I stood there, unsure if I wanted to step onto the bridge. I could always turn around, or take the bus like the Captain said. If I made it all the way across, I could just leave the factory through the south gate. I didn’t feel at all worn out from the walk to the bridge. I was sure it was going to take hours to get there, but it was still lunch. This river, this bridge, this factory. It was all so big, and I was a part of it — it had a space for me, a need for me. I should be grateful, right? Sure, it’s a job that anybody could do — even an old man or a guy with a bad leg. In that sense, maybe it’s not the best place for a young woman with her whole life ahead of her. Still, most people my age are holed up in their rooms with nothing to do. I want to work, and I’m lucky enough to be able to. Of course I’m grateful for that. How could I not be? Except, well, I don’t want to work. I really don’t. Life has nothing to do with work and work has no real bearing on life. I used to think they were connected, but now I can see there’s just no way. If I tried explaining that to Itsumi, she’d say something like she did at yakiniku, about how you have to keep on fighting. But that’s not the point. I’ve worked my whole life, and it’s never been a fight, not at all. It’s always been stranger than that, harder to grasp. It’s not even something inside of me. It’s out there, out in the world. How could I ever control that? I thought I’d been giving it everything I had, but what I thought was my everything had no real value. Just look at the way I am now. That’s proof. I don’t want to work. I don’t, but what else am I doing with my life? Clearly walking wasn’t helping. If anything, I was sinking, with each step, deeper into my own thoughts. I kicked one leg in front of the other, kept on going. Maybe I should’ve just gone home and watched reruns. Whatever — even if it doesn’t bring me any pleasure, at least I’m making some sort of living. I’ve been fortunate. Beyond blessed. I have to accept that. So what if there’s something in the way? I’m sure work is like that for everyone. I can’t always act like a spoiled child. Thoughts racing through my head, I stopped where I was. I couldn’t see the end of the bridge, ahead or behind me. How far had I come? How long had I been walking? Looking over the side, there was nothing but water. Is this the ocean? I thought the bridge ran straight across the river, but maybe it actually ran over it, right down the middle. Where’s the shore? The walkway was fairly wide, but with every vehicle that rushed by, I got hit with another gust of wind. Most of the cars were silver sedans with factory logos on the door, but there were also a few black or red hatchbacks and some giant wagons that looked like American imports. Whenever a bus came, it would stop on the bridge and let a couple of people off. One of the buses waited for me, assuming I wanted a ride, but I waved to the driver to let him know I wasn’t getting on. The bus sped ahead, leaving a cloud of black smoke in its wake. The buses on the bridge came in various colors and patterns, some that I’d never seen before. Were they using old buses they’d bought from other bus companies? Everybody who got off was wearing a gray jumpsuit. They made their way toward a series of ladders that led up and down from the bridge. They pulled out their keys to unlock the cages at the base of the ladders, then passed what were probably tools to men above and below them. If I’d looked up, I’m sure I would have seen more men in gray jumpsuits, but I didn’t dare. I was scared, so I turned away. I grabbed hold of the railing and looked down into the water. I couldn’t tell which way the current was moving. I thought I could feel the water pulling me down. I’d never been good with heights. I felt like I wanted to fall in, so I took a few steps back. I started to worry that I’d lost track of which side of the bridge I’d come from, but the cars beside me were still heading in the same direction. No way I could have gotten spun around. The cars were constant, speeding by with unrelenting force. I started walking again, figuring I’d get on the bus at the next stop. I still hadn’t eaten lunch. I had something in my bag, but I wasn’t really in the mood. I just didn’t feel hungry. Starting tomorrow, I’d better pack a lunch for my brother, too. How long had he been working at the factory anyway?
