Free Gasa-Gasa Girl by Naomi Hirahara

There was an M, N, two Qs, R, W, 2, 5, and 4, their desired train line, in a green circle. As Mas descended the steps, he hung on to the metal railing, his left shoulder and elbow banging into passersby, plastic bags, and briefcases. The railing was cold and sticky, yet the last thing he wanted was to tumble down, break his neck, and be squashed by commuters.
    When he got to the bottom of the cement stairs, Mas was hit with the sour and acidic smell of
shikko
and attempted to breathe out of his mouth. It was the same in every big city: secret corners always attracted secret behavior. He stumbled toward the open lobby, where men and women swiped cards alongside long machines and rushed in and out of turnstiles. How was Mas going to find Tug in the chaos?
    Then Mas remembered the mention of the ticket booth. Sure enough, against the wall was a box the size of two phone booths. Inside was a black man dressed in a blue uniform. Mas shuddered to think about being trapped under the street in such a small space.
    “Mas, old man.” A familiar voice called out to him. Tug walked through a revolving door made of metal posts like those found at the exit of Disneyland. “Thank God I found you. You’re kind of easy to miss.”
    Tug, on the other hand, was not. His hair, which had a wave to it, was frizzier than usual. His white beard glowed underneath the fluorescent lights. Upon seeing his friend, Mas felt the knot in his stomach loosen. Tug was a few years older than Mas, but his mind was still sharp. Sometimes he forgot trivial details—the name of an old high school classmate, for example—but as an ex–government worker, Tug fully understood how to work the system. When their daughters were still young, the two families occasionally vacationed together. Those were the only times the Arais stayed at hotels fancier than Motel 6 or Travelodge. From Tug, Mas learned about AAA and the automobile club’s hotel rating system. Tug and Lil never laid their heads on a bed in a room ranked less than two diamonds, while Mas and Chizuko couldn’t even find their regular discount spots in the AAA book at all.
    Tug was not a New York man, but he could navigate the city a hell of a lot better than Mas. “We’ve got to get you a MetroCard.” Tug headed for the ticket booth, pulling out his wallet from his front pocket. “This will last you the whole week.”
    Before Mas could protest, Tug was at the window, placing a twenty-dollar bill through a hole in what looked like bulletproof glass. Why was everyone trying to make Mas commit to staying in the city longer?
    Tug gave Mas a plastic ticket and gestured toward the fast-moving line of people going through turnstiles. “You place the ticket here,” said Tug, swiping the ticket in an opening like those for credit cards at grocery stores. He pushed his way forward through a turnstile. “You go now, Mas.”
    Someone pushed Mas from behind, cursed, and then quickly moved to the next line. Mas felt his head grow hot as he carefully nudged the ticket through the slot and then awkwardly stepped forward, the metal post of the turnstile pressing against his lower ribs.
    “You can use this card on all the other lines, Mas. You’ll find it quite handy.” Tug pushed Mas toward another section of the terminal, and Mas found himself descending stairs again.
    Mas had seen images of modern subway stations on Japanese soap operas broadcast on Sunday nights in L.A., but he had never stepped foot in one. The trains back in Hiroshima, before the Bomb, were powered the old-fashioned way: with coal. L.A. had its own so-called train system, but no gardener would have any use for that. As for Mas, he had his beloved 1956 Ford truck, which was a lot lighter these days after having been ravaged by a thief and a looter. But it still managed to get the job done, which was more than he could say for some modern-day vans and pickup trucks.
    The train platform was plain concrete, stained by layers of spilled food.