︱tape: 08 - the next train is arriving︱

descending from escalators to the subway station, emerald gems glitter on a concrete pillar underneath in this palace hall of lingering with televisions encased in black cubes counting down the arrival of the next train. several shards sparkle on the marble floor with a romantic quality where light always seems to shine somewhere despite the grimy tunnels and interrupted movements of pedestrians under the fluorescent lights tubes affixed with a thin truss. all of it seemed nothing like the immaculate modernity of stations back home with their minty facilities and metal trash bins, like comparing steel to aluminum foil. a girl afar rehoists her overfattened purse weighing down her shoulder, a long wallet stuffs her jeans pocket and i slip a razor blade from my pocket to my fingertips, flesh pressed against it until a cold sensation fixes my body that sails through the warm congestion of pedestrians through the stagnant air. the blade pulls me toward the purse as the incoming train lights approach like a sunrise and i stumble into her among the rattle of the subway car’s trucks. catching my guest in one arm, the other slits through the pocket, fingers peck the wallet before tossing it to my cohort who passes beside me to catch it.

“i’m sorry, are you alright? the noises must have startled me,” i smile. the woman, uncomfortable with my hand on her shoulder, wrenches herself away into the train, a long exhale ensues from the closing doors as i sheathe my hands into my pockets after placing the razorblade back in between my teeth to hide and deploy at a moment’s notice, the movement itself akin to taking out a wad of gum to throw away. the train leaves and pleather knocks into my shoulder. sasaki, my cohort, holds the wallet he caught earlier from the woman’s pocket and tosses it to me along with a phone i grabbed earlier which he must’ve taken off of me while i was casing the wallet.

“unscrupulous bunch of people out this afternoon. never know for sure who’s out here,” he warns in a smirk. these half advices he says give him a maturity to his words with its range of expressions but all still vague like an ancient riddle without an answer. all i seem to know about him are through approximations as if studying passages to get at the meaning, the personality that sasaki keeps veiled in these truisms.

“c’mon, let’s get outta here. lv wallet should at least fetch a quarter or two,” sasaki puts his head back in his hands in a relaxed hammock-like pose.

“i can’t believe it, every day we wake up and look for our food then we lose all progress the next day and start over. neoliberalism at its finest, huh?”

“hey, we’re in the west now, remember?” i prod him. “don’t let the suits hear you say that. then they can’t go on vacation anymore and feel good about their hotel spendings.”

“well, we’re already outliers there edward, or minorities since people love to say that.”

“you should uh, pick up your boots and get on with your life,” i mimic the words of the adults that would tell us this out of their frustration at our bodies unmoved and continued glares at their posturing. we get some bubble tea at a cafe on yonge street with the wooden garden boxes that grow a willow tree whose leaves shroud jar lamps hanging from wire on the ceiling. the starchy tapioca balls keeps us occupied while we wait for the others. a minimal lifestyle like this suited me more anyway, as being able to live with very little always seemed reassuring and free. sasaki and i moved from park to park thinking we were one of those 20somethings backpackers who travel the world discovering caves with their sunglasses, but with more realist aesthetics. no caves or fantastic photos of landmarks, just everyday streets in their unremarkable designs and scattered lights of different shops. the others, kay, oroci and joan return from their escapades with an old gym bag they found one day behind their school. sasaki was the one who introduced me to them and told me to stay in touch every time i went back to hong kong. joan opens the bag where a crowd of watches, wallets and other trinkets gargle inside and immediately seem less valuable after we grabbed them from the gaudy people who walk around even with open bags sometimes. perhaps back then, these brick apartments would seem somewhat homely as in some old time industrial era painting appearing through grey smog where children play in empty lots and fashionable people talk to each other up and down the street but the scurrying of late grocery shoppers made this street more desolate, reinforced in paradoxical contrast by their neon signs, cartoons and store names contained in jet black borders.