A Game That Lost Time

An amassing horde swallows the platform as the bullet train rolls in promptly for the evening rush hour. A man in a suit and sharply fit glasses holding a brown leather briefcase and a silver watch escapes the mob and leans against a pillar with an exasperated sigh. The train halts to a stop and the doors shoot open. The man steps forward to board and in that moment a young boy runs right in front of him. Lurching back just in time the man stumbles in after the kid as the doors close behind him. A sigh of relief escapes his mouth as he finds himself in one of the few open cars and practically collapses on the stiff, blue plastic seat. The summer heat is inscribed in the pit stains revealed after removing his blazer and the loosening of his scarlet tie.

However, there is no rest for the wicked as a projectile sails across the aisle and dinks his forehead. His half-closed eyes flutter open and it takes a few seconds before he looks at the crumpled piece of paper in his lap. Curious he unfurls it, careful not to rip it, and crocks his head as he deciphers a sloppy message reading "Hey Mister, Why are you so tired?" Tracing the trajectory of the message-marked missile the grinning face of the boy he almost trampled beams at him with eyes aglow. The man thinks about the troublemaker's assault before sighing again, pulling out a pen to write his message and tossing it to the boy's open arms. The kid writes and then arcs the balled paper back across, looking expectantly at the man. Freshly uncrumpled the man looks and skims the message he wrote before perusing the boy’s response: "I have had a long day at work. Why did you ask also what are you doing on a train alone at night?" The answer read "I wanted to know is all. I got separated from my mom in the crowd. Would you like to play a game? " The man sighs as he has no energy to spare, but also feels for the kid. He must be worried without his mom. He writes "Sure what's the game?" before throwing it back. The boy giggles and jumps out of his seat a bit in what seems like a leap of joy before vigorously writing. After what appeared like a long while, the paper makes its way back to the man this time as a paper airplane. The instructions for the game were as follows: “Make an animal out of the paper and throw it back and each time it makes it across you must make a new animal and whoever fails to make a new animal or make it across loses.” After checking his watch and seeing he has another twenty minutes before his stop, the man nods at the boy and folds a crane. With a flick, the crane glides swiftly to the other side. The boy's mouth makes a wide circle which is followed quickly by folding his own animal. One that seems to swim across the air as it makes its way on top of the man's briefcase. It appears to be a turtle and the man pauses before being inspired to make a fish. The rippling creases make for crude scales yet do not diminish the magic of it cutting through the reef of stanchions and people preparing to get off at the next stop as the man sends it back to the boy. Who pops his head through a gap in the small crowd, smiles big, and gives the man a thumbs up. A mild grin captures the man's weathered face and he watches intently as the boy's mind and hands go to work. The whoosh of the doors accompanies an almost Biblical split as the sea of the crowd splits and the most elaborate origami the man has ever seen threads the needle between the divided passengers. Looking down at what was cupped in his hand, the man examines what looks like a fierce dragon. The boy had somehow managed to defy physics with how he got that simple paper to transform into a mythical series of horns, talons, fangs, a flaming tail, and pronged wings. The man's fingers drum his briefcase erratically, thinking about how to slay this dragon— with an artful creation of his own. The fairytales and stories of his childhood flood his mind and remembering a favorite toy of his, he gets right to work. Filled with an unwavering zeal he folds and unfolds and reconfigures until his magnum opus is complete and he lets it fly and roll like thunder through the arena that this train car has become. The boy looks as if it were Christmas and he has gotten the perfect gift. He takes a few moments as he admires in awe the phoenix with its glorious paper plumage. They meet each other's eyes: the young, lively eyes of the boy and the cloudy gaze of the businessman lock.

The businessman's eyes start to clear and a glint of joy creeps into his stare, the trance broken as the doors hiss open. The PA system blares something, but the man misses it as the moment muddies the staticky muttering. The boy sticks his tongue out and smiles before darting out the door as if to say—you won. The man lurches back and chuckles before realizing he forgot to check his watch. Seeing the time and the stop drifting by in neon lettering atop the doors, he jolts up. This was his stop too and he managed to squeeze out of the door. Sighing in relief, he tilts his head thinking to himself "I haven't sighed or been worried about the time after I started getting into that silly game." Smiling to himself the man looks around wanting to thank the boy for his shenanigans, maybe learn his name. Across the way, another crowd separates them yet again. He sees the boy, who happens to be staring right at him, standing next to a young woman. The man thinks it must be his mom or his older sister. Following the boy's gaze she finds the man and smiles and waves as if to say thank you and goodbye. The boy does the same but then starts to make more signals with his hands. The man's face dons a smile and waves back, but these other gestures were foreign to him. Their meaning, however, was crystal clear: "Thank you for playing, I had fun."

Later that night as the man sat on his couch alone in his apartment he stared at his laptop screen and a video. It is then that the man learns about sign language and that the boy was signing the phrase "You looked defeated, so I thought you might be happy if you played a game. It was really fun playing so thank you and I hope you find happiness." The man wept as he realized how lost he was battling time, getting up to do a job he hated, and letting his life work him instead of for him. These tears were mixed with happy ones as for the first time he felt as if he knew what he wanted to do and felt understood. There was great beauty in silence, a voice that breaks away the vanity of chatter and Oscar-worthy platitudes. The man began to learn sign language as to one day thank the boy who revived his inner child and taught him the pleasant booming of a silent voice.