Seven years ago the boy who lives in the house diagonally across from us kicked a soccer ball that shattered a window in our house in the room where we keep our Buddhist altar. Our houses are so close that if you open the window, you can hear the parents yelling at each other, or the phone ringing. Right in between one of its groans, I hear a loud sound, something breaking next door. But the paved roads that run through the neighborhood, which must have been just dirt farm paths at one time, are so narrow that I heard the family two houses down from us had so much trouble parking their Mercedes-Benz in their garage that they ended up getting rid of it. Nice-looking families moved in, and on weekends you’d see them out walking their dogs or driving around in expensive foreign cars. They slapped fancy names on these- Estates or whatever-to help sell units. When I was little, several neat but tiny buildings went up where there used to be plum orchards and farm fields. It used to be a nice, laid-back neighborhood, but all the old, larger houses got torn down, replaced by smaller single-family homes and apartments. I live in a crowded residential area on the outskirts of Suginami-ku in Tokyo. To me, that’s creepier and weirder than anything about smog. What I’d like to know is where they hide those speakers.
Most of these advisories happen in the morning, usually just as I’m about to leave for cram school. “An air pollution advisory has just been issued,” and the siren continues to drone on, like some kindly old dinosaur groaning away. “May I have your attention,” this woman’s voice drawls over a loudspeaker.
It’s happened every day since summer vacation started, so it’s no surprise. I’m penciling in my eyebrows when the smog alert siren starts blaring.
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