Slow Boat

^{BOAT SEVEN} THIS ISN’T THE FIRST AND YOU KNOW IT’S NOT THE LAST

Mid-April, 2001. About a year and a half ago. I took my third girlfriend (aka “Knife Girl”) to the airport. I saw her off—like some kind of guardian. I was twenty-five or twenty-six. Pretty sure we looked nothing like lovers.

Is that because we loved each other too much?

That March, she graduated from the school in Kita ward where she’d spent the last six years. Next stop: the US, the East Coast, where she could fulfil her destiny. Kate—our Asagaya fortress—had been her destiny, but that place was no more. She needed a new place now. She was a knife girl and she needed to fight. I believed that. So I did some digging. Making connections was surprisingly easy. Nohara put me in touch with an editor working on a project called “A Tale of Three Cities: Japanese Taste Around the World”. After that, it only took three letters, two international calls and one video (showcasing Knife Girl’s literal chops). And the cherry on top: we had the US Ambassador try her cooking and put in a good word, in an unofficial capacity.

I hope you brought your sunglasses. This girl’s future was as bright as a 10,000-watt light.

Go West, Knife Girl. You’ve burnt some bridges—but your blades will get you where you need to go.

She walks through the gate, then looks back. She’s sobbing. “Thanks for everything, boss,” she shouts. You’ve got it all wrong. I’m nobody’s boss now.

Golden Week is coming at the end of the month—but the airport is unnaturally quiet.

I watch her leave.

I watched her leave.

Then I was overcome by an unbearable emptiness.

This is the record of my defeat.

My failed Tokyo Exodus. It’s cold here—too cold.

Christmas Eve, 2002. Where am I? Ariake Station, on the Yurikamome Line. I walk through the gate and take the long escalator down. Mere metres in front of me: International Exhibition Station on the Rinkai Line. Time to switch trains. But which way? Tennozu Isle or Shin-Kiba? I go—where I’m taken. I don’t choose my platform. My platform chooses me. Time moves me.

I trace Tokyo’s outline underground.

A voice announces the next station: Shinonome—“dawn”.

The train passes through the station, keeps going. Towards the end of the Rinkai Line.

Here it is. Shin-Kiba. Where the Keiyo Line runs above ground and the Yurakucho Line runs underground. They’re waiting for me. The wickets call to me, but I don’t fall for their trap. I move towards sea level. Listen—I say to myself—you’ve got your limits. You will die at some point… that’s why you can’t stop now.

You can’t turn your back on the dream.

You can’t turn your back on the plan.

You’re still alive. Right? Don’t give up on getting out—not now.

Then I see it.

The area map. I’m staring right at it. I can’t believe my eyes. It’s Yume-no-shima. Translation: “Dream Island”. A man-made island that dates back to the sixties. A landfill made out of surplus soil.

An island made of trash—for keeping even more trash.

This is what dreams are made of. Yume-no-shima.

Be still, my beating fucking heart.

I walk straight for it.

The place is a park now. It has everything: baseball diamonds, soccer fields, an archery range, a gym, an indoor pool, a bike path. There’s even a tropical greenhouse—and eucalyptus everywhere. I follow Meiji Avenue into the park. I head right, over Eucalyptus Bridge. This place has all kinds of palm trees. One kind after another, almost like a family tree of palm trees. There’s a footpath near the stadium. I follow it.

Doesn’t seem to be anyone around.

I can’t see much. There are bushes and trees in my way. But I feel it. I’m close. To this place—to this Island of Dreams. I keep walking and come to a clearing…

A crater.

Or is it?

A huge bowl opens up in front of me. It looks just like a crater made by a meteorite. The coliseum—the pride of the park. But there’s no one here. Not today, not now. I see no actors onstage at the bottom of the bowl. No gladiators trying to dismember one another. No Ancient Roman orators come back to life. The absence thrills me to no end.

I feel it. It’s here.

But what is?

I don’t know. Not yet.

The bowl doesn’t have seats. Just stone steps that double as seats. I sit down—on the third or fourth step. Some pigeons on the next block take off when I crash the party. I wrap my arms around my knees. I can feel myself becoming part of the stone (hard, cold, artificial). Then I go to sleep. I could almost hear the thud. As I break through.

Through the wall dividing reality and dreams.

Thud.

I’m lying down this time. On that single bed. The bed in that “room”. I was asleep—but I’m up now. I’m holding something. Against my chest. The CD. I was sleeping with Sonny Rollins in my arms. It had to be the CD. Because it’s too important to let go.

Track eleven tells me everything I need to know. The truth. This is no hotel. This is no “room”.

On a Slow Boat to China.

That explains the vibrations—the buzz of the bed. But it isn’t the bed. It’s everything. The whole… vessel.

I’m on a slow boat.

I get out of bed. I know what I’m looking for. Where is it? I take half a step towards the desk. Brush away the heaps of dust. It kind of looks like snow. Something’s speeding up now. Getting faster. Time? I start digging. It has to be here somewhere. That slip of paper.

Found it. My ticket to ride.

The words are a blur. Can’t make them out.

Time is moving dangerously fast now.

Where am I going? Where’s this slow boat taking me? Hope… I still have hope. That I’m getting out of here. But I have no idea where I am—no idea where I’m going—and isn’t that the same as having no way out? The floor rumbles, speaks to me: You’re not going anywhere. The room has shape now. The shape of a cabin. Better hurry.

The rumbling doesn’t stop. It’s hypnotizing. This isn’t the first and you know it’s not the last. There’s nothing you can do, nowhere you can go.

Then I hear another voice. You’re wrong, she says.

Softly.

The window’s boarded up. It won’t let the outside in. The door is no good. The knob is dead. Got to get to the bottom of this. Or do you wanna be a fossil? You wanna turn to dust—trapped in this cabin? No fucking way.

I sail with my mind.

Like riding a dragon. Like in that movie, when the hero flies to the end of the world. To keep the world from ending. The scene plays back in my head.

Back to the bathroom. I step inside. Look at the mirror. It’s still cloudy. I wipe it clean with the bottom of my fist to find myself looking back at me. Is that really me? A question like the last judgement. Yes, I answer.

Yes. This is my life.

And I won’t run.

From my chronicle of failures.

In that moment, I slip through the wall—through the mirror.

Into the real “dream”.

And I don’t wake up.