“Okay, let’s go over what you’ll be doing. First, grab one of the packets over here, whichever you like. You’re going to be checking what’s inside. If you need more pens or Post-its, you can find them on the shelf right there.” Kasumi then showed me the contents of the packet that was open on her own desk. It was a side-stitched book and a stack of maybe thirty sheets of A3 paper. There were other packets, lots of them, exactly like this one, filed in a cabinet that stood as high as my chest. On the front of each packet was a date and some kind of code, a combination of letters and numbers. Next to that was a space for the supervisor to sign or stamp. I grabbed a handful of packets to take a look. As far as I could tell, they weren’t in any particular order. Some had today’s date while others were from ten years ago. The names in the supervisor box were all new to me. None had been signed by the middle-aged man or Kasumi. Just like Kasumi said, our job was to take whatever we found in the packets — documents of various types and formats — and proof them. In some files, there were additional materials, like manuscripts or newspaper articles. If that was the case, we were supposed to check the document against them for accuracy. When there was nothing else inside, just the one document, we were supposed to use our dictionaries, consult the proofing manual, and correct the Japanese accordingly. “Then, when you’re finished with everything in the packet, you shelve it over there. Once a day, these files are collected.” “So we don’t have to sign them or anything?” “Sign them?” “You know, to prove you checked it.” “Haha, that won’t be necessary, no,” Kasumi said, waving her hand in front of her face like the thought had never crossed her mind. “Ushiyama-san, you’re pretty serious, aren’t you?” Now she smelled like pineapple candy. She spoke quietly, like before, but the other two women were definitely listening. I could feel them looking at us, then at each other, smirking. One was middle-aged with a brownish perm, the other was younger with blue glasses. I wouldn’t call them ugly, but they weren’t exactly memorable. Their attitudes weren’t that great, either. Kasumi was a little on the heavy side, but she was, without a doubt, the most likeable of the three. She almost looked like a preschool teacher. It was good we were from the same agency. I remembered my girlfriend saying Kasumi was like an aunt. That crossed a line, though. It’s not about your age, but your mental state, and Kasumi felt more like an older sister than an aunt. “If you don’t put your name on it, how do they keep track of who’s responsible for what? What if you made some huge mistake?” Why shouldn’t I take this seriously? I don’t want to make mistakes. I don’t want to cause any problems. What’s wrong with that? Kasumi grinned, saying, “You won’t make any mistakes. You can’t.” “What do you mean?” “You’ll see. We proof everything and leave notes, right? So, you do that, send it out, wait a while, and eventually the same thing comes back. Another version of the same document. Sometimes, though, it’s even worse than before. It just makes you ask yourself, what have I been doing? Someone somewhere is probably doing something with our edits, but we don’t even know who. Once in a while, you’ll fill a whole page with red marks, but it’s not like you’re really changing the content or anything. You’ll see what I mean. Sometimes you find a typo, a misspelling, or an unindented paragraph. Nothing you’ll find is all that major to begin with, so if you miss something, it’s no big deal.” “You still need to correct everything, though,” said the temp with the perm, looking right at us. We’d been speaking so quietly that I couldn’t believe she’d heard what we’d said. “You don’t have to sign anything. If anything happens, though, it’s everyone’s fault, so don’t screw up.” Kasumi nodded, then turned to me. “Like she said, okay? If anything comes up, you can use the phone over there to call the manager. Want some?” She held out a couple pieces of red candy with twisted wrappers. The color matched her nails perfectly. I said thanks, took one, unwrapped it, and popped it in my mouth. I bit into the hard shell and soft chocolate filled my mouth. It was time to start, so I grabbed a packet and pulled out what was inside.