I’d never seen so many people on the bridge. Workers were moving up and down the ladders, and when I looked over the side I could see even more of them below, by the river. I’d seen men on the ladders before, but never like this. It’s weird to see so many people moving around overhead. They had to be tethered to something, but I couldn’t see any wires or ropes from where I was standing. Did they actually climb all the way up there? The spot with the black birds was a short walk away, a little closer to the ocean. A breeze was blowing. It felt good. Unsurprisingly, I didn’t feel like reading that kid’s report. First of all, could a grade-schooler really type something like that? I bet the old man had written it, and he was just using his grandson to get me to read it. But why? As I walked on, I could hear the birds. Is this what they sounded like? Did they always sound so sad? Soon they came into view. “You have it? The A-pipe. The A . . .” “Yeah, I got it.” I could hear the men shouting. They probably had to raise their voices to hear each other over the wind and cars. I looked back, then looked ahead again. There were men all over the bridge, spaced out at regular intervals. I bet they were on the underside of the bridge, too. Every now and then, they would yell and wave their arms. The sky was blue, with only an occasional cloud speeding past, turning the world dark for a moment or two. I could see a woman on the bridge with both hands on the railing, looking over the edge. She wasn’t in uniform, just jeans and an old gray shirt, meaning she probably wasn’t with the workers. I guess it’s not too uncommon for people from the factory to walk across the bridge, but I’d never seen anyone stop halfway and stare over the side. For a second, I thought she might be considering suicide. But that didn’t make any sense. There were men all around who would come to her rescue. We glanced at each other, then she did a double take, as if she recognized me. The closer I got to her, the younger she seemed. A little scary, though. Her cheeks drooped like a bulldog’s. She had no makeup on and her eyebrows were so thin that they almost didn’t exist. The birds were crying louder now, in their usual huddle, staring at the factory. I can’t go down to the bottom today, I told myself. The men on the bridge would stop me. Still, I had my camera, and I wasn’t going to let the opportunity go to waste. I took the camera out of its case and pointed it at the birds. I zoomed in and took a shot, but when I saw the image on the LCD display, the birds didn’t look like themselves. The damp sheen had vanished from their wings. I knew this camera had its limitations, but the results were far worse than expected. It hadn’t occurred to me to pack any special lenses, either. My best telephoto lens was too heavy to carry this far anyway. I decided to make do with what I had. I’d have to get closer and wait for one to leave the group. The moment I saw one fly up, I took aim — as if I had the skill necessary to shoot a bird in flight. When the bird landed on the water, I followed it, taking a couple of steps toward the railing with the viewfinder pressed against my eye. After I had a few shots, I lowered the camera and saw the woman I’d passed earlier. She was glaring at me now. She looked a lot older than before. Her eyes were narrowed, and the wrinkles on her bulldog face were taut. She probably thought I was trying to take her picture. She spun around, like she was about to storm off. Maybe she thought I was some kind of pervert, like the guy in the forest. I thought I should tell her what I was doing, that it was all a big misunderstanding. I started to run after her. When she saw me coming, though, her scowl deepened. Chasing after her probably wasn’t helping. Now I really had to apologize. “Sorry,” I said, watching the anger on her face give way to terror. Once I was close, I could see that she really was young. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t taking your picture. It probably looked that way, but I’m pretty sure you weren’t in the frame. Anyway, I was shooting the birds. You looked, uh, worried, so I thought . . .” She muttered something and nodded skeptically. I couldn’t tell if she was looking at me or not. Then she bowed and said, “I’m sorry . . .” Wait, why was she apologizing? What was I supposed to say? I was the one who started this
conversation, so I’d better finish it, I thought, but before I could find the right words, she asked, “You were taking pictures of those birds?” Those birds? “Y-yeah,” I answered, taken aback. “Do you know what they’re called?” Why does she want to know? Why does everyone want to know about these birds?
