Episode 02: My Father’s Taxi and My Mother’s Pachinko
When I was a child, I always felt like my father was driving somewhere far away.
He was a taxi driver.
He would leave home in the evening and return at dawn.
While I slept, I could hear the soft rumble of his engine through the night.
A white taxi moving through a quiet residential street at night.
My mother worked during the day.
She was strong — managing both her job and the household.
But even she had a small place to breathe.
Between work and chores, she would sometimes stop by a pachinko parlor.
Pachinko is hard to explain to people outside Japan.
It’s not quite a casino, but not just a game either.
A noisy hall filled with flashing lights and the metallic sound of thousands of tiny balls.
People sit there for hours, chasing not money directly, but small prizes that can be traded for it.
For my mother, I don’t think it was really about money.
It was about peace — a brief stillness inside the noise.
A moment where she could stop thinking.
Not about family. Not about work. Just about herself.
A small pause — a hand resting on a pachinko machine.
While other families went out together, our house stayed silent.
Maybe that’s why I was drawn to cars.
Cars meant freedom — the power to go anywhere.
Looking back now, I think both my parents were simply trying to make it through in their own way.
My father, by driving.
My mother, by dreaming.
And I suppose I’ve been chasing both ever since — to drive, and to dream.
A two-tone AE86 disappearing into the sunset.
コメント