Yes, good, I'll make this up to you I promise."
I hang up and start looking for a place to get food. I'm tired from the plane ride. I don't want to wait at this crazy station for another hour. I want a bed, mild conversation, and sleep. There are so many people here, and they all appear to have an important place to go to. The hallways and escilators seem to guide them like the ground guides a river. It's easy to get lost in the currents of people. I make a mental map of where I've been but it's difficult to focus. I can't figure out how to get back to the first section, where the first pay phone was, but I see other pay phones every once and a while. I figure I can just use on of those. Soon I find a place to eat, and the food refreshes me. I find a spot by a clock and some pay phones to sit and read. I sit on the floor, there aren't any benches anywhere.
Finally eight thirty comes and I reach into my bag to get out my planner, it has Tom's phone number and all my instructions in it. I don't feel it at first so I open the pocket all the way and look. I don't see it. Frantically I search the other pockets, I search my other bag.
I try not to panic. My book, i.e., Tom's phone number, i.e., my way out of the train station, isn't there at all. I'm fucked. Delirious from sleepiness and neon lights, I'm fucked without that number. I try to remember the number, but when I call it, it doesn't work. I must have left my book at that first pay phone; the one I'm not sure I can get too anymore. It's so hard to think. I am in the worst shape to deal with this situation, I don't think I can do it. I have to let it out - the tiredness, the freak out - let it out before it builds up and I can't think at all. Exhausted, I sit on the floor and hold my head in my hands. Tears gently drip down my wrists. I breath out, and slowly back in again. I feel no shame as hoards of people rush by me. At least now I can think again. That number might be lost forever, but giving up is not an option. I am going to get a hold of Tom, and I am going to sleep in a bed tonight.
I get my things together and start walking. I walk up and down the section I'm in and can't find the corridor I originally came from. There is a large escalator going down that I haven't used before, at least I think I haven't. I see that it goes both ways; maybe I came up it before and now I don't remember that. I go down the escalator and, yes, I'm at the beginning. I see the pay phone I used, and my book is still laying there. I pick it up and kiss it before I look up Tom's number. I'm almost euphoric, everything will be ok. For the first time in a while I feel capable, like I'm not just a fuck up.
Tom finds me a little later waiting next to an enclosed smoking area in the train station. We hug and he picks me up. I always forget how tall Tom is. The only differences about his appearance are the thick rimmed glasses perched on his nose, and the stubble peppering his chin. I smiled.
"What's this?" I ask while brushing my hand across his bristly jaw, "I thought not shaving was 'dirty', 'filthy'."
"The photographers like it, so what the hell," he smiled back, "I hope your wait wasn't horrible."
"I got through it," I said, "I'll tell you the story in the morning, I'm beat."
"Sure."
As we're walking to one of the trains to Tom's house I notice a guy a little younger than me leaning precariously in a corner. As we walk by him he vomits against the corner he's leaning on. Tom doesn't notice. On the train I ask him if that's a normal occurrence: people vomiting in public and no one batting an eye at it.
"Drinking is a social institution here," he said, "Japan is the drunkest country I've ever been to, second maybe to Russia."