hanamaki recalls a particular moment when he was eight years old, scolded by his father for allegedly burning the microwave, when in actuality, it was his younger sister, who thought she could heat her instant noodles in it. as punishment, he was grounded for a week and prohibited from eating dessert for a week.
he stormed to his room, shouting over his shoulder, “i can’t wait until i’m an adult; i can eat all the cream puffs i want!”
twenty-six years later, he thinks to himself, fuck being an adult.
the train is suffocatingly packed. his music is barely audible over screeching wheels along the rails, high school boys yelling to make themselves heard, tiktoks at max volume to match them. a hand brushes against his butt, a shoulder against his shoulder, a head against his back. he’s jostled in every direction when the train stops and the doors open, passengers trying to get in and out. the doors try to close twice before succeeding, hurtling down the track, once more.
one stop down, six more to go.
he doesn’t have anything against public transit; he lives and dies by it, always takes the train to the city, the bus to school, the shinkansen to get away from the countryside. but fuck, does he wish it isn’t so insane every day, fighting for his life like he wants to live to go to work the next day, instead of living to eat a profiterole the next day.
he can’t even do that, because his uncle ate the last one yesterday.
from the station, it’s a short walk to his uncle’s apartment, which is a small mercy to the fifty-minute commute each way. he climbs the steps to the second floor, inserts the key into the doorknob, and enters the unit wreathed in cigarette smoke. whereas he opts for food for dinner, his uncle prefers a pack of cigarettes and two cans of beer.
his uncle is seated in front of the tv, a cigarette between his fingers. he, too, is still wearing his suit, tie loosened, jacket thrown over the couch. “hey, kiddo. got some groceries on my way home.”
“thanks.” hanamaki steps quickly into his room to hang his jacket and remove his tie, returning to the kitchen with his sleeves rolled. “you got any meat for curry?”
“sliced beef. it was on sale.”
ah, the shitty kind. he puts the ingredients on the counter, washes his hands, and gets the cutting board and knife.
since moving out, he’s improved his kitchen skills, although his time is limited, thus relying on prepackaged or instant stuff. at least his vegetables are mostly fresh, neatly diced to fit in the pot. he ladles it onto a plate of freshly steamed rice, the aroma almost rich enough to override the scent of tobacco.
he takes his plate and a cup of tea into his room. he watches youtube while eating, a food influencer showing off a plate of crab legs worth sixty thousand yen, while he eats his meal, probably worth seven hundred yen. he clicks off the video, searching for volleyball highlights to watch, instead.
this one focuses on south american players. oikawa is shown a few times, jacked and good-looking, definitely not subsisting off box curry. his eyes remain razor sharp, pumping his arms excitedly after every service ace. at least he’s living his best life, instead of being a capitalist slave.
a notification appears in the corner of his screen. matsukawa. up for drinks tonight?
busy being sad and depressed, hanamaki replies. matsukawa reacts with several sad emojis. a minute later, he gets an incoming call.
his best friend’s face fills his screen, cheek smothered by his hand, a can of asahi in frame. “funny how you’re sad and depressed more often than me, and i work with dead people,” he says in greeting.
“at least they don’t guilt you into working longer hours, doing shit not in your job description, or coerce you into drinking every friday.”
“maybe not, but dead people’s made me realized some things.”
“yeah? so has capitalism.”
matsukawa leans back, can hovering in front of his lips. “you share first.”
hanamaki raises his curry-stained spoon. “you ever ride a train while it’s packed with people? most of them are working professionals arrested to the daily grind, but what is it for? what are we all working towards? some system that keeps us housed, fed, and clothed? the ability to do something greater in your life? the answer is nothing. we’re working because that’s what society is built upon, which is a load of nothing. the work is nothing, the time spent on the train is nothing, and the time in between work the next day is nothing, which is equate to meaningless, so, really, our existence is meaningless, and we should all stop working and live off the grid in cancun.”
his curry is cold, carrots misshapen, potatoes slightly too hard to eat. not even the shitty beef can uplift his mood. “i really want a profiterole,” he says in the resulting silence.
“you should’ve gotten yourself a profiterole.”
“my uncle would’ve thrown a fit.”
“eat it before he sees it.”
he’s right. “i always forget how smart you are.”
matsukawa chuckles. “at least one of us remembers.” he takes a sip of beer. “you say this is all meaningless, and while we live it, it’s easy to think it. who the fuck wants to spend forty, fifty years working, all to one day die? it makes for a pretty meaningless life, right? but at the end of it, is it the work we remember, or the pieces of yourself?”
he lowers the can. “we hosted a funeral for a grandpa the other day. went straight to work out of junior high, never took more than a day off. he had five kids and eight grandkids. sure, they remember him as grandpa, the man who worked literally until his death, but they also remember him as grandpa, the man who greeted them with a hug and free candy every time they visited. they remember him as having all the craziest stories. they remember him as the face of the neighborhood, championing change and welcoming activists, politicians, and influencers into his store, if it means getting his message across. it was all work, so it might’ve been nothing to him, but for someone, it’s something.”
hanamaki stares at his curry. “i don’t think corporate greed can amount to anything.”
“no, but it isn’t forever. you’ll find something that aligns with you, hiro. you have time. a lot of it.”
that makes sense and all, but he can’t get back two hours of his commute every day. so use the time that isn’t controlled by capitalism to make something matter. “i don’t know about that, issei. it isn’t easy.”
“it isn’t, but we’re spoiled for choice, and i think that’s beautiful.”
he raises his eyes to blink at his friend, a handsome devil in a stretched t-shirt and boxers. he thinks of iwaizumi, building the next generation of athletes, and oikawa, rewriting volleyball history. matsukawa curates space for a person’s departure from the world, and hanamaki…
well, he doesn’t know what his something is, but he hopes it’s out there, somewhere.
clara lore: after i graduated from university, i worked full-time but didn't last a year before going back to school (altho it was mostly since my job was taking a turn for worse). now, it's been three months at a job i genuinely enjoy, but it's everything else i'm tired of - driving 40-50 mins each way, paying to maintain my car, paying off loans, worrying about my parents' wellbeing, etc.
i plan to write more of these drabbles partly to vent but also to hope. i'm still early in my career, still building my savings after going back to school and buying a car (i have so much to complain about), but i feel the despair, especially while stuck in traffic, surrounded by hundreds of other cars on their way to/from work. and what better way than to make fictional characters suffer, as well? however, as my blog says, you deserve happiness, so if they can hope, i can hope, too.
don't look forward to being an adult, truly. look forward to what you can do because you're an adult.
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