What’s a conbini?
The conbini.
A glowing oasis of joy in the desert of lightless inaka roads, the convenience store is your friend. 24 hour convenience stores can be found everywhere in Japan. Even in the aforementioned mountain villages of Daiyamabakahitobito-mura, there will be at least 3 conbini’s, within a 1-minute drive of each other, all selling exactly the same items at exactly the same prices.
The demographic of conbini employee’s is frighteningly wide. From sprightly high-school kids doing part time work, to wizened old grannies bent on working until they drop dead, the spectrum is vast yet appears considerably narrowed by the uniformly irritating perma-genki work ethic that they all share.
“Irasshaimaseee!” the lady squeals as the automatic doors swallow you. |She has been up for 2 weeks without sleep or a toilet break. She hasn’t seen her children for months. She has forgotten her own name. Her unnervingly ample grin penetrates your sleepy existence as it follows you round the store. After a while of going to the same convenience store, you notice that the same people are working there no matter what the time is. Once I was tempted to ask “when do you sleep?” to a particularly spaced-out older employee, but I was afraid that the mere reminder of the concept of sleep would move him to horrible tears of insanity.
Plucking your daily requisites of coffee and some kind of jam-filled bread snack from the shelves, you turn around and notice a door.
It is a door with no label and no handle. It could be the back-entrance to the magical land of Narnia, or it could be a broom cupboard. Growing more curious, you give a knock.
“knock”
No reply.
An itching sense of intrigue engulfs your body like a rash. You take a small run up and barge the door down with your shoulder. You look up. With mouth agape, you stand in awe at the dark,terrible secret at the heart of every conbini in Japan.
A huge bottomless chasm plunges into the earth. In the dim light you can make out colossal pillars, rising miles into the black sky. Rows and rows of coffin-like pods blanket every spare inch of the pillars. Arching your neck, you peer into a nearby pod. What is inside?
A human.
Wearing a conbini uniform.
You see, in the world of the conbini, human beings are no longer born to work. They are grown.
Frozen with dread, you watch as they liquefy yesterdays nikku-man and conbini Nabe to feed intravenously to the sleeping employees. The deft efficiency and clinical precision of it all is the epitome of everything you have come to expect from the Japanese.
You leave the room and forget you ever saw anything, boiling tears of compassion streaming down your face.
And yes, I recently watched “The Matrix” again.
