"D Line 15 minutes," the announcement board declared in the dimly lit metro station. Murakami adjusted his backpack, a constant companion on his solitary journeys, and surveyed his surroundings. Should've disembarked at the last bus stop, he thought ruefully. He could have walked faster than the train that now rushed by, its rickety wheels echoing through the tunnel. He wondered if the bus driver shared his irritation. She had to dislodge herself from her seat and remove the homeless men's bicycles before realizing they had no intention of paying the fare. He had watched the entire spectacle from the edge of his bus seat, the traffic lights flickering in the background like a distant dream.

Back on the platform, jazz music blared from the overhead speakers, a futile attempt to distract commuters from the drab reality that enveloped them. A weary Hispanic woman struggled to keep her two restless children behind the yellow safety line. A disheveled white man dragged what appeared to be his entire life in an overflowing bag, accompanied by an inexplicable fishing rod. An Asian woman approached Murakami cautiously, seeking refuge in his presence, away from the other end of the platform. He nodded gently and mustered a brief, forced smile, which she gratefully returned.

The decrepit walls hinted at a station that might have been older than London's Underground, though that was impossible. It crossed his mind that advertising posters inside public transport revealed stark differences between London and Los Angeles. The Underground welcomed passengers with vibrant visuals of an upcoming ABBA concert, while here, all he saw were government appeals for food stamps and subsidy programs.

He turned his attention to a newcomer on the platform—a well-dressed man clutching a bouquet of flowers, poised to offer them to a potential lover at a moment's notice. He seemed utterly out of place among the weary commuters. Murakami wondered if there was a future where this man would sit on a podcast, recounting his heroic journey out of the poverty life had thrust upon him. He pondered whether the 1970s Bronx had been any worse than the Los Angeles of the 2020s and if new hip-hop would emerge from these streets. Or, as he turned to the optimistic bearer of the bouquet, would he find himself heartbroken and addicted to fentanyl within a week?

Finally, the train arrived, announcing its presence with repeated honks, as if its blinding lights were insufficient. As it came to a halt, the driver's voice crackled over the intercom, urging passengers not to open the doors just yet. Restless commuters on both sides strained to catch his words as the train inched forward slightly before coming to a complete stop. The doors finally slid open, and a few passengers disembarked. Avoiding eye contact with anyone who seemed inebriated, Murakami entered the train. There were plenty of vacant seats, but the mystery of which one might have been stained with vomit or worse the night before deterred him from sitting.

The train departed from the gloomy station into the dark tunnels, slowing down occasionally on sharp turns. Did train operators tamper with automated systems to maintain a semblance of control, to stave off the encroaching threat of AI? Regardless, before long, the tunnels gave way to blinding sunlight as the train ascended onto an elevated track. Gates swung open and shut, and in the distance, young Indian students strolled past. One of the brown girls wore her jacket draped casually over her left shoulder, a clear attempt to blend in with the Californians.

At another point, the train paused alongside a sea of cars inching through traffic. Murakami pondered where he truly belonged—with his fellow passengers enduring the authority's capricious metro timetable or with the well-heeled youth ensconced in their air-conditioned cars with heated seats. It was a question of whether you could endure the whims of a faceless bureaucracy or preferred to navigate the same traffic jam on your own terms.

Credits: GPT4 for refining my earlier draft.