ME

by Tomoyuki Hoshino

  “Okay, I understand,” I conceded. I felt my heart constricting: it was indeed quite as though my father had committed suicide.

  “Oh!” Mother suddenly exclaimed. “Here, you forgot this,” she said, handing me the postcard concerning the class reunion.

  “Did you come all the way here for this?” I glanced down at the card:

  Class reunion for Form C graduates of Urawa-Minami Municipal High School and related persons.

  Time: May 24 (Sunday), two to five p.m.

  Place: the conference room of Urawa-Minami Muncipal High School.

  Note: in view of the participants’ varied financial circumstances, there is no charge. Please bring your own food and drink.

  “Huh,” I muttered to myself, “I guess that’s the way things are done nowadays! Otherwise I suppose no one would show up.” And then I started to recall the various members of the class. There were Yōji and Kazuyoshi, hanging around in the photography club, and Momoyo, to whom I confessed my love for the first time in my life and who gave me the instant brush-off. Had they changed over the last ten-plus years? Now that I had settled into a job, I really should be able to meet them without feeling awkward. As long as the event was free, I thought, I might as well just send the thing back. Of course, Sunday was a workday for me, and if it turned out to be impossible, I could always just not go.

  As I thought about it all, I tore off the RSVP card along the perforated line, circled Will Attend, filled in my address, and signed it, Daiki Hiyama.

  “Oh, you’re going then? That’s nice. Reunions, you know, can often be fresh encounters.”

  “Hey, old lady, could you can it? Please stop nosing into my affairs.”

  “Don’t refer to me as your old lady!”

  “If you keep meddling, that’s what I’ll keep calling you.”

  “Meddling? What a terrible thing to say!”

  I shook my head, silently finished my breakfast, and then went into my room and changed into jeans, a shirt, and a jacket.

  “Can you go to work dressed like that?” she asked sharply when I returned.

  “When I get there, I put on a uniform,” I replied mechanically. Sensing her rising anxiety, I quickly added, “I’m all right now. Please go home at a reasonable hour. When I get back, I’ll want to hit the sack immediately. Oh, and don’t even think about cleaning this place up. If you do that, I won’t be able to find the things I need.”

  “All right, all right,” she said as she shooed me out the door. “Now off you go!”

  I fully expected her to ignore my instructions. Why, despite my explicit wishes to the contrary, had she even come? How could anyone be so oblivious? I mumbled to myself the whole way as I pedaled my bicycle.

  With these questions dominating my mind, I forgot to mail the postcard. As I was changing clothes in the locker room, the card slipped out of my back pocket and landed right in front of Yasokichi. He picked it up and read it.

  “Oh, you’re going to a class reunion, are you? I went to one for my school late last year. I thought it was all pretty cheap and shoddy, asking people to bring food and drink, but with times the way they are, it’s now par for the course.”

  “I’m only going because it’s free.”

  “Yeah? Well, these class reunions are now the big thing, it’s kind of like a matchmaking party.”

  “Oh yeah? I’m under parental pressure.”

  “See what I mean? I bet some parents cook up class reunions for their kids to attend just to get them marriage partners.”

  “So it’s all just another setup.”

  I was trying to speak casually, but the fact was that Mother had paid particular attention to the invitation. Had she finally grasped that it was over between Mamiko and me and decided to manipulate the class reunion? In any case, it was clear that she was determined to see me married as soon as possible.

  I remained exasperated about the possibility of seeing her again when I got home. I stuffed the postcard back into my pocket and jerked on my necktie.

  Even as I got down to work, I found myself unable to focus, the customers particularly unbearable that day. At one point I was caught off-guard by some fortyish, dull-as-dishwater guy, unable to tell me what he was looking for and then making it all the worse by lingering. He was mostly silent, but when I tried to end the exchange and move on, he started up again with questions such as: “Can you get ISO 800 on this model? Or does it only go up to ISO 400?”

