The running gun blues

The day David Bowie died.

I’ve thought about this day countless times over the years, both because of its absurdity (and, as time passed, humour – he would have laughed, I’m sure) and because of the sadness it’s wrapped in.

And I’ve thought about jotting this down many times over the years but haven’t until now.

On Friday, January 8 2016, I was in the queue at the huge Tower Records store in Shibuya. I don’t know why I queued on this day, as I’d not rushed to buy the previous Bowie album, but here I was waiting for the doors to swing open, in a line that crossed all age and national boundaries. I was about the 15th in line, which mattered because I was the last to grab a vinyl copy of BlackStar, as well as a limited-edition audiophile Japanese CD edition, only available that day, apparently (yes, I’m that guy). Both came with that-day-only LP-sized art prints (yes, I’m that guy again, but it’s Bowie).

I was thrilled, but it wasn’t all I’d bought in Tokyo. I’d gone a little nuts in the record stores and hauled in some 50-60 kg of vinyl, absurd amounts of must-have jazz, soul and Beatles-related records (yes, I’m that guy again, but it’s Beatles). No problem. We had a spare bag and had decided to buy another at Toyku Hands the morning before we left on the 10th (we needed to be at Narita around 7pm, about a 90-minute train ride from Tokyo Station). We also had an 88 kg weight allowance thanks to our Gold frequent flyer status on Thai Airways.

In the morning, we went to a flea market near Harajuku Station. Both B and I were carrying identical mobile wif-fi units, rented online. You hire one each, log in with a pin, and when you leave Tokyo, you put it in a prepaid postbag or drop it at the station. Easy. Except we’d taken each other’s wi-fi unit, which worked ok while we were in range of the unit we didn’t know the other had.

At the markets, B and I split up, agreeing to meet in an hour or so, and then head to buy the bag.

It was one of those typically great, very large Tokyo flea markets, so both of us were buying wonderful bits. I found 19th-century painted scrolls, and B found even older symbol-printing blocks. Then I realised I had no internet and no working mobile number. I looked at the wee box and saw that I had B’s. She was doing exactly the same thing. I panicked and started hunting for her, and she for me. It took another 40 minutes, but we found each other. However, it had blown out our planned timeline, which was fleamarket—>bag—>hotel—>pack new bag—>Tokyo Station—>Narita Express. And we needed that bag.

Buying the bag was a little trickier than we’d expected. The bag we wanted was out of stock in Shibuya, so we had to search. Eventually, we found one at the Ginza branch of Tokyu Hands. More time lost.

We took a cab to the hotel in Shiodome and struggled to fit everything we had into the four bags, plus the carry-ons. And there was all that extra weight.

We thought we’d bluff it, so we went down and got the staff to call a cab. A big one. There were no big ones. Two small ones. Done.

Downstairs at street level, the two cabs arrived, and we crammed the bags and us into them. “To Tokyo Station, please…”

We both arrived at the same time, but on opposite sides of one of the world’s biggest train stations as rush hour kicked off. We needed to catch the 5pm Narita Express, and it took us ages to find each other. Not only that, but we now had four seriously overpacked suitcases, plus cabin bags, and there was nary a trolley to be seen. Nor was there any obvious signage for the train.

I bought tickets and was directed to a gate. Again, no signage inside, at least not in English. Now, there are arrows on the floor (but we have a pre-booked van, bugger the train), but then there was nothing.

We dragged the bags around and around and around, fading with every step. We saw a sign: Narita Express, three levels down. There was no elevator, just a downward escalator. As we headed towards it, I logged in to the station Wi-Fi (there’s Wi-Fi on the train) and tossed the two mobile units into a mailbox.

We struggled down three floors, with bags tumbling at times. On the second floor down, a large Korean man pushed B out of the way, causing her to fall and the bags to follow her. “No!”, she screamed, punching him. The sweat and pressure were taking a growing toll.

As we reached the platform, we saw the 5pm train pull out. We looked at each other and said, “We’re fucked…” and we were, both physically and in flight terms.

The next train was in 40 minutes, and when we eventually found the platform, we swapped tickets, knowing we’d likely missed the Bangkok flight anyway.

I was looking at Twitter as we waited. The train arrived. We dragged our bags on board, found our seats, and, resigned to paying a premium for a new ticket, scrolled Twitter again. There seemed to be no train Wi-Fi, but we were still in the station, although now pulling out.

As we were leaving the station, a tweet rolled down.

“Rest in Peace, David Bowie.”

And the internet died for 90 minutes. I was beside myself – distraught – but there was nothing I could do. David Bowie was probably no longer of this world, and we’d missed our flight.

After what seemed to be forever, we pulled into Narita, and my primary need was to find the free airport Wi-Fi. I found it, and it confirmed that he’d gone. I was devastated. Tears followed. My first Bowie record was Hunky Dory, and my 1970s were in large part defined by David Jones from Brixton in his various guises. I’d lost him in the 80s (some records – the Queen duet, the Jagger duet in particular – seemed designed to insult his 70s fanbase), but I came back to him in the 1990s. Four years earlier, I’d been stunned by another tweet: David Bowie was 65. How could Ziggy be 65? Now he was dead.

In silence, we walked towards the Thai Airways check-in, the gold counter.

B said, “We know we’ve missed the plane. When’s the next one?” The woman behind the counter looked at our passports, picked up the phone, put it down, and said, “Quick, they’ll hold the flight for you. Bags, please…”

We threw our bags on the scales, and what had been under our weight limit was now 95kg. I looked at the woman, and she said, “Don’t worry,” then slapped tags on the bags. A small Japanese girl came out, looked at us, and said, “Run!” We did, down to security and immigration, both of which gave us VIP status. We got through, and she said, “Run!” We did again. The Thai flight was at Gate 49 - they are always at Gate 49, which is as far from immigration as possible. She said, “Run!” We looked at each other and said, “We don’t have it in us.” She disappeared, and we mustered as much energy as we could to walk the last 500m or so.

We arrived at the boarding gate and were ushered to the plane’s door, where the small girl was waiting. The crew shut the door behind us as we walked on. I sat down, and a hostess offered me a beer, saying, “You made it.”

The day David Bowie died.

I must read this:

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