The paperback-cellphone hypothesis

Tokyo resists all easy generalizations and hasty conclusions. Just when you think you've got a hold of a clear explanatory concept that you can sling around to impress people, you get an experiential metaphoric slap in the face.

Here's one: The number of cellphone usage has increased, so commuters no longer read as much as they used to. Instead, they nimbly poke around on their little dials instead of soaking in great works of writing.

Seemed obvious enough, looking around the train, little ringings here, moshi-moshi's there, ima doko desu-ka's all over the place. The oyayubi-zoku (literally "big thumb tribe") seemed to have reclaimed the mental input space from the newspapers (admittedly with lots of racing sheets and soft porn ads), palm-size paperbacks (granted, with folded manila covers hiding the bestseller self-help titles), and magazines (unquestionably mainly manga). But just the same it was print, right? Reading anyway, connected phrases and ordered events, whole interconnected articles, coherent if prurient.

All culture has been reduced to little screens, glowing buttons, and jagged, dancing text, with oral spoken culture on the rise. Reading's retreat in the face of cellphone's brutal onslaught into the mind's sensitive, interior space seemed all too obvious. Discombobulated, half-articulated cellphone messages blared MTV over reading's symphony.

That surety of clarity didn't last long. On Saturday night nine-ish, early for the Chuo Line, out jumped Tokyo's "nah-wrong-again-buddy."

Nestled in the middle of the seven seated passengers along one bench was a new convert, her "KDDI" bag propped up as she gently poked around on her cellphone with the astonished face of novelty and promise. A black choker crossed the middle of her neck.

Then to KDDI's left was a trim, proper woman in a white blouse and faded rose skirt, hose-covered legs set primly together. Her manner of calm poise spoke sophistication. Her starched collar angled out with boutique-bought care. Her hair was tied back, yet slipped provocatively in one place from a large tortoise-shell barette. A demure, simple black leather bag rested in her lap, above which she balanced, yes, or rather, no, not a cellphone, but a paperback covered in a black leather book cover. It matched her bag just a little too well.

To her left was a a plumpish young man in a yellow slogan T-shirt tucked inside a half-buttoned, well-washed cotton shirt, jeans-covered legs sprawling. Tousled hair complemented half-tied Keds. He was, well, no, not exactly calling or sending email on his cellphone, but rather poring over a largish NHK translation of a "Keiji (detective) Colombo" script. He obviously had his own ideas of the plotting of mysteries, the particular techniques of introducing clues and the revelation of motivational character. What he didn't have, though, was a cellphone.

To his left was a "ronin" type who shifted as uneasily as all adolescence does underneath a massive backpack crammed with study guides, history outlines, test tricks and review schedules. It would seem, anyway. He was reading Young Jump magazine the whole time and certainly didn't reach inside for his cellphone.

OK, going the other way, seven to a bench, to the right of the KDDI poster girl still plunking away on her newly bought/rented/leased/payment-planned cellphone was an older woman, grey hair resolutely un-dyed over a tasteful natural-dye cotton ensemble outfit. Well obviously, she wouldn't have a cellphone, just not the type. She was all wrapped up in an A4-size xeroxed copy of some journal article or other which needed annotation and comments with her well-schooled pencil.

Next? To her right was a tiger-skirted OL who had taken a class on cosmetic application. Perhaps her date ended early, perhaps she was just going to it. Or the next date. Whatever. A simple paper-wrapped book consumed her attention, title concealed. No calls.

Last chance for proof of the reading to cellphone devolution was to her right. A woman in her 50s indeed held no alphabetical or ideographic writing, but the musical score from Franz Wullner's "Chorobungen." Rather than tapping the buttons on the cellphone, she tapped time on her leg, gently humming a real melody to herself.

When the KDDI woman finally stood up, tucked her cellphone into her crisp, shiny new bag and de-trained, her spot was taken by a youngish salaryman who drew his thick, full leather briefcase up onto his lap, opened it to dig around inside, glanced at a half-lifted book, thought better of it, zipped shut the whole thing with one swift, brief motion, and leaned his head back to go to sleep.

--Michael Pronko