Confrontation

By: Mara

 

Disclaimer: This story and everything in it is MINE! Please ask before borrowing.

 

 

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            (FIRST GUY - ?) He just sits there. Stoic and uncaring, this young man just sits there. The name he wrote on his coat tag says Dante, because I once saw it when he accidentally dropped it by my seat. But even once when the subway shut down during a blackout, reading his paper, he just sat there, sipping from his travel mug, until we started moving again. His dark blonde hair leaks into his vision, the words in front of his face becoming obscured. Getting off at my stop, I once knocked his mug out of his hands, and I very sincerely apologized. Truly, I did. But he just sat there, mechanically wiping the coffee off his business-like trench coat, not bothering to look up at me. Maybe one of these days I’ll try to talk to him.

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

            (SECOND GUY – DANTE ?) He’s always staring at me. He thinks I don’t notice him, I bet, but I do. He always stares at me. His black hair is characteristic of the Japanese man I’m sure he is, small in stature, eyes dark like the start of night. To fool him, I never talk to him. I don’t talk to him because I don’t know him. I don’t even know his name. I bet his life is interesting, though. Maybe his name is Japanese too, a name that blows like the wind through a meadow, lush and blossoming, like Shindou or Yuri, something that flows off your tongue. I think he looks like a Yuri. He looks so young, no lines creasing his brow, so he must be in his twenties. He looks like he has a little American in him too, his skin isn’t the Japanese hue. He gets off at the stop with a lot of the people who work at that big corporation. Maybe I’ll ask him what his name is one of these days.

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

            (FIRST GUY - ?) Why does he never acknowledge anyone’s existence?! He thinks he’s so much better then everybody! Nante koto da (Jesus)! I bet he’s a snobby, rich, mean S.O.B. of an American! Back in Tokyo, everyone is polite to you, bowing to you and saying ‘Konichiwa’ (hello) or ‘Yoi ichinichi (eh-shin-ah-she-ah) o’ (have a nice day).  And if they were impolite, you shunned them. How did I end up here, in New York City, working in a crappy office building in a confining cubicle doing paperwork and spreadsheets all day while that asshole probably works for daddy, getting paid thousands of dollars to sit on his ass! But he rides the subway… Shouldn’t he drive a sports car or something if he’s rich? Maybe he isn’t at all who I imagine him to be…

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

            (SECOND GUY – DANTE ?) Today I noticed, as I got in the subway car, that the Japanese man was sitting in my seat! Nobody sits in my seat! So I sat next to him. He looked at me, like he wanted to say something, but bit his tongue, holding it back. I glared at him. I resented this man, who ever he was, for taking my seat. Mind you, I don’t own it, but I still found it quite insulting. I thought Japanese people were supposed to be nice. I looked over at the portfolio, brown leather with a gold-colored latch, that he so carefully held in his lap. The label on the front said his company’s name- the one I had suspected before- and his name. My anger faded as I carefully pronounced his name in my head. Takumi Kazuo; it suits him, and it’s fun to say. It flows off the tongue, just as I thought it would. It’s his stop now.

 

“Pardon me,” Takumi says to me, scooting past me to get off.

           

I moved to let him by, and then got up and sat by the opposite window. As I had hoped, he turned around, probably trying to catch one last glimpse of me. I didn’t want to disappoint him, so I waved to him. Shocked into silence, he dropped his portfolio. It hit the ground, breaking the latch, and spilt his papers all over the concrete platform. I chuckled and went back to the paper, reading about the rise in stock prices.

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

            (FIRST GUY – TAKUMI KAZUO) I wanted to talk to him so bad today. My curiosity about him was so overwhelming, that I just had to make him talk to me. So I figured if I sat in his seat, he’d tell me to move or something. Baka ie (nonsense)! He didn’t! He only glared at me and sat right next to me! After that, I was too shy to say anything, thinking he was cross with me. I must have looked like an idiot, my work held tight like some scared child. Every once in a while, I’d steal a look, tentative and secretive, at his pale-skinned face, noticing for the first time through his dark eyelashes that his eyes were an emerald green. That’s odd that I’d notice that; most men don’t stare at other men on the subway. But he’s so fascinating. I want to know his story. I want to know if he’s better then me.

