I drop a little ticket and a bill for 200 yen into the machine that sits next to the driver. It makes a small noise, and the he looks at the machine. His eyes widen, he starts speaking in a hushed but urgent voice. I watch blankly until my friend translates. "You paid too much. It was only 150 yen. He doesn't have the right change. You should have used the other slot for change."
"What is that, like fifty cents? Tell him not to worry about it." I move to get off the bus.
My friend gives me a funny look. "He's not going accept that." She tells him anyway.
The driver seems on the verge of panic, he raises a hand to the side of his forehead. The door closes and he stands up, starts talking to the other passengers with that same urgency. Many passengers appear concerned, possibly pitying. A woman brings out a white purse. They exchange money, bow their heads to each other several times.
The driver turns back to me, bowing and smiling in a slightly strange way. As if he had barely avoided disaster. As if I were a fickle giant who might have crushed him had he failed to return with a little coin.
"Thank you," I say, hoping he is one of the people who recognizes that phrase; hoping that he won't recognize up the edge of confusion and irritation I hear in my own voice.
When we are on the street my friend warns me "He probably wouldn't have been able to sleep tonight if that woman hadn't given him change. They are very careful with guests, so don't make it hard for them. It's kind of rude."
That's the second time she's had to warn me. I am certain that I am a foreigner.