  In my head I was spitting venom at him: It doesn’t matter what you buy, you old fart. A dude your age who hangs around a digital camera counter in the middle of the day must be jobless.

  I kept giving him perfunctory replies in the hope of getting rid of him, and in the end, just as I expected, he was unable to make up his mind about even the cheapest Nikon digital, saying that he would give the matter further consideration.

  “Sorry, but could I have your business card?” he asked before leaving. I reached into my vest pocket and then remembered that I had given my last card to the other ME.

  “I’m all out,” I replied stiffly.

  The customer stared at my name tag, mumbling, “Hiyama-san. Hiyama-san, I hope I can remember it . . .”

  As soon as he was out of sight, Tajima, who had evidently witnessed the exchange, came bounding over. “Watch your attitude!”

  “Customers like him never buy anything,” I said. “They’re just a huge waste of time. I wanted to discourage him from coming back.” With Tajima I couldn’t resist a little backtalk.

  Tajima’s face twisted into a grin. “But it was exactly the same thing the other day—you had precisely that same kind of customer. And what was your approach? Well, you were Mr. Nice Guy!”

  I felt my face flush with anger.

  “Don’t get cocky with me! You’ve forgotten your place and have grown quite conceited, but the fact is that you’re lucky to even work here. It could just as easily be the other way around—he might have your job, with you as his customer—and then imagine that kind of treatment. There’s nothing that makes you better than him.”

  I felt his words pierce me and turn to acid, eating away at me. I was helpless to respond.

  “There’s something seriously wrong with your judgment if you think it’s no big deal to run out of business cards. How can a customer remember you without one? A person who actually cared about his job would make sure he always had enough on hand.”

  I composed myself and apologized meekly.

  Apparently satisfied at seeing me so humiliated, Tajima glanced at his watch and said, “Anyway, go order some new business cards.” He then added in a more generous tone, “It’s a bit early, but you might as well go get yourself some lunch now too.”

  As I took my leave, Tajima called out from behind me: “Oh, as of the end of April, at least for the time being, you’re to start coming in on Thursdays too.”

  I stopped and turned around. “Does that mean I’ll only have Mondays off?”

  “Well, you spend your days off hanging around camera stores anyway, so you might as well be on the job.”

  “And I don’t get another day off to make up for it?”

  “We’ve already cut the contracted staff by five. Good thing you’re no longer on contract—I told you you’re lucky!” He laughed heartily.

  In the office I began filling out the application forms for my new business cards.

  “Same old crap?” The question came from Miyatake-san, who apparently gleaned my mood. He had spent many years working as a part-time administrator in the Hiyoshi Megaton and was thus privy to everything that happened behind the scenes. He must have known about my various wrangles with Tajima. I couldn’t help being impressed.

  “Well, no, this time I was in the wrong.”

  “Really? They say that if someone constantly puts you down, you’ll let yourself get brainwashed into taking the blame. Isn’t that what’s happening here?”

  “There might be something to that, but I did screw up by
not ordering more business cards.”

  “Most everybody waits until they’ve just about run out before ordering more. Tajima knows what he’s doing.”

  “No kidding?”

  “No kidding.”

  “Am I getting brainwashed?”

  “This isn’t like you, Hiyama-kun. You can usually dish back whatever gets flung at you.”

  I had been talking as I wrote but found that while I had no trouble filling in my cell phone number and e-mail address, the pen seemed to stick at the space for my name. But with that encouraging pat on the back from Miyatake-san, I completed the form with Daiki Hiyama.

  “I wish you wouldn’t describe me that way,” I said. “It makes me sound like nothing more than a blustering showman.”

  “Ah, but isn’t talk your forte? That’s why you were picked from the herd, going from mere customer to salesman. So puff out your chest and stand proud!”

