The Man in The Bullet Train
by Zav
16 Dec 2018 3190 readers Score 8.8 (43 votes) PDF Mobi ePub Txt
Tick.
Another tick on my bucket list.
Not, unfortunately, a bucket list of unspeakably gorgeous models that I'd managed to bring to exhaustion in the bedroom but a 'What to do/ to see in Japan' bucket list! This particular tick was a ride in a sleek bullet train --- a Shinkansen. It wasn't the fastest Shinkansen as apparently they weren't covered by the Japan Rail Pass but for a 50 year old non-transpotting gaijin, a bullet train was a bullet train.
I'd taken the obligatory selfies as another Shinkansen slid into the station behind me standing on the station platform. More pics as the team of cleaners bowed respectfully when it left, their baby pink uniforms at odds with their utterly impassive middle aged faces. They'd made such short work of any mess passengers might have dared leave on the train that I'd resolved never to even think of crossing them. A body could disappear in minutes ... even if I was a good head taller than the average Japanese!
I had arrived way in advance to ensure, and check and double-check, that I had the correct train and correct platform. My Japanese is ropey on a good day and abysmal otherwise and copes badly with last-minute emergencies such as being stopped from getting on the wrong train! I should therefore have been first in the queue to climb on board but cunning gaijin that I am, I'd formulated a plan: let four or so others get on first so you can watch to see Japanese train etiquette. Clever, eh? Apart from the fact that they got on, stashed their bags and then sat down. Pretty much as you would on a train in France or Germany. You're hard pushed to do much else on a train really. Cunning plan relegated to restaurant etiquette instead.
The carriage filled up quite quickly and, typically for this country, with relatively little noise as the Japanese passengers hoisted their smaller suitcases and bags onto the overhead shelf as I had done with mine too. Larger ones were squeezed in between knees and the back of the seat in front. I'd reserved an aisle seat on the left of the train simply to be able to stretch out a dodgy right leg more easily. Photos of Mount Fuji (another necessary tick) would have to wait for the return from Kyoto.
I looked at my watch ... two minutes to departure and the seat next to me remained empty. Whilst this had its compensation in that I could go in for a bit of man-spreading to let the boys breathe, the down-side was there wasn't going to be even a remote chance of any human interaction. Without exception, those around were elderly and had carefully avoided catching my eye, thereby avoiding conversation with a volatile and potentially dangerous foreigner. The couple in front were already preparing to sleep. And that was becoming the big downside to singlehood. The two days in Tokyo had been exciting but, if l was being honest with myself, a tad lonely. Karen had been someone to chat to even if it had had to be about what she was interested in. Since we'd split, semi-amicably, I'd been able to do what I wanted, when I wanted which was great in itself initially. But the novelty wears a bit when there's no-one to talk to whilst doing it. Apart from Facebook. There's always FB. I chose dishonesty and settled down to sort out which pink-clad cleaner should achieve immortality next to a far less photogenic pic of me and Bertie The Bullet Train.
Seconds before the whistle went outside on the platform, the automatic door at the far end of the carriage swished open and a square cardboard box appeared balanced precariously on a medium sized suitcase. Its owner, who looked to be a Japanese in his early thirties or so, followed behind, an over-stuffed holdall slung over one shoulder with one hand holding a plastic bag, no doubt carrying last-minute snacks for the journey, and the other hand attempting to steer the suitcase/ box combo up the aisle. Optimistically as it turned out. With all the determination of a budget supermarket trolley, the suitcase made a point of bumping into every other seat, protruding bag or better still, leg it could. The holdall proved its team credentials on the other side by whacking into seat, shoulder or preferably head at will. The hitherto silent carriage became a Mexican wave of tut-tutting followed by profuse apologies from the overcoated grey suit dying a thousand deaths as he made his unstately progress up the carriage to the only empty seat left in the carriage. The overcoat, the physical exertion but mainly the searing embarrassment he'd been suffering since entering the carriage meant he was red-faced and panting by the time he arrived next to me. Just when he thought his day couldn't possibly get any worse, it did. He looked at me, a bloody foreigner, then up at the already full overhead luggage racks and looked as if he was going to burst into tears.
I looked up at him and stopped breathing. Even with a red face and eyes tearing up, he was just beautiful. Cheekbones you could hang a washing line on, flawless skin, the beginnings of a day's stubble outlining a strong jaw and chin. His lips were red, full and the nose wide and a bit flat. His eyes were Asian but HUGE. All of which produced an immediate reaction down in my Calvins. These stirrings perhaps, as well as the threat of tears, goaded me into action. I jumped up, and in an attempt to be matey, tapped him quickly on both shoulders and said 'Daijoubu. Chotto matte, ne?' ['It's alright. Just a moment, ok?']. Before he, or anyone else for that matter, could protest, my and the nearby passengers' suitcases were upended, stashed vertically rather than horizontally and both the holdall and box were safely stored away above our heads. As an overbearing barbarian, I could do in seconds what he would have needed half the journey to ask for permission and apologise for doing. I wheeled the suitcase in behind the seat in front of his and motioned for him to take his seat. His utter relief at the baggage problem having been solved quickly and painlessly outweighed the embarrassment he might have felt and, nodding his head again and again in thanks, he smiled. A full, genuine, open smile which served to show off his good looks even more. He crouched down to take his seat but I tapped him on one shoulder to indicate that perhaps he might want to remove the overcoat first. 'Hai' ['Yes']. I helped him pull it off and he folded it neatly and put it on my seat whilst he took off the suit jacket too. Once that was also folded, he then reached up to put them on his holdall up on the overhead rack. It was then the Shinkansen gave an uncharacteristic lurch and he lost his balance.
My hands shot out and grabbed him under his arms, stopping him toppling on to the grandpa as he was shaken awake. He felt solid, lean, muscular under his shirt. The fact that willy stirred again told me clearly how intimately I had ended up holding him. I released him and dropped my gaze in embarrassment, only for it to settle on his firm round butt which gave yet further encouragement to the developing bulge at the front of my jeans. He sat down as did I but the presence of his suitcase meant he had little choice but to spread his legs and invade my area.
Partly to limit his embarrassment I think, he closed his eyes in an attempt to catch 40 winks which gave me an opportunity to look him over albeit discreetly. His wrists were small and somewhat delicate, his fingers long and elegant yet the back of his hand was veined and masculine. He was quite broad, with shoulders and biceps that made me think of a swimmer. I threw a furtive glance at his crotch despite my better judgement. Oh my god, his fly was gaping wide open! Fortunately, for him at least, he hadn't chosen today to go commando but I could clearly see that he definitely liked red.
He was actually asleep at this point and his right leg had relaxed completely against mine. I sat back, enjoying the touch of another human again, limited as it might have been and plotted how to tell him he was 'flying low' without him dying of embarrassment yet once more.