I could see their wings. Normal-looking black waterfowl. They had funny cries, though. Maybe they were cat gulls. But do we get cat gulls this far south? I kept walking. As the river widened, it started to smell like the ocean, and I found a lot more birds. They were crowded together, maybe twenty or thirty of them. What were they doing? Protecting their chicks, maybe? On the nature channel, I’d seen penguins doing the same thing, to keep warm in the winter. Were they cold? I stopped and leaned over the railing to get a better look, catching a noseful of bird smell, thick and greasy, together with the sea breeze. Were these the birds the Captain was talking about? They were average in every way. They weren’t especially big or small, just solid black from beak to tail. Their wings glistened in the sun. The only thing even remotely interesting about them was their numbers. I looked around. How close was the southern end of the bridge? At this point, it made more sense to walk all the way across. But now that I’d stopped to look at the birds, my legs felt heavy. Clouds were forming in the sky, cars were rushing past. The birds were all facing the same direction, squawking over one another. A middle-aged man was walking along the bridge after me. He wasn’t in a suit, but was reasonably well-dressed. He was wearing glasses and a collared shirt, a bulky black bag slung over his shoulder. He was pale, almost skeletal. As he got closer, I could see a gray strap around his neck. Gray? No, it was silver. Top-level clearance. Is that even possible? He was only in his forties, maybe younger. Our eyes met for a moment before he walked past me. Who was this guy? He was restless, looking up and down, in all directions. From behind, he looked a little hunched over. I guess there are all sorts of people in the factory. But he didn’t look like an executive. Maybe his dad was some bigshot. That would explain the color of his strap, at least. If that’s the case, I told myself, I’d better keep my distance. I went back to looking at the birds. The Captain said he used to cross this bridge all the time, but I just couldn’t imagine how. Maybe if he took a really long lunch. What time was it anyway? It was hard to believe that all this was the property of a single company. I decided I’d keep going, to the end of the bridge, but when I looked up, the man with the silver strap was pointing his camera in my direction. What the hell’s he doing? I don’t care what color his badge is, he doesn’t have the right to take my picture. Why would he even want to? I don’t know, maybe he was aiming at something else and I was just in the way. That was far more likely. It’s not like I’m particularly beautiful, or even cute. Then again, it’s a crazy world we live in. I’m sure plenty of men out there are really into plain-looking factory girls. But, no, that wasn’t it. Maybe he thought I was misbehaving or breaking some kind of rule and was taking my picture as evidence. Proof that I was skipping work or looking at something I wasn’t supposed to see. People don’t typically cross this bridge on foot, so he probably thought I was up to something. But, no, wait. He was the one who was up to something. Something creepy. Okay, I was probably letting my imagination get the best of me. Maybe he just wanted a photo of the factory from the bridge. Whatever the case, I thought, I should head back the way I came. I mean, what other choice did I have? Even if he was taking pictures of me, what could I say to make him stop? I didn’t have the words. I turned around to leave, but I saw him out of the corner of my eye, rushing toward me. He was moving faster now, practically sprinting — but what could I do? I couldn’t outrun him. And what would be the point? There were men all around us, working on the bridge, and a steady flow of cars and buses only a few feet away. I was safe here. The man ran up to me, but I was frozen in place, unable to move. The short run had left him winded, and once he caught his breath he lowered his head in apology. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t taking your picture. It probably looked that way, but I’m pretty sure you weren’t in the frame. Anyway, I was shooting the birds. You looked, uh, worried, so I thought . . .” I nodded. That made sense. He wasn’t taking my picture after all. I was just in the way. I was kind of relieved, but also a little confused. What was it about these birds? “I’m sorry,” I said. “You were taking pictures of those birds?” I pointed my finger at the black splotch in the distance. “Y-yeah, those,” he bleated, nodding excessively. I hesitated, then asked, “Do you know what they’re called?” For a couple of seconds, he just stared at me blankly. Did he even understand what I was saying? “Why would you ask me that?” “Huh?”
