The Same in Japanese

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I like my business card ²clean, black and white: perfect. I can't read the Japanese, but it says the same thing on the back in English: Pecheur Systems | Singapore, Tokyo, Hong Kong | Lianshu Li, Web Designer. I live on Omotesando, a popular street in Tokyo ²a little expensive, but if you have a good job, it¶s easy to live there. My company pays for my apartment. It¶s perfect. All the furniture is new. The wooden floor feels smooth and cool when I walk on it. And I love the kitchen ²clean, bright, well lighted like the rest of the apartment. Perfect. I live alone. Friends come for dinner sometimes. I cook. They tell me how beautiful my apartment is and how delicious the food was. They go home before the last train. Sometimes my boyf riend comes and stays for the night. He¶s married, so usually he goes home early. But sometimes he stays all night. Usually he goes home early though. Other evenings, I walk down the street, buy my candies at the corner store, and then sit at one of th e French-style cafes. I read and drink my coffee, watching the people there. They come in twos. Always in twos. Women with shopping bags from expensive shops that I love. Hand -holding couples with no bags. It's a clean, well-lighted place; but no old men like in Hemingway's story. My office is on the 21st floor of the newest building in Shinjuku, the newest part of Tokyo ²perfect. The oldest person in the office is 41. He¶s old, but he¶s OK. I like working with other young people. About half of us are foreign, half Japanese. I don¶t know the Japanese people well. I can't speak the language. Most don¶t speak English very well either, though they all studied it in school.
It's 7:30 at night. I leave the office and walk toward Shinjuku train station. It's close to my office, but I have

to go through Box City. The homeless people live there. A man sits in a Panasonic TV box. He takes off his shoes and put s them on again²the smell! He wipes his hand on his dirty pants, then takes his shoes off, and puts them on again. And again. Another person sits in an opened-up Sanyo refrigerator box. Inside, three small boxes make a bookcase. I wonder what books are in the bookcase. Would the homeless read Hemingway? I¶m walking and thinking about books. Then I notice: there are hundreds of homeless walking in front of me in a long line. I've never seen them like this. Usually they just stay in their boxes. I cover my mouth and nose and walk quickly²the smell!! I try not to look at them, but they're in my way. Their hai r is dirty, their clothes old and gray. The smell is terrible! I feel sick. I can't get to the station. I'm almost crying. Why now? Why are they here now? What do I do? I can't walk through them. Oh, no! Then I notice the man at the front of the line. He sits on a broken chair on a board with wheels. The others push him. His hair is strange, like one of those fat sumo wrestlers. A bamboo stick is at his side like a sword. He looks like a king or a samurai ²a dirty, broken samurai. He looks at me and our eyes meet. For some reason, I calm down a bit. He's old. He's sick, dying maybe. I feel sick. Someone walks between us and I lose sight of him. The line of homeless people passes and I can finally get into the station. I go to the washroom and wash my ha nds. I start to cry so I hide in a toilet stall with the door shut. When I stop crying, I come out and wash my hands again. And again. -------When I get home, I take a shower. But I still remember the smell, the sick feeling, and the samurai¶s eyes. I call my boyfriend. ³Busy?´
³I¶m sorry. I have to go home tonight.´ ³But I feel sick. Please come.´ ³I¶m sorry, I can¶t. Sorry«´ I put down the phone, sit down and cry again.

At night, I dream about him, the samurai. I was walking in an empty place by the sea, and I saw him sitting in his chair, fishing. I asked him (in Japanese?) how to get to the train station and he told me, "The trains don¶t run anymore. You have to walk. Down there, turn left and cross over the bridge." I knew he couldn't get up, so I walked on through the city by myself. There were no people. The streets were full of garbage, but there were no crows and no cars. I wanted to buy some candies, but no shops were open.

I went to my apartment. All my things were old and broken. It was full of garbage and it smelled, but I didn't care. It didn't matter. I took the elevator down and got off on the ground floor, a wide-open space with a line of ticket machines along one wall. At the end was the entrance to the train platform. There was still nobody around. I walked, my shoes clicking on the hard floor. I walked and walked, but no train came. Instead of a train, water ran down the tracks. I followed it, walking, my shoes clicking. As I came near the end of the platform, I could see a beautiful park outside. I stepped off the platform onto the grass. There were trees, flowers and birds, and cute little buildings made of cardboard boxes: new boxes, clean boxes. The air smelled fresh. I walked through the garden and found him sitting in the middle on his chair. "You may sleep here tonight." He said, "but first let's eat." Somehow, I knew I had to ask him, "What¶s this for?" but I didn't ask. I didn¶t say anything. Instead, I looked back towards the station and saw all the other homeless people. They stood on the platform, waiting for a train, and I knew their houses were gone: their Panasonic TV boxes, their bookcases, their books²gone. The police were there, watching, stopping people. I turned back to the park, but it was full of office workers. Young, beautiful, clean office workers. Was the park for them? What¶s it all for? A bell. The train...

I wake up and turn off my alarm. Friday. 6:00. I get ready for work and leave the apartment without breakfast. Too bad the cafes don't open until 10:00. A crow flies down. It picks at some garbage, hopping away when people walk by, then hopping back again. And again. I try to keep away from it but suddenly, the crow looks up at me and our eyes meet. It looks at me, not moving, then goes back to picking at the garbage. At Harajuku station I buy some candies, then drop them as I try to take out my train pass. There are too many people; I can t stop to pick them up. I leave my candies on the floor, go down the stairs, and get on the train. I remember something about my dream, but it s gone just as quickly. I read the advertisements above the window and on the walls outside. They pass by my window again. And again. When I get to Shinjuku there are police, hundreds of them. They're taking down Box City and putting the homeless in trucks. A woman police officer has a loudspeaker. She is saying something to the office workers, and as they walk by she bows deeply. She stands up and our eyes meet. She has a big smile. Then she starts it all again. And again. I cover my mouth and nose and walk quickly, but it's hard to move: too many people. Suddenly, in front of me is a policeman pushing the chair with the samurai on it. He still has his strange hair, but his sword is gone. The samurai looks up at me and I remember the dream. I want to ask the policeman, "What is this for?" I stop. But I don't say anything. Somebody walks into me and my things go flying. The policeman stops and helps me pick them up. As I look up, I see one of my business cards is on the samurai's leg. He picks it up and holds it out to me with both hands. "Keep it." I say in English. "It says the same thing on the back in Japanese."

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