Planet: Chapter 1 - part 2

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The team leader announced, "We're done for today," and work finally ended. My back aches from crouching down to pick up debris all day. Tomorrow, I’d rather be on demolition duty. I hope I get that assignment. I’m good at breaking things. My dad once even praised me for it. But the decision’s up to the team leader and whoever’s in charge on-site.

When I got into the van, the droopy-eyed guy was already there, leaning back in his seat with his eyes closed, saying, "Man, that was rough." He’d been working on the opposite store from me at the site, so we hadn’t been in the same spot.

"Hey, what was your name again?" His voice came from the side.

"It’s Mura."

"So, Mura-san, what were you up to today?"

"I was collecting debris."

"Sounds nice and easy. I was, you know..." he started speaking fast, but I was so tired that I couldn't keep track of what he was saying. I just threw in a few "Oh yeah?" and "Wow" responses. Eventually, he went quiet. I thought he’d finished, but then he started talking again.

"Mura-san, are you even listening to me?"

"Yes."

Even if I couldn’t follow everything, I was listening. Just then, the crew-cut guy got into the driver’s seat with a heavy thud, muttering, "Alright, here we go." The van shook. His voice sounded less intimidating now than it had while we were working.

He hunched over, pressing his head against the steering wheel. "Ugh, I’m exhausted. My arms are killing me," he said, straightening up and smacking the side of the wheel.

"I don’t feel like driving," he added, twisting around to look at us. "I’ll give you half of my pay—someone, please take over driving."

The droopy-eyed guy raised his hand. "My license has expired, but if that’s alright with you."

The crew-cut guy groaned, "Yeah, can’t really do that without a license," and then looked over at me. "What about you?"

"I don’t have a license."

He let out a low "Ah, great," slumping his shoulders. Not long after, the engine sputtered to life with a roar.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

As soon as I entered the dorm, a pleasant aroma hit me from somewhere nearby, making my stomach growl. I wanted to eat right away, but I had to get an advance from the office before it closed.

In front of the office, there was a line of people waiting—some to collect cash, some for contract-related advances—so I joined at the very end. Finally, it was my turn, and I borrowed a thousand yen, all in hundred-yen coins.

With the money in my pocket, I headed to the cafeteria. A person who came in after me went to the counter, picked up a tray, and moved along a long table lined with side dishes. It looked like that’s how things worked here. I copied them, picking up a tray and setting the dishes on it.

The large tables were packed with people, and everyone ate quickly. Seats opened up almost instantly. An open spot appeared at the end of one table, so I sat down. Thankfully, no one was sitting across from me. If someone was there, there could be accidental arm-bumping, which might start an argument. The chopsticks and kettle of tea were in the center of the table, where hands would reach out, back and forth.

The fried chicken was delicious, like something you’d buy at a convenience store. I’d eat this every day if I could. The rice had a stale smell, and the miso soup tasted bad. Same as breakfast. I noticed the person sitting diagonally across from me pouring soy sauce heavily into their miso soup. I’d tried that before—it turned out weird, so I didn’t do it again.

I got a rice refill. The person who came in after me left the cafeteria before I finished. I’m slow. There’s an old man with bad teeth who’s also slow, and I’m the same way. My father always told me to chew my food well, so I do. I’ve never choked on food because of that. Sometimes you’ll see an old man nearby coughing and sputtering, but I never have that problem.

After my third refill, my stomach swelled up, full as a frog. If I stood, I felt like it might all come back up, so I stayed seated. There were still open seats, and no one was scolding me to leave. It was fine.

People came and went, left, and left again. The old man with white hair who’d been chewing forever by the entrance table finally exited. Now it was just me left.

Once my stomach settled, I went to my room. The stairs up to the second floor creaked loudly with every step.

Room 203 was the third one from the end. My key had a long plastic stick attached, with “Rindo” etched in hiragana on it, and below that, “203” written in thick black marker.

The room was about three tatami mats in size. The sheets on the futon were white and clean, which was nice. At least there wasn’t any visible dirt. I wondered if there’d be lice. I hoped not, but I wouldn’t know until I slept there.

I grabbed my change of clothes and went to the bath. The changing room and bath area were large, but the tub was empty and dry. Only the shower was usable, and there was no soap. I was glad I brought some.