“These pickles are really something,” Furufue said. We were right in the middle of our soki soba when the owner, who had brought us our bowls maybe a minute earlier, suddenly roared: “Okay, everyone. I count ten customers now, and you know what that means! It’s time for our sata andagi showdown!” I looked around the room. The three other groups were getting excited, as if they knew what was going to happen next. “Okay. get ready for it.” The others all held out their right hands. Furufue and I looked at each other, confused. The owner turned to the two of us and said, “Come on, folks. This is handmade sata andagi we’re talking about. You won’t want to pass this up.” I had zero interest, but couldn’t see an easy way out. I made a fist, and Furufue did the same. “Okay, here we go. Rock, paper, shisa!” Shisa? I kept my fist in a ball. Rock. I was lucky enough to get knocked out in the first round. Furufue was less lucky. His paper kept him in the game. “What luck you’ve all got. Okay, here we go again. Ready? Rock. Paaaper . . . Shisa!” In the end, a young woman with black hair parted down the middle emerged the winner. She flexed her muscles in victory, claimed the plastic bag with three pieces of sata andagi inside, and promised one piece to the woman she’d come with. Having finally lost, Furufue turned his attention back to his bowl of soba. “Crap. It’s cold,” he said, gnawing on a spare rib.
“I think they’re called factory shags, but I can’t say for sure,” he said, his expression dark. “Well, I’m sure that’s not the official name.” “You never looked it up? Factory shag?” I asked. “I only heard the name for the first time this morning, actually.” The wind picked up all of a sudden. Workers above us were shouting. I looked around, worried that a stray tool or screw might come flying toward us, but after one hard gust, the wind subsided. “I think they’re related to cormorants. But I looked into it a little, and they really aren’t like other cormorants. This one’s black all over. The river and ocean cormorants we have in Japan are never black around the eyes. Their beaks are always yellow. I wanted a better look, so I brought my camera to get some pictures.” “Where’d you hear that they’re called factory shags?” “An old man and his grandson came to my house this morning.” “An old man and his grandson?” “They took part in a moss hunt I led.” Moss hunt? Is this guy for real? What’s he talking about? “Well, that’s why I’m here. What about you? Are you on your lunch break?” What was I doing here? I should have run for the bus. “I took the afternoon off. I’m heading home now. The factory’s so big, though, I thought I might as well take a walk around. Then my team leader suggested checking out the bridge. He said it was a beautiful place with lots of birds. So I came.” When I tried to explain, it came out sounding ridiculous. To begin with, why am I taking time off if I’m not even leaving the factory? Are they really going to count this as paid time off? I know I punched out when I left the building, but what if there was some sort of error? More importantly, why did I come all this way to see an unremarkable bridge and some stupid black birds? Because the Captain said so? I don’t have a clear enough map of the factory to say for sure, but I probably came a long way. “Oh, okay. I see,” the man said, nodding. “So you just came for a quick look. You’re not really interested in the birds. In that case, my apologies. And please don’t worry about the photos. You weren’t in them.” The man bowed and hurried off. I nodded back, but didn’t have time to s
ay anything else. I stood there for a moment, then decided to keep going. I was getting hungry now, but still didn’t feel like eating what I’d brought for lunch — just some fried frozen food and rice I’d cooked the night before. If there weren’t so many people working on the bridge, I probably would have tossed the whole thing into the water right there. Since we were headed in the same direction, I wanted to give the man a head start, so it wouldn’t look like I was trying to follow him. I managed to kill a little time just leaning against the railing, looking at the birds and the men working around the bridge, and when the man with the camera was basically a stick figure in the distance, I started moving again. I’ll get on the bus at the next stop, I told myself, but I reached the end of the bridge before I found one. I hadn’t even been walking that long. I couldn’t see how I’d already made it across, but there I was. How could I have made it this far in so little time? I must’ve made it most of the way before I’d stopped to look at the birds. It was kind of disappointing. I turned around and there he was again, right there. I know that I stare at the ground when I walk, but how did I fail to see him until I got this close? He was standing in front of an Okinawan restaurant with a red banner and a couple of lion-faced shisa statues standing guard. He was too busy studying the