Goodbye to All Your Problems and Mine: A Guide to Mental Health Care. It was a thin B4-size booklet. Beneath its excremental title was a drawing of two smiling meatballs, basking under a rainbow. On the next sheet was a two-page spread with wide margins, presumably to give us more space for feedback. The cover looked okay, so I moved on to the table of contents. What the hell was this? From the second chapter onward, every chapter was listed as starting on page seventeen. The leader dots running between the chapter titles and page numbers were a mess, too. I crossed them out, then wrote in the correct numbers. As long as you gave them a decent explanation, it was the sort of job even a middle-schooler could handle. Isn’t there something else I could be doing? Something a little more up my alley? I mean, these days, you really have to go out of your way to find a job that has nothing to do with computers. In this economy, it’s unbelievable that the factory was still willing to add new proofreaders to their payroll, even as temps. Anyway, even if it wasn’t a perfect fit, I had to count my blessings. It wasn’t even physical labor — and it was a whole lot easier than working at some convenience store. I should probably be grateful that I can take home 150,000 yen a month doing this. Still, the second the economy turns around, I’ll find something else. I’d thought about asking my girlfriend to find me something where I could use my expertise, but it’d just be another temp job anyway. Why bother? I’d rather be fully employed. Obviously. I wanted to get married at some point. I had my sister to think about, too. She had her contract job, but who knows how long that would last?
I didn’t want him asking what kind of work it was. I didn’t want to tell him. Fortunately, when I said I was going to be a contract worker at the factory, he didn’t bother asking anything else. He just gave me this look like I should probably report them to the Labor Standards Bureau. I told him I’d be going to work five days a week, starting Monday. “It’s full-time, though?” he asked, then told me to calculate my monthly rate. “They’ll cover your commute, right?” They would, apparently.
The interview ended and Goto walked me over to the shredder station. It was also in the basement, but farther back. The Print Services Branch Office was a long rectangle with doors on the north and south walls, both of which led to the stairs. On the other side of the door to the north was the reception desk and the space where I’d had my interview. On that side of the floor were three islands made up of six desks each. The people there were talking and phones were ringing. The rest of the floor belonged to the printing station. We were surrounded by printers, copiers, cutters, folding machines, devices of all shapes and sizes. As we walked by, Goto pointed around, telling me what each one did, even though most of them were too obvious to need any explanation. In the middle of the area was a giant worktable. The men and women around the table were wearing jumpsuits and gray aprons. The smell of ink and oil filled the air. The noise from the machines was so constant it almost felt quiet. I guess I’d already gotten used to it. One wall was hidden behind shelves stacked to the ceiling with paper, toner, and machine parts. At a break in those shelves was the shredder station. “This is Staff Support. Just like home, don’t you think? It’s usually pretty quiet. How many people are here? Not many . . . Just like home,” Goto said, coming to a stop. By the south door, where it’s darker than the rest of the floor, I could see fourteen shredders, but only a few aproned employees using the machines — it almost looked like they were underwater, like they were moving slower than the rest of us. I wanted to count them, but stopped shy of really doing it. The shredders were set up against the walls in two rows of seven. Ten of them were standard sized, but four were much larger. Goto saw me eyeing the shredder station. “Technically, I’m in charge of Staff Support, but your team has its own captain. He’s in the hospital right now, but he’ll be back soon. Maybe in two weeks? Definitely before the month’s up. For now, you can talk to me about your schedule. You can find me right over here. If you have any questions about your duties, please talk to the woman o
ver there, Itsumi-san. Hey, Itsumi-san, can I borrow you for a minute?” The woman Goto called over was tiny, with unnaturally straight black hair tied up in a ponytail and Coke-bottle glasses. “This is Ushiyama-san. She’ll be joining us here, starting next week. She’s a contract worker, but she’s elected to work Monday through Friday, 9 to 5:30. Could I ask you to show her the ropes?” “Absolutely. I’d be happy to,” she squeaked. “We’ll have your apron and ID badge ready before you start. Itsumi-san will hold onto them for you, okay?” I could feel Goto looking at me. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Yoshiko Ushiyama,” I said to the girl, bowing slightly. As she nodded back to me, I spotted a few gray hairs. “I’m Itsumi. It’s really nice to meet you.” Her gold-framed glasses had vine-like patterns running along the temples. “When you come to the factory on your first day, you won’t have your badge yet, so they won’t let you past the gate. When you get there, have them call me, okay? Goto, at the Print Services Branch Office.” Yeah, I know the routine. That’s what I did today. “Right, one more thing. From now on, there’s no need to dress up. As a rule, our clients don’t come down here. It’s best if you dress like Itsumi-san. Wear something comfy, something roomy.” While Goto spoke, Itsumi did a little twirl for me. Is this what Goto had meant by like home? Under her apron, Itsumi was wearing a polo shirt and black cotton pants. “Feel free to wear sneakers. Jeans are okay, too, as long as they don’t have holes in them. But no shorts or tank tops.”