  I wondered if Miyatake-san had been eavesdropping on my exchange with Tajima. Worse, perhaps he had hidden mics throughout the store. I once heared a rumor that he gathered information about each and every employee, keeping extensive electronic files, thereby keeping firm control of HR within the Hiyoshi organization.

  Eager to escape the danger zone, I quickly left the office.

  * * *

  I was about to step into the McDonald’s just outside the station when I got a call from Yasokichi asking me to have lunch with him. I said I’d wait for him there, but he urged me to buy enough for the two of us and meet him in the parking lot on the roof of the station.

  When I first started working at Megaton, I would sometimes go up there with him for cigarette breaks. Then, caught up in the antismoking wave, we both gave up the habit and with it our visits to the roof.

  “How long has it been since we’ve been here?” I asked by way of greeting.

  “About three years?”

  “We were so weak-willed back then. We quit smoking just because everyone around us was doing the same. If a person wants to smoke, he ought to be able to.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.” Yasokichi scanned the surroundings, his mind seemingly elsewhere.

  “But I sensed it wasn’t actually because we were smoking. Now that I think about it, we were simply taking time off, whereas the nonsmokers were not. The company launched its nonsmoking campaign in order to eliminate those breaks.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” Yasokichi was silent for a moment before adding, “I’m quitting.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve just handed in my resignation to the boss. But don’t tell anyone yet.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah . . . I’m going to study to become a licensed tax consultant.”

  “A licensed tax consultant? What’s that?”

  “What do you mean? As I keep telling you, it’s the job I’ve wanted ever since high school.”

  “Seriously?”

  “You’re a real jerk, Daiki.”

  “I have absolutely no memory of this. Did you really tell me? Are you sure it wasn’t someone else?”

  “Remember when you opened up to me about your parents, and I talked to you about how I gave up on my real career plan? Hey, it was the time Tajima first blew up at you in front of a customer, when you’d just arrived at Megaton.”

  “Oh, back then . . .” I did indeed remember that day. I had just started as a contract worker, when the sales of a not particularly notable camera unexpectedly took off, exhausting our inventory. A customer came in looking for the model and then bitterly complained in front of Tajima, who took me to task. That evening Yasokichi had suggested that the two of us go out for a drink. I was sure that I had told him about my domestic troubles, but I had no recollection of what he might have said in return.

  “It’s okay if you don’t remember. Other people’s issues clearly aren’t very important to you.”

  “Hey, at the time I was feeling totally squeezed. Everything must have gone in one ear and out the other.”

  “Yeah, I suppose. Anyway, at the end of last year one of my friends passed the exam. We had previously agreed not to go job-hunting and instead keep studying, but I had let myself get sidetracked, looked for work anyway, and then lost contact with all my friends when I was hired for this job. So I was really happy to get invited to the celebration. And I had a fine time—in fact, too fine a time—so that I felt quite empty afterward. All of the others had somehow stuck to their guns, but what had become of me? So I decided to quit meandering and give my tax-consulting dream another shot.”

  “But you don’t have to give up your job for that. Couldn’t you study in your spare time?”

  “Look, I can’t be half-assed about it if I’m to have any hope of succeeding.”

  “But what if you fail the exam? You have to deal with that possibility.”

  “It’s a challenge. No risk, no gain.”

  “What can I say? I don’t want you to offend you, but as I see it, you’re not cut out for that line of work. And even if you pass the exam, that doesn’t guarantee you can knuckle down to the work.”

  “My buddies in the study group told me pretty much the same thing when I landed the job at Megaton. They said that a guy like me was better off in the service industry. But I hate this kind of work.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, I mean it. They talk about the happiness that comes in seeing customers’ joyful faces or in being thanked for having led them to purchase a product that will give them satisfaction—but none of that does anything for me. I’m not even interested in electronic gadgets! Halfheartedly talking someone into buying something I don’t give a shit about is not exactly my idea of a fulfilling job. I’m doing nothing more than peddling junk chosen by the manufacturer and the retailer. And the workplace environment isn’t exactly ideal.”