building to notice me. This could be awkward. I was about to slip away, when I caught myself muttering, “Oh, um . . .” Turning toward me, the man raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Did you need something?” Did you need something? What kind of response is that? “I’m just going home.” “Well, take care. And sorry about earlier,” he said, lowering his head again. I tried to leave quickly, but for some reason my feet wouldn’t move. He looked at me, then at the restaurant’s sign. After a couple of moments, he asked, “Hey, um, did you know this was here?” What is this supposed to be? Small talk? “No. This is my first time across the bridge . . .” I’m pretty sure I’d already told him that earlier, but maybe he’d forgotten. Maybe it was the wind, but all his hair was pushed to one side. “Right, right. Sorry. It’s just, I’ve never seen this here, and it doesn’t look new. I’m always walking around the factory. I know the area pretty well, so . . .” All of a sudden he was Mister Talkative. What was going on here? After showing no interest, even being downright rude, why was he so chatty now? Wait. I’m a young woman, talking to a middle-aged man. How could I let this happen? He’s probably into me. What if this is his way of asking me to lunch? After all, we’re standing in front of this restaurant, during lunch, talking about the place. Is he trying to say: “How about we go inside?” I felt like I was sweating. Was I? I thought I could smell it. “Well, it’s all new to me, honestly.” “It’s odd, though. Maybe I’m getting senile.” I bet he just wants to spend some time with a young woman, any young woman. If that’s true, I’d better be on guard. I couldn’t bear the silence any longer, so I asked, “Have you eaten?” “Lunch? Not yet.” “Me neither,” I replied. More silence. There was only a faint hiss coming from somewhere, from the factory, or the birds, or maybe from inside the restaurant. After some time, he asked, “Well, how about we eat together?” Well . . . “Why not.” For a second, I was nervous he thought I’d been angling for an invite, but he just nodded, then we went inside. I’d never set foot in any of the cafeterias or restaurants around the factory. Was this even okay? There’s not going to be some problem when I go to pay or something? What if I have to be a permanent employee? What if they check my strap? Even if that doesn’t happen, what if nonpermanent workers have to pay extra? It seemed reasonable to expect the man to pay, but would he? “Come on in,” said the owner. He had a mustache and an indigo-dyed cloth wrapped around his head. “Sit anywhere you like.” But most of the seats were taken. There were three groups already eating, eight customers total. It was down to one open table and a couple of spaces at the counter. The other customers were smiling, laughing, apparently enjoying their meals. This was my first time in an Okinawan restaurant, and my first time eating out with a man other than my brother — even if it was some random middle-aged guy. We went to the table and sat down. “We’re still serving lunch, if you’re interested,” the owner said, placing a pair of heavy-bottomed tumblers full of water in front of us. Looking over the handwritten menu, I was almost happy. Lunch Specials: Soki Soba Set — Goya Champloo Set — Tempura Set (Squid and Seasonal Fish) — Daily Special. Sets may include: vegetables, rice, noodles, miso soup. “The special today is fu-irichi, with a side of rafute.” “I think I’ll go with the soki soba, just on its own,” said the man with the silver strap. I’d been thinking about the daily special, but the man I was with ordered a single bowl of noodles. That being the case, he’d be done long before I could finish everything. As a woman, it just didn’t feel okay. “I’ll have the same, thanks,” I said. The owner nodded and took off. On its own, the soba is 150 yen cheaper than the set. If the set doesn’t come with rice and miso soup (maybe it does, it’s impossible to tell from the menu), if it just comes with boiled vegetables or something, then avoiding the set makes a lot of sense. From where I was sitting, I couldn’t really see the other diners. What were they eating? “By the way, I’m Furufue.” Furufue? There’s a name you don’t hear too often. He started talking. I’d been reading the menu, to keep myself entertained, but put it down when he started to talk. “I’m Ushiyama.” “Ushiyama-san. Where do you work? What do you do?” he asked. “Thanks for waiting. Here you go, two bowls of soki-i-i soba.” “I work with shredders, destroying documents.” “I see. Well, let’s eat before it gets cold.” “Yeah, okay.” I looked inside my bowl. Thick yellow noodles and pork in a clear, almost colorless broth. Green onions and pink pickles on top. “Hey, this is pretty good.” “Yeah, it is. Seriously, though, I love my job. Shredding really unleashes the artist in me.” Furufue didn’t laugh at my joke. He just looked confused, so I stopped talking and went back to my soba.
The Factory Page 10