With my cracked bar of soap, I washed from head to toe. When I scrubbed my feet, the towel turned black. I’d been dirty, after all. It had been a while since my last bath, and I felt refreshed after cleaning up. Baths are nice.

The bath mat outside was thin and worn, stained brown. I didn’t want to catch athlete’s foot. I dried off and put on my tracksuit. The changing room had a long mirror stretching from one end of the wall to the other, with several washbasins in front of it.

In the mirror was a man with messy hair. It took a moment to realize that was me. My hair had grown out. I leaned in and looked at my face. It had been a while since I’d seen it. Was this really what I looked like? When I touched the mirror, the reflection touched it too. Yeah, that was me. My face was scruffy around the mouth. Just as I was feeling my stubble, someone else appeared in the mirror—a man with glasses.

“Hey, you,” I heard him say, so I turned around.

“Don’t recognize you. You new here?”

Since I was new to the dorm, I greeted him politely with a “Yes, nice to meet you.” It seemed best to be respectful here.

"You can use that razor over there as much as you like," said the man with glasses, pointing. There was a plastic basket there, filled with T-shaped razors.

"They're leftover supplies from when this place was a ryokan," he added.

Not having to buy one was nice, especially since I’d somehow lost the razor I had before. My things disappear a lot. It’s always just... gone. The man with glasses, who tells me about things I can use, is a kind and decent guy.

I took out my soap again and shaved. Even after shaving, my fingers felt roughness on my chin. Some stubble was left, but I couldn’t be bothered with it anymore.

With my face freshly shaved, my scruffy hair caught my attention. Beneath the mirror hung scissors and nail clippers, each chained to the wall and secured with nails. The tips of the scissors were blunt.

I took those scissors and snipped my hair. I tossed the stray clippings that gathered on my fingers into the trash can. Snip, snip. The sound of cutting hair was oddly satisfying. My head felt lighter with each cut. Even when I carefully held the hair to cut, bits would fall into the washbasin below, where they stood out clearly on the white porcelain. My hair is coarse and wavy when dry, kind of like corrugated roofing sheets. My mom used to say, “Your hair is weird,” and would pull at it until it hurt, then laugh.

"Got yourself a choppy cut there, huh?" said a short man next to me as he brushed his teeth. I wondered what "choppy cut" meant.

"With that style, you’re ruining your looks, you know,” he added, spitting out foamy toothpaste.

"My hair was getting in the way, so I cut it."

"Well, it’s all uneven."

"I prefer it short."

"Real carefree, aren’t ya?"

The short man rinsed his mouth and left. My hair was short enough now, so I stopped cutting. The “me” in the mirror had uneven hair lengths above each ear, and my bangs looked kind of slanted. Couldn’t see the back. I washed my hands, gathered the hair caught in the drain, and threw it in the trash. Since it’s a shared space, you’d get scolded if you didn’t keep it tidy for the next person.

I took my work clothes and underwear from the bath to the laundry area. Ah, no detergent here. Guess I’ll need to buy some. But maybe tomorrow. Yeah, I’ll buy it tomorrow. Today’s fine without it.

I started the wash for a hundred yen. The laundry takes a while, so I went back to my room and lay down on the futon, putting in my earphones and turning on the TV.

Today was good. I ate plenty of food, and the bath felt great. The rain didn’t soak me or anything, and I have a futon. My back aches from crouching all day, but I’d like to keep working here... at least until they come for me.

I was getting really sleepy. I wanted to sleep, but the laundry wasn’t done yet. If I left it sitting there, someone would get mad. I could hear the TV sound from next door. There was a note beside the TV saying, “PLEASE USE EARPHONES,” but they weren’t using any. I don’t mind the noise, but the person in the room across the hall might get mad.

Once, I saw a fight over loud TV noise. Back at a dorm for workers at Seino Construction, two old guys got into a fistfight right at the entrance. The scrawny one was punched, started bleeding, and cried. He was the same guy who always collected the scrap like me. The guy who hit him yelled, "Can’t you even read what’s written, you idiot!” We all watched from a distance. I watched too.

“Wahaha…” I heard laughter. As I sat up, my earphone slipped out. On the TV, a guy had his mouth wide open, laughing. “Wahaha…” He looked like he was having fun. Oh, right. Laundry. I was doing laundry. I wondered if it was done.