On the day of the interview, I used the stairs on the north side of the building, but the shredder station was on the south. My first day at the job, I looked for a door on the south that led to the basement, but couldn’t find one. I wound up going around to the same door as before, on the north side, and headed downstairs from there. Walking in, I gave my best hello to the overweight woman at the reception desk. She looked shocked, but managed to say hello back, just above a whisper, before looking down again. Maybe coworkers don’t say hello here? Maybe she doesn’t know I work here? Maybe permanent employees don’t really interact with the rest of us? I’d never been fond of salutations anyway, so I made up my mind to limit my hellos to Itsumi and Goto. When I got to the shredder station, someone was there, but it wasn’t Itsumi. It was a man, a weirdly tall man, maybe six foot six, if not taller. His face was long and the stack of paper he was carrying looked tiny in his hands. It was 8:40 a.m., and no one was there except for the tall man and me. I didn’t know how many of us there were in the department, but there had to be more than two. Across the way, the Print Services islands were more or less full. The workers sat in their chairs, staring at their screens. At the printing station, there were maybe fourteen people in jumpsuits and aprons, talking in small groups or starting on their work. Just then, a heavy, older guy dragging one foot came over to the shredder station, glanced at me, and nodded. He had a thick neck and eyes that looked like tiny black beads. Itsumi arrived at 8:50 a.m., her badge showing over a dark pink hoodie. She’s so tiny that I bet a lot of her clothes are actually for kids. As she walked past everyone, she quietly said hello, and they all said it back, just as faintly. Maybe she’s permanent. I still had no idea who was and who wasn’t. Of course I didn’t. The people around the islands were all in suits, but everyone at the printing station was wearing a jumpsuit or apron. At the shredder station, everyone had an apron on, except me. I felt like I didn’t belong. I didn’t even know where to sit. Itsumi was supposed to have my apron for me.
“Good morning,” I said, looking at Itsumi. Her mouth stretched into a smile as she beckoned me over. “Hey, let’s go get your apron.” I followed Itsumi through the south door, where there was a staircase, just like on the north side, and a row of tall lockers. “Just so you know, these lockers don’t actually lock, so don’t leave your bag or valuables back here. Keep them with you. If you have a jacket or a change of clothes, you can hang them here. Also, sometimes we have three people per locker, so don’t hog the hangers. Except, well, it’s not usually very crowded. Most days you can do whatever you want. You can put an extra pair of shoes in here, too, if you want. If there’s no room, just leave them on top of the locker. By the way, we don’t have any curtains or anything, so when you want to change you’d better use the bathroom upstairs. Anyway, this is your apron. Well, it’s not yours. It belongs to the factory. You’re borrowing it. Never take it home. We have cleaning facilities on site, too, so you don’t have to worry about that. You see the number sewn in here?” Itsumi held up the apron pocket so I could see. “This is your number. Memorize it. All the aprons get sent out together and come back in a single batch. It’s up to you to find yours again. Most people write the number down on a piece of paper and keep it behind their ID.” My number was 13458. “Speaking of which, here’s your badge. You’ll need to show this to the guard whenever you come through the gate. Make sure he can see the picture.” She handed me a card on a red lanyard. The card had my photo on it. At first, I had no idea where they’d gotten it. Then I realized. It was the one I’d attached to my resumé. But how’d they get it onto this card? They hadn’t simply cut the photo out — this one was practically twice the size. It was maybe two inches tall. I’m so unphotogenic, I could barely recognize myself. My cheeks were puffy as always. My lipstick was a