I’m not good at being with people by nature. I always like to being
alone and stay inside my room. Basically, any contact with others is
uncomfortable. Not to mention phone calls, public places are dreadful
for me unless they are near empty with few people. I hate to have a
person standing right behind me at the checkout counter in a
supermarket. Whenever I take a train, I search for a car that has the
least passengers. My so-called ‘body bubble’ seems excessively large. I
often almost utter a scream when a person bumps into or even slightly
brushes me. Needless to say, chattering with others is excruciating. My
apartment building has a communal spa for the residents and I use it
everyday. The residents are inevitably acquainted with each other and
small talk between them is rampant in the spa. I’m often caught up in it
and desperately try to find closure of the conversation by sweating all
over. To avoid an ordeal, I’m usually careful not to share time
together with familiar residents as much as possible. When I see them, I
practically run away. My partner calls me a robot because of my
behavior.
The time of recent social distancing shouldn’t bother a
person like me. Social distancing has been already my thing for a long
time. At least I had believed so. I had thought it wouldn’t hurt a
natural ‘social-distancer’ as myself. But I found I was wrong.
One of
my favorite Japanese comedians from my childhood was infected with
Corona virus and was killed by it in a matter of days. Until just
recently, he had appeared on various TV shows and his funny face had
been the norm for TV. The daily TV time in a Japanese living room has
changed suddenly, completely. He was a nationally popular comedian who
earned the monstrous TV rating. When I was a child, my family gathered
in front of TV for his show at 8 p.m. every Saturday and laughed so hard
together. Kids at school would talk about the show next Monday and
laugh again together. When I was in my early teens, I danced his
signature gig called ‘Mustache Dance’ so frantically in the dining room
that my foot slipped and I fell hitting my face on the dining table.
Those memories made me feel as if part of me was lost with him by his
death.
Among my familiar residents in my apartment building are a
mother and her daughter. They are athletes and rough, thudding around
restlessly and talking loudly in a vulgar tongue all the time. I heard
that they were moving out soon. Since I was bothered with their noisy
manner and pushy conversations toward me at the communal spa, I felt
relieved that I could reclaim the quiet bath time. One evening during
the days I had waited for them to move out, I saw them at the spa. They
left for the locker room while I was still in the bath and I
intentionally took time in there to avoid meeting them at the locker
room, as usual. After giving them enough time to clothe and go home, I
stepped out to the locker room, assuming they were already gone. On the
contrary, they were still there, standing side by side courteously
toward me. They had been waiting for me. The mother told me that they
were moving out tomorrow and this would be the last time to see each
other. She said politely, “Thank you so much for all these years. You
helped us in various ways.”
I had known them since I moved in nine
years ago. The daughter was still a small child back then, who was
running and shrieking around the locker room. She is to be a freshman in
high school this spring. She occasionally talked to me about her school
days or her passion for skiing. The mother once broke her foot at her
workplace and she had been on crutches in the spa. I got out of the tub
to open and hold the door to the locker room for her every time until
she stopped limping. When we were late together at the locker room that
went black after the spa’s closing time, we would clothe together under
the light of my pocket LED lamp. Those memories flooded back to me all
of a sudden at the last time I saw them although I had thought it would
evoke nothing as I had been looking forward to getting rid of them.
While I was looking at the daughter’s liquid eyes that were staring
straight at me, I was overwhelmed by inexplicable sadness and my eyes
began to be filled with tears in spite of myself. I clumsily said
goodbye and returned to my apartment. A robot couldn’t say goodbye well.
Saturday, April 11, 2020
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