  “Aren’t you going overboard? This isn’t like you—you’re normally the optimistic one.”

  “Eh, working here only gave me the illusion that I liked being a salesman.”

  “That’s right. And now you’re being swayed by your old study group. Someone manages to turn himself into a tax consultant, and you’re suddenly mesmerized by the thought of becoming one yourself. You’re a bit of a chameleon, you know, and that makes me think that you’re more suited to this kind of job.”

  “I don’t need to hear that from you, Daiki!” Yasokichi shouted in exasperation. “I may be gullible, but I’m not nearly the chameleon you are. It seems like the only thought in your head is to fit in wherever you are. That’s why you don’t have any concern for those around you.”

  “Oh, come on. If I were really so adaptable, I’d be getting along fine with Tajima. You know how stubborn I can be.”

  “The other evening Minami-san mentioned how similar you and Tajima are. That’s what I mean when I say you’ve adapted. You should get out too, and soon, before you get totally absorbed. I’ve heard you might get transferred over to the refrigerator section.”

  “Well, that’s fine. You still have time to take on a new challenge. I’ve already had my chance and failed. My life is this job. I just hope you don’t end up like me.”

  “I’ll endeavor to take your example as a warning.”

  “Society is so dog-eat-dog,” I said. “The world of the classroom is much more pleasant. Ah, it would be great to be there!”

  Yasokichi left the rooftop ahead of me. I tossed the ice from my soda cup and muttered angrily, “Go on, keep on failing those exams!” I didn’t want him to pursue that “way” he had talked about. Having finally found some sort of foothold, I didn’t want to be told my life was all for nothing. I needed the reassurance that Yasokichi too had found satisfaction in doing what I was doing.

  As I mulled it over, I realized just how much comfort I took in knowing Yasokichi wasn’t as good at the job as I was. The truth was that I didn’t need to compare myself with him to be quite proud of my record. I had used Yasokichi as a prop in order to maintain some sort of equili
brium. Had I been relying on others to prove my own value?

  I had been imagining that I was an expert camera salesman. In reality, I was nonexistent, belonging nowhere, for without Yasokichi there was no Megaton me.

  * * *

  In the afternoon I more or less ran on autopilot. I made a series of small mistakes: giving the wrong change at the cash register, making an error in a credit card transaction, and miscalculating a discount by an extra 800 yen. But I felt indifferent, as though I were sleepwalking. Yasokichi e-mailed to say that he felt bad that our conversation had ended on a sour note and that we should grab a drink to get rid of it. I turned him down, saying that I was tired. At seven I dodged an approaching customer and quickly took my leave. I wanted to go into off mode as soon as possible.

  But then, just as I had expected, I found Mother at home, cooking dinner. As soon as I opened the door, I heard her call out: “Hello, Daiki! You’re home early. If you’d phoned before you left work, I would have had it ready by now.”

  “I told you to go home!” I growled.

  “But why shouldn’t I stay? At least as long as you’re ill.”

  “I’m not ill.”

  “We haven’t had dinner together in years. Just for a change, how about not complaining and just keeping me company?”

  I had no strength to argue further. “Fine,” I said, “but first I want to take a bath.”

  As I soaked in the lukewarm water, I thought about the fact that water makes up 70 or 80 percent of the human body. It occurred to me that if I were to burst through the skin of my corporeal water balloon, more than half of me would dissolve into the tub. I imagined the spectacle of my ruptured navel and the soupy liquid spreading out in the bath, as I slowly shrank and shriveled. The seepage of watery me would slightly lower the temperature of the bathwater as the two substances blended, and in the end no one would be able to distinguish one from the other.

  For some time I floated there like a jellyfish, dozing off for a bit. I then got out, put on my underwear, then the sweatpants and the shirt that I had been using instead of my pajamas. I had pushed the on button and was myself again.