When I went to the laundry area, the machine was still going. Just as I got closer, thinking it wasn’t done yet, I noticed a basket on top of the machine. My laundry was crumpled up and stuffed inside it.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

I keep collecting debris. A new guy joined, and now he’s the one collecting it while I handle breaking things down with the crowbar. After work, my shoulders feel weighed down, heavy and dull. By the next morning, it’s usually a bit better. The next day, I’m back to debris collection. My shoulders were still feeling a bit off, so I was glad for the switch. Breaking stuff down with the crowbar, collecting rubble—what I do changes day to day. The foreman decides.

When we finished dismantling the interior of Sakura TOWN, the foreman stopped coming here. Now it’s just me and the guy with the droopy eyes on the same site. I don’t see him around, so I don’t know what he’s doing. My job is to spray water on the concrete that the excavator’s breaking apart. I’ve done this for ages. In winter, I get drenched and shiver with the cold, but in summer, it’s nice—it’s cool.

The excavator, as huge as a monster, grabs onto the concrete with giant metal jaws and slowly presses down. A crack splits the concrete with a snap, and a series of crunching and ripping sounds follow as the rebar gets gradually exposed. The concrete, chewed up by those jaws, crumbles into bits, kind of like how a senile old man’s food falls to pieces. This thing feels alive. Excavators—they must really be alive.

When the excavator chomps into the concrete, a cloud of dust rises, spreading everywhere. We get complaints from the nearby houses, so we spray water on it. There aren’t any homes close to this site, but we still do it.

I aim a strong spray of water right where the excavator’s working to keep the dust down. I’m good at this; I’ve never been scolded while I’m on the job for “What do you think you’re doing?”

It takes the excavator ages to chew through concrete. Bit by bit, it can only handle so much. Breaking things down is a lot of work. So many people and so many days to build something up. Exhausting work. People get hurt sometimes, people die, build, break, build, break—on and on.

The excavator suddenly stops. The operator climbs out. Am I in trouble? Did I mess something up? My heart pounds heavily in my chest.

The operator doesn’t come over to me. What’s up? Bathroom break, maybe? I wait and wait, but he doesn’t come back. I start feeling hungry. Oh, could it be lunchtime? I look at my wristwatch. 12:08.

I leave the hose and head back to the on-site office. Out by the exterior wall, in the shade, the company cooler sits, so I grab my lunch from it. Since the sun’s strong today, I find a shady spot under the tent setup. A huge fan is spinning nearby with a loud whoosh, and there’s a water dispenser for anyone to use.

Some of the guys and older men are eating. It feels sparse—there aren’t many people here. Why’s that? Oh, maybe they went to the diner nearby? They’ve got air conditioning there, nice and cool. I never see the droopy-eyed guy at lunch; he always heads to the diner. I like that he’s not around. He talks too fast, so I never understand what he’s saying.

The company lunches are always the same. Bland rice and some fried stuff. Hardly any fried food but lots of rice. Before I signed on, anything was fine as long as it was food, but now I wish I could have something tastier. Just having enough to eat is enough, but I guess I’m getting spoiled.

I chew carefully, finish my meal, and toss the empty container in the trash. Then I get this itch in my back, wanting a smoke, so I light up a cigarette.

"Hey!"

A loud voice hits my ears like a jolt. One of the older men in black, faded work clothes—the steelworker kind—is looking at me.

"Smoke over there."

"Sorry."

Maybe I shouldn’t have smoked by the trash? No one scolded me yesterday. I wandered around, wondering where it was okay, until I found a group smoking around a large metal drum. Guess that’s the spot.

I sit in the shade a bit away from the drum and take a deep drag. My chest’s still pounding from being yelled at. I hate it. It feels like a deep cut that hasn’t healed. I wish it would fade fast.

The sky, it’s so blue. On sunny days, everything’s brighter. The clouds are white, fluffy, like cotton candy—totally a midsummer sky. I try to think about something nice. My mom, my dad… Wonder when they’re coming to get me.

The gray-haired old man walking in front of me stopped. His face turned toward me. Is he looking at me? Did I do something wrong? Maybe I'm not supposed to smoke here. I hate being scolded, so I turn away, hoping he doesn’t see me.

“Hey, are you Mura’s kid?”

