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Number eight:
Some salarymen in my English classes in Japan listed "Riding the trains" as a hobby. One guy, who got precisely two days off a month, told me proudly that he had ridden
"Every train in Tokyo."
I imagine this must have taken him a long, long time. How many years had he worked, that he had ridden every train in Tokyo? And did he mean every train, or just every line, and to every stop?
What do you do on the trains? I asked this guy.
"I read paperback novels."
I didn't have time for anything on the train other than sleep, back in 2001. Three or four times, I'd been delayed by a train suicide, and ended up late to work. I was told it was because the new year was coming that so many people were committing suicide. When the train jolted to a stop, and the announcer started mumbling some excuse, I thanked God if I was sitting down, or cursed everything else if I was standing up. Either way, I'd try to sleep until the workers down the line cleaned up the body parts and let the train continue on.
It wasn't until February of 2002 that I started to stay awake on the train, just to savor being on the train. I looked out the windows at rice fields and old people on bikes. I liked being on the train. I was a long way away from riding every train in Tokyo. Still, I rode on, and on.
One evening, I was returning from Higashi-Fussa to Kawagoe. Higashi-Fussa is way out in the country -- I was visiting Yokota Air Base for some groceries for an upcoming mahjongg-club-Mexican dinner. Luckily, I had my Gameboy Advance on me: at a little after seven in the evening, someone commit suicide on the northbound Kaneko Line.
Being so far out in the country, the workers on the Kaneko Line might not be as accustomed to cleaning up after a suicide. So it was that I sat on that train for a little more than three hours.
The train was barely full. Anyone in West Tokyo who needed to go anywhere was probably waiting on the platform at Komagawa. My train car was occupied only by me, a couple of elderly women, and a salaryman on an off day. He was dressed in loafers and a sweater and gold-rimmed glasses. He looked tired. Either that, or just very relaxed. He looked almost at peace.
For some reason, he was sitting on the same bench as me. For some other reason, I was playing Dragon Warrior I & II on my Gameboy Advance. For three hours, I played the original Dragon Warrior from the town of Rimuldar.
The train started to move again when I had found Loto's Armor. When we finally stopped in Komagawa, all those people waiting to go home rushed into the train, and filled it up.
The salaryman at the end of my bench scooted over, and sat right next to me. He folded his legs, and put his hands on his knee.
Twenty minutes before the train stopped in Kawagoe, I beat the Dragon Lord -- I mean, Dracolord. I then exited the evil castle, and crossed through fields of flowers that had once been poisonous marshes. The king thanked me, and the credits began to roll. I realized, just then: I hadn't saved the game once. However would I view the ending again and again, as is the RPG tradition?
The salaryman sitting next to me made a sound like he was clearing his throat. I looked up at him. He was looking down at my Gameboy Advance. He cleared his throat again, and motioned with his forehead at my Gameboy.
"Yoku dekita," he said. "Well done."
"Thanks," I said, in English, I think.
I don't need a save at the end of that quest, I realized. I wouldn't dream of beating it again. Billy, the hero, descendant of Loto, remains frozen at level eight for all of time.
Playing and beating Dragon Warrior on a delayed Tokyo train is one of those gaming moments that cannot be topped, not in 2002 -- and maybe not for a long time, not for me.
[next: number seven: my VR training didn't prepare you for this]
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