disaster. You could tell right away that I don’t get a lot of practice. And I’m supposed to wear this? Every day? Of course Itsumi had a picture on her badge, too. I guess she was one of those people whose photos look just like them. “Make sure you have this around your neck at all times.” Her strap was dark blue. “Tighten the strap, though, or tuck it into your apron so it doesn’t get sucked into the shredder,” she said, pulling an apron out of a locker and putting it on. I put mine on, too. The front was smooth. It felt industrial, like it was made of rubber or nylon. I could feel the stitching on the inside. It smelled like the cleaners. As Itsumi moved toward the shredders, music started playing overhead. “Not everyone starts work at nine, but most of us do. The bell rings at 8:55, then again at nine sharp. We have the same bell when lunch starts, at noon, and then at 12:55 and 1:00. It rings one last time, too, when the day is over — at 5:30 on the dot.” Itsumi called it a bell, but it was actually an electronic melody, like the ones that play in stations when a train arrives. Opening the door, I could see the people at the islands in the distance standing at attention. Everyone from the printing station was gathered around the islands, too. Itsumi whispered, “When the first bell rings, they start their morning meeting. See how Gotchy is talking? That’s because he’s the head honcho here. Well, he’s the head of the Print Services Branch Office, haha.” The people at the shredder station weren’t taking part in the meeting. They lumbered toward the machines, carrying documents to be shredded. “We’ve got extraterritoriality. No meetings for us. This is the Captain’s domain. I hope he comes back soon, though.” Goto stopped speaking. Everyone applauded, then bowed. The meeting was over. In the end, there were five people working the shredders. “Let me walk you through this,” Itsumi said. I thought she was going to introduce me to the rest of the team, but she never did. I guess there’s no need for contract workers to know each other’s names.
“Ushiyama-san, how’s everything so far?” Goto came to ask not long after lunch, wearing a suit that was clearly too large for him. Maybe he’d shrunk? It didn’t occur to me during the interview, but he looked a little grungy, considering his position. Itsumi had already explained my job to me, so I hadn’t had any real problems. The work itself couldn’t be simpler. The paper goes into the shredder. When your bag fills up, you throw it out. The documents we’re supposed to shred arrive in containers, delivered through the south door. A man carts in twelve containers of documents twice a day. “There’s an elevator on the other side of the stairs, but it’s only used for loading and unloading. transport — the men who deliver things around the factory — typically show up around 10 a.m. and 3 p.m.” They wear jackets with TRAN written on the back. When they bring the new containers, they take the full bags
with them. The first TRAN I saw was an old man, small and muscular, running around covered in sweat. “Right, there’s something I forgot to tell you earlier,” Goto said, almost whispering. God, what? “I imagine you know by now what kind of work you’re going to be doing here. Well, it’s best if you’re careful with what you say to people outside the factory. If people find out what you do, there’s a chance you could get contacted by people who want the documents you’re destroying.” Oh. “I’m sure you know this already, but the removal of any documents from factory grounds, or any leaks of information, would have very serious consequences. You’d have to quit, of course, but the factory could also seek damages. We need to have you sign a pledge and stamp a few other documents, basically saying that you recognize this. Could you come see me around 5 p.m.? We’ll need to take care of things before you leave for the day. You have your seal on you, right?” Of course I did, not that he’d asked me to bring it. I’d been through this a few times before, so I was used to the routine. But that didn’t change the fact that Goto was apparently totally useless.
The Factory Page 3