Mura is my name. Since his voice didn’t sound angry, I replied, “Yes.” Maybe we worked together on some site before. I don’t remember him, though. Not a clue.

The old man’s mouth stretched into a sideways grin. His tanned face creased with thin brown wrinkles around his narrowed eyes. Is he smiling, even if he’s not making a sound?

“It’s me, Kanabe. I thought you looked like him when he was younger. We worked on the same site a few times, right? Back then, you were still just a kid.”

I don’t remember this old man named Kanabe, but since he’s speaking slowly, I can kind of follow what he’s saying.

“So, your old man doing all right?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“I haven’t seen him.”

“Did you two have a fight or something?”

What should I do? I can’t talk about “the pick-up.”

“My dad went far away.”

“Wait, he… died?”

The word “died” catches me off guard.

“No, he didn’t die. He’s just far away.”

“Oh, so he’s working somewhere else?”

My dad got picked up and returned to our star. I wonder what he’s doing over there.

“He might be doing earthworks.”

“So, he’s still out on a site somewhere? You talk about your own father like he’s a stranger.”

Kanabe sighs deeply, like I do at the end of a long day.

“Well, your old man always had a bit of that drifting, rootless spirit, like he was still single and unattached.”

My father’s out on a distant star somewhere in the universe with my mother. Someday, someone will come pick me up, too. Soon, I guess, since I’m about the same age now as when he left. Mom said I shouldn’t tell anyone we’re aliens from another star, or else they won’t come get me.

“Hold on a sec.”

Kanabe walked off but came back quickly, handing me a cold juice, saying, “Here, it’s for you.” The juice is sweet and tasty—I like it.

“Thank you.”

Kanabe is kind. He’s a really nice person.

“No problem.”

With a grunt of effort, Kanabe sits down next to me. His round back reminds me of a cat. We’re both drinking the same juice. It’s nice to match. This feels good. I don’t know why, but something about it feels nostalgic.

“You’re still at this kind of work, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Feels like we would’ve run into each other more often by now.”

He scratches his short gray hair vigorously.

“Ever done full-time work?”

“I’ve always been on contract.”

Ah, I remember now. During site breaks, my dad would always buy me juice. Kanabe’s just like my dad.

“I’m thinking about retiring soon. I’m getting up there, and my body’s starting to feel it.”

When you get older, you get thinner and weaker, and eventually, you can’t work. You end up homeless.

“By the way, I heard the construction here was done by Yano Construction.”

I can never remember the names of the companies I’ve worked for. Once I leave, I forget. But Yano Construction sticks in my mind.

“I was with Yano Construction.”

“Oh, really?” Kanabe’s voice got a little louder.

“…They’re infamous for cutting corners, right? Was it really that bad?”

Kanabe’s voice drops. Yano was full of accidents, and lots of people died on the job. The prefab dorms were filthy, sweltering in the summer and freezing in the winter, just like being outside. The cafeteria was full of buzzing flies, and the flypaper hanging from the ceiling was covered black with them.

The shared restroom floor was always wet with urine, and going in, the stench would sting your eyes. In summer, just stepping inside made you want to puke. So everyone just went behind the building or into the bushes to relieve themselves. Eventually, a “No Peeing” sign went up, but no one paid any attention. Behind the prefab office, there was a hill, and they’d flattened the area out front like a school playground. That’s where they put the temporary waste site, and in the summer, it reeked of garbage from there, too.

“I can’t stay in a place like this!”

Some people left the very next day, storming off in anger. New faces would appear in the dorms and disappear just as quickly. The only one I really remember was this guy named Ueno, who always muttered to himself and was the slowest to finish his meals.

“The dorm toilet was filthy,” I say.

Kanabe nods and slaps his thigh with a “Yeah.”

“Places with a bad reputation usually have horrible dorms too.”

Since I started working, I’ve stayed in a lot of company dorms with my father. We were in Yano Construction’s dorm together. We were always together, but then one cold day, he didn’t wake me up to go to breakfast, and when I looked around for him, he was gone. I asked, “Where’s my father?” but nobody knew. Some people said he “must’ve flown the coop,” but my father would never leave me behind. I kept thinking about why he’d vanished; it just didn’t make sense. Then, I remembered my mother had said, “I’m going back to our star,” and disappeared. My father’s an alien too, so he must’ve gotten picked up and gone back. That’s got to be it.

