The Last Train Out of Meikon Station
A short story about a writer lost and found in Japan
There comes a time in every life when we’re struck with the realization that every path we’ve taken thus far has been the wrong one. My time came on a sunny Thursday morning in May. I was sitting alone, sipping a Vietnamese coffee in a jungle-themed café at the far end of Inokashira Park, in the Kichijoji suburb of Tokyo. My notebook and laptop lay before me, white maws greedily open, waiting to swallow up any speck of creativity I may be able to shore up. The past few months had been scant, and they were severely underfed.
Despite living in Japan for over 12 years, my professional situation was still hard to describe. Basically, I worked any odd job that could squeeze a few yen out of the average Japanese salaryman’s linguistic insecurities. Online English lessons, translation, editing, YouTube classes, helping sharply-dressed tech execs enunciate their golfing slang; jobs I hadn’t known existed, let alone could support a single man in his late 30s. I wasn’t making enough to have any real savings, but plenty to cover rent and support my higher aspiration. The odd jobs were temporary. I was going to make it as a writer.
I’d had my whole journey planned out for over a decade. Start small with short stories and nonfiction articles. Build an…