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

            (SECOND GUY – DANTE ?) I wonder what his life is like, working for a huge corporation and making tons of money. He’s back on the subway again today, staring at me again. I think if I had been seeing him like this for the first time, I would’ve thought his black eyes were piercing into my soul or heart, both of which are hardened and black. Intrigued by his intense staring, I lowered my paper and stared right back at him, occasionally taking sips of my coffee. This is how it went, for the entire trip, until he had to get off. Right before his stop, to make him uncomfortable, I stared at his every little move as he prepared to depart. I, the oldest of three siblings, happen to be an expert at this. He picked up his portfolio off the ground- I looked at him like he had done something horribly wrong. He adjusted his tie- I laughed like it was funny just loud enough for him to hear. You know, stuff like that. He looked pretty unamused by my child-like actions. I would be too.

           

“Sayounara (see you later), Dante-san (‘san’ is an informal yet nice way of addressing someone.),” Takumi said angrily to me, right before leaving me in a stunned silence.

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

            (BOTH- TAKUMI KAZUO AND DANTE ?) Takumi was shocked to see Dante beckon to him as he got in the subway car. He looked around a moment, uneasy and doubtful, wondering if it was really Takumi to whom Dante addressed. Takumi swallowed hard and pushed through to Dante, finding nobody else answering his call.

 

“Hello Takumi,” he said, motioning for the other to sit on his right, “how are you?”

 

Takumi fidgeted in his seat. “How do you know my name?”

 

            “How did you know mine, Mr. Kazuo?”

 

Takumi trembled ever-so slightly. Dante could be intimidating when he wanted to be, his eyes seeming to brim over with emerald green fire, his words smoldering like lava.

 

“Y-you had it written on your c-coat tag and I once s-saw it,” Takumi stammered, “Gomen ne (I’m sorry), Dante-san, I meant no harm…b-but, how did you know mine?”

           

“The portfolio,” said Dante calmly, “that you cling to so tightly everyday, is engraved with your name. Relax, compose yourself my man. Have a smoke.”

           

Dante offered one to Takumi, poking it out the top of the pack. Takumi hesitantly took one.

 

“There is no smoking on the subway, I thought?”

           

Dante grinned like the little devil he is and lit up, calmed by the long drag he took.

 

“So,” he began, “I asked you before ‘how are you?’ Care to answer?”

           

Takumi smiled, delighted by Dante’s frivolousness as he also took a drag.

 

“I have been fine.” He paused as he put the lighter to his cigarette. “What is your last name Dante-san?”

           

“Arashi (actually means ‘storm’ in Japanese),” he replied.

 

            “So you are…”

 

            “Japanese, like you? No, only half. My mother gave those genes to me. With my blonde hair and green eyes, it just doesn’t show. You don’t look full Japanese either, Takumi-sama. (‘sama’ is a term of endearment and informal, like ‘san’)”

 

He blushed at being called Takumi-sama.

 

“My father was a half American and my mother was full Japanese.”

 

            “You lived there, in Japan, before coming here, didn’t you?”

 

            “Yes, till I was 15. Then I moved here to live with my father when my mother died.”

 

Takumi stopped, annoyed with himself that he was sharing so much with this stranger. Or was he a stranger now? He took another hit on his cigarette, pondering the situation.

 

            “Are you uncomfortable talking to me,” asked Dante. “We could talk somewhere else later. I’m interested in your story.”

 

            “Why? Why do you want to know about me?”

 

Dante leaned back in his seat, resting his head on the subway’s back wall right behind him. “I’m a writer,” he explained smugly, grinning like a kid, “I collect people’s stories. That’s why I ride the subway. I look for stories.”

 

            “So you are going nowhere when you are here,” cried Takumi in amazement.

 

Dante nodded. It was the same reaction every time, but he always got what he wanted in the end. It was almost time for Takumi to depart.

 

“Here,” Dante said as he thrust a piece of paper at Takumi with his phone number written on in, “call me when you’re free, and we can meet somewhere where you can tell me all about you. A café, if you like, my treat, or even my home if you desire. Where ever you feel comfortable. Just make sure you call me back, Takumi-sama.”

 

He nodded and gathered his belongings.

 

“Arigato (thank you), Dante-san.”

 

And Takumi left, off to work again on another Friday morning, leaving Dante with a sense of accomplishment and the promise of an interesting upcoming new story. He settled back into his seat, picked up his paper, and hummed “Mr. Roboto” quietly as he read about the rising stock prices in the business section.