My mother loved sitting in front of the TV. She’d lay there, watching, with her long hair and yellow skirt. When I stayed home from school to watch TV with her, she never told me to go to school, and I loved that. Once, a teacher came to our house to talk to her. She answered him with “Yes” and “Yes” but he sounded angry as he spoke. A little while after that, my dad told me to “go to school properly,” so I went, even though I didn’t want to.

At night, my father would come home with a bunch of lunchboxes. We’d all eat together, pulling out the leftovers the next day to finish. Sometimes, if Dad didn’t come home, my mother would cry, “I’m hungry.” I cried too. But by the next morning, he’d always be back.

Mom, who loved the TV, got close to a man from the next room. His name was Kiichan, and he’d always give us sweets. But Mom didn’t share much, saying, “They’re mine.” She’d visit Kiichan’s room, and through the wall, I could hear her laughing. She sounded so happy; it seemed like fun.

“I’m an alien,” she said one day, sounding as pleased as when she’d had a good lunch.

“Kiichan told me. When the pick-up comes, I’ll go back to our star in space. It’s supposed to be amazing over there. And over there, you don’t die. Isn’t that incredible? But it’s a secret that I’m an alien, so you can’t tell anyone, alright? Got it?”

The summer I was in eighth grade, my mother disappeared. She was gone when I woke up in the morning. When my father came home that night, he asked, “Where’s your mom?” I told him, “I don’t know,” and he said, “I wonder where she went,” and started looking for her. I thought maybe her pick-up had come from our star, but since she’d told me not to tell anyone, I didn’t say anything. But then my father got picked up, too, so he must have known the truth, since he’s an alien too.

Kanabe stands up with a slow groan, pressing his hand to his lower back and stretching.

“Looks like lunch break’s about over… better get back to work.”

Around us, people start bustling about again. To keep the dust down, I sprinkle water around the ground. The sky is blue, the weather’s nice. I hope a rainbow shows up this time. I’d like to see that.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

The sound of rain comes in waves—pouring, pausing, then pouring again, endlessly. It’s the same as yesterday. When it rains, there’s not much work. Some people still go if they have qualifications, but for someone like me with none, there’s no work on rainy days.

Even without work, room and board are still deducted from my pay. If I run out of money, it turns into debt. Sure, I can work it off, but I’d rather avoid being a burden to others if I can.

After breakfast, there’s nothing to do. There’s nothing interesting on TV, no matter what channel I try. Lying back on the futon, I can see the ceiling, the wood grain swirling like waves—it’s actually kind of interesting. While I’m staring at it, I notice the rain’s stopped. I press my face to the window, but it’s coated in something like dust or dirt, a light brown film, so I can’t see through it. I open it, stretch my arm outside, and feel nothing—no raindrops. Looks like it’s cleared up. A faint musty smell tickles the back of my nose… the same smell that greeted me the day I first arrived here. The ocean—I could see it back then, too.

I head down the creaky staircase, each step making a groan, and reach the entrance. I put on my shoes and step out into the gravel parking lot. The ocean is visible from here. As I start walking, the gravel underfoot suddenly gives way to mud, squelching with each step, soaking my shoes from the inside. Ugh, water got in. Feels gross. I put up with it and head for the concrete seawall. Wiping my muddy soles on the stairs, I climb up. The railing on the ocean side is rusted, half gone, a rust-colored mess. Salt air eats away at metal like that. It's dangerous—the elderly or children could trip. Won’t anyone fix it?

When I step off the stairs, my shoes sink into the gritty black sand, heavy with moisture. It crunches underfoot. Waves come and go with a soft zhaa, zhaa, getting closer, then farther. Pebbles the size of fingernails skitter and roll away, vanishing under waves that crash over them. Ah, it’s kind of fun to watch.

The sea is the color of concrete. It’s almost like someone dumped leftover concrete here, things they didn’t need, just tossed them into the ocean.

I feel a few drops on my head. Rain. It’s starting again. The drops become more frequent. I don’t want to get soaked. I’d better hurry. I pick up my pace, sprinting back. The patter of raindrops turns into a loud, steady downpour. The dorm’s still far away. There’s a run-down shack on the side of the road. What a wreck. One hit from an excavator would bring it down.

