1:23 am

4.) Mr. Daremo

Kazuteru Daremo boarded the Metro at 6:45 pm on a Tuesday night. He let off work at 6:30 pm today, and had to walk fifteen minutes to reach the station and board the subway. He had these numbers calculated, of course. He had everything calculated.

Calculations were a part of his everyday life. Numbers surrounded him, day in and day out, along with charts, pie graphs, bar graphs, averages, ranges, business jargon, stock exchanges, board meetings, and everything else that could be mentioned that would encompass the life of a regular, everyday, Japanese-American businessman in a big city.

He supposed, sometimes, that this life was rather dull. But he was successful. His fine clothes and official-looking briefcase were proof of that. His well-furnished, high-rise apartment and bottles of expensive, imported wine were also proof of that. His wrinkled face, tired eyes, and vague emptiness in his chest left by everything he didn't have because money couldn't buy it were definitely proof of that. It's all just how a businessman lives and thrives, he thought. It's like the American Dream, only not completely stupid, like playing baseball or growing potatoes for Lays.

Mr. Daremo, as he was often called by pretty much everyone he met because he had no one close enough to him to call him by his first name, entered into the mostly empty train car and sat directly across from the door because it was the most convenient seat. He took notice of the pile of blankets to his right and, leaning over them, took notice of the young boy sleeping in them. A homeless boy! he thought. How horrid he be sleeping on public transit! Why does no one kick this boy out? Could the police be called on him and have him sent to a juvenile hall? Could I call the police on this boy? I wonder if I left my phone at the office, if I haven't, I should-

But Mr. Daremo knew he wouldn't do that. He tried his hardest to send glares at this unaware, snoozing boy, but his face softened as the child mumbled and tossed in his sleep. This boy doesn't have an orphanage like you did, isn't that right, Kazuteru? a voice taunted, attempting to guilt him. He hasn't a place to go, and you want to call the police on him? Weren't you him, Mr. Daremo? Weren't you on the streets for some time, you shameless old man?

Mr. Daremo swallowed hard and closed his eyes. Maybe he could sleep the guilt away. Sleep away the memories of his childhood, and of this homeless child who he may never see again after these short minutes on public transit.

People entered the Metro, but Mr. Daremo noticed nothing but the child as he slept. As he would toss and turn, Mr. Daremo would glare at him, but only because he resented him for making him feel guilty about his own life. What a childish reason, Kazuteru. You should learn some humbleness.

Over an hour later, Mr. Daremo was standing in front of the train with the six other passengers, shaken, confused, and wanting desperately to be the adult figure but it seemed that the little lass Gwendolyn was beating him to it. She led the way and he followed with the younger folk around him, including the little homeless boy he was very, very concerned about.

Minutes later, he introduced himself. He did not intend to give his first name, because it was not important, and he had no room in his mind for unimportant facts. His mind was stirred and twisted by the mental image of that conductor. The way the whites of his eyes brimmed with red like tears gave him a fright and a shocking chill. That chill felt like the nights when he'd given his only blanket to one of the younger girls because they were more susceptible to succumbing to a frozen winter night in the dirty Japanese orphanage that had raised him where his wounded father and Minamata-striken mother could not. That chill struck him in the chest like a heavy rock and wouldn't leave until he was outside of the subway train.

A few more minutes later, and Shannon, who had been directly at his right shoulder previously, was now being dragged away screaming by a tunnel monster.