I duck inside through the open door. The rain beating on the tin roof rattles loud, barara, barara. The interior walls are bare, just exposed wood with sheets of tin slapped on. In the dim light, I notice a large machine with big tires inside. Never seen one like that on the job site—wonder what it’s for.

Barara, barara. The noise above is relentless. The wind blows rain into the shack, chilling my knees where they’re getting wet. I step back to where the rain can’t reach.

Then a roaring sound, like a floodgate breaking open, and the tin roof goes bararara. If rain like this came when the excavator was running, they wouldn’t even need to water down the ground. Ah, but that would mean I’d be out of a job. Can’t have that.

Outside, I see a yellow plastic crate like a beer case. I flip it over and sit down. Through the sheets of rain, everything outside is blurred, just a whitish haze.

Something black suddenly rushed toward me. Startled, my body jolted with shock. I thought it was a wild boar, but it was a person. I felt relieved—it was just a person. That person also jumped back, shouting, "Whoa!" He looked young—a young guy. He bowed slightly to me and said, "Sorry, I’ll just be here for a moment."

“Go ahead,” I reply.

He turns his back to me and stands near the entrance. The shape of his body blocks some of the view outside, and he’s slender, with short hair like a kid on a baseball team.

A breeze drifts in, and he steps back slightly, standing a few feet beside me. The young guy fiddles with his smartphone, one hand on it. The inside of his arm has some kind of design—maybe a tattoo. I see tattoos at the bathhouse sometimes. Some of the older men with yakuza ties have them. Then again, non-yakuza older guys and even some of the younger ones have them too. There was one guy with a cool skull design on his back, and he said it hurt like hell. I don’t like pain. Every time I see tattoos, I think of that skull guy and feel an ache on my own back, as if it were me.

The tattoo on the young guy’s arm has a strange shape. It’s not a Buddha or a dragon, but overlapping circles, triangles, and crescent moon shapes. What is that, I wonder? I’ve seen it somewhere before. Was it in a book? The word “cosmos” pops into my head. Maybe it’s space. The circles could be stars, the crescent the moon. Not sure what the triangle is, though. I guess it doesn’t really matter.

The young guy slips his phone into his back pocket and turns to face me.

“Your bangs…”

His mouth moves slowly.

“The lengths aren’t the same on the right and left, are they?”

My bangs are shorter on the side with the mole near my eye. The other side’s longer.

“An avant-garde style?”

I don’t really know what “avant-garde” means, so I just reply, “I cut it myself.”

“Oh…so you’re not too worried about looks.”

Looks are just whatever you see. People used to tell me, “Take care of your appearance—you’ll be more attractive that way.” No one says that anymore. Haven’t heard it in a long time. The young guy shifts slightly, and the cosmos on his arm flashes in and out of sight, right at eye level.

“Is that tattoo supposed to be space?”

“Tattoo? Oh, you mean this?”

He slowly bends his elbow.

“It’s just a bunch of shapes I liked, all connected together.”

Just whatever, huh? I like that word, “whatever.” It feels easygoing.

“I like it.”

“…Uh, thank you.”

His voice suddenly goes soft.

“Having the cosmos on your body…that’s kind of nice.”

It might be time for me to go back to the stars in the cosmos myself. Sounds like things are good there. I’d like to see my mother and father again. I wonder what night they’ll come to get me.

“There’s something…unique about you, you know?” he says.

Above us, the rattling on the roof gets louder, barara, barara. The young guy looks up. A deep rumble suddenly echoes from the doorway, like the ground is shaking. He looks outside, and I worry the shack might fall apart from the rain. But the scary sound doesn’t last long; it fades gradually until it’s just a faint noise.

“Here.”

He reaches toward me, holding a small piece of paper between his fingers. Maybe it’s a coupon from the convenience store? I’d be happy if it is; those get you a little discount on bread or rice balls.

“There’s a community art exhibit nearby. I’ve got some work in it, so…if you’re interested.”

He says, “See ya,” and heads out. The rain has softened, and I can see in front of me now. I watch his back as he walks away.

Once he’s gone, it feels empty in the spot I was looking at. When something you’re used to seeing suddenly disappears, it leaves a strange feeling behind. This happens sometimes. I wonder what this feeling is.

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