The Factory

by Hiroko Oyamada

  The FactoRy

  Copyright © 2013 by Hiroko Oyamada

  Translation copyright © 2019 by David Boyd

  All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in a newspaper, magazine, radio, tele­vision, or website review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.

  The Factory was originally published in 2013 as Kojo by Shinchosha Publishing Co., Tokyo. This English edition is published by arrangement with Shinchosha Publishing Co. in care of Tuttle-Mori Agency, Inc., Tokyo.

  The translator would like to thank Hitomi Olson for her generous assistance.

  First published as New Directions Paperbook 1460 in 2019

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Design by Erik Rieselbach

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Oyamada, Hiroko, 1983– author. | Boyd, David (David G.), translator.

  Title: The factory / by Hiroko Oyamada ; translated by David Boyd.

  Other titles: Kojo. English

  Description: New Direction Books : New York, 2019.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019020096 | ISBN 9780811228855 (alk. paper)

  Classification: LCC PL874.Y36 K6513 2019 | DDC 895.63/6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019020096

  eISBN: 9780811228862

  New Directions Books are published for James Laughlin

  by New Directions Publishing Corporation

  80 Eighth Avenue, New York 10011

  The FactoRy

  As I opened the basement-level door, I thought I could smell birds. “Hello, I’m here for a two o’clock interview,” I said to the overweight woman seated under a sign that read Print Services Reception. Without looking up, she nodded and lifted the receiver. I watched her mouth the words, Your two o’clock is here. Her lipstick had come off in places. “He’ll be right with you,” she said — and suddenly there he was right in front of me, a middle-aged man with a ragged, rectangular face. I immediately recognized what he had in his hand: my application packet. “Welcome to the Print Services Branch Office,” he said, “I’m Goto, thanks for coming.” “Thank you, I’m Ushiyama,” I replied. His face was red and his eyes were clouded — the whites were almost yellow, obscuring the boundaries of his irises. Maybe he was drunk. Or maybe this was just how overworked middle managers looked, devoid of life and spirit.

  Goto led me to what he called the conference room, which wasn’t actually a room at all. It was more like a partitioned space, near the door and facing the reception desk. He directed me toward a black leather two-seater and I placed the leatherette bag that I always bring to interviews on the cushion next to me. “I’m Yoshiko Ushiyama, thank you for meeting with me,” I reiterated. The noise from the basement was sinking in now. But it wasn’t the talking or the ringing phones. It was the constant buzz and hum of the machines. “The pleasure’s mine, and please make yourself comfortable, I hope you don’t mind if I review your application while we speak,” he said, reading off the cover: “First name: Yoshiko. Last name: Ushiyama. Now there’s a name you don’t see very often. Though I guess there was Mei Ushiyama. Ever heard of her?” “No, I don’t think so.” Then Goto started to count: “One, two . . . and this makes six.” I knew what he was getting at. Since graduating, I’d quit five companies. This job would be my sixth. The Education and Work Experience sections of my application spilled into the margins. I’d also attached a separate History of Employment that ran three pages. From my start and end dates, he could see that I hadn’t held onto any job for more than a year. I left most of them after about six months. “Please allow me to explain . . .” “I know, it didn’t work out. It’s that simple. Sometimes things click, sometimes they don’t. Sometimes you can’t make things happen, no matter how hard you try. Trust me, I’ve seen it all . . . Anyway, how about you start by telling me about yourself and why you think you’d be right for this position.” “Of course, well, I was a liberal arts major at university, where my research focused on the Japanese language. Specifically, I’m interested in how people communicate. While pursuing my research, I became curious about the use of language in print media. I was especially fascinated by the effectiveness of particular expressions and sentence structures. Ideally, I’d like to work in a field that allows me to utilize this background. That’s what led me to apply for this position. I remember being a girl and seeing TV commercials and newspaper ads for the products made here. I was drawn to the idea of working at this company because of its famously high standards, both technologically and ethically speaking . . .” “Yes,” he said, “yes.”

  This wasn’t my first time at the factory. I’d come on a field trip when I was in elementary school. A woman in a tiny stewardess hat showed us around the museum and gave us a tour of the factory floor. I went home that day with a box of souvenirs that had a photo of the factory printed on the lid. Inside was a fabric pencil case with a two-color retractable pen and a set of mechanical pencils, as well as a box of cookies that were shaped like dictionaries, race cars, and seashells. Other kids got different shapes. Houses, towers, dinosaurs, and faces. At the time, it felt like the factory was enormous, maybe as big as Disneyland. And the souvenirs were as good as Disneyland’s, too. On the walk from the parking lot to the factory, we saw adults dressed in all kinds of clothes: suits, coveralls, lab coats. Walking among them, I caught glimpses of the factory buildings, but couldn’t see anything beyond that. No matter where you are in this city — the school, the department store, anywhere — you’re always walled in by mountains. But the factory had nothing around it. Or rather, it was as if it were surrounded by something other than the mountains. Something larger, something more distant.

  Seeing the factory again as an adult, it didn’t feel any smaller. If anything, it had gotten even bigger. The factory’s influence over the city was too great to ignore. Everyone has at least one family member working for the factory, or one of its partners or subsidiaries. Vans and trucks with its logos can be seen on every street, and ambitious parents start nudging their kids toward a factory career even before they can read. My parents weren’t like that, but when my brother graduated from university, he landed a job at one of the factory’s offices in the heart of the city, doing computer work all day. It was almost strange how I’d managed to go through five jobs here without ever working for them. Maybe it looked like I was avoiding the factory, but I really wasn’t. I’d always seen the factory in a positive light, ever since that childhood field trip. If anything, I thought, maybe unconsciously, that I didn’t deserve to work somewhere so important. Yet here I was at the factory for the second time in my life, being interviewed. Goto held in his hands the application that I’d mailed off with no expectation of an answer. It had been my brother’s idea. He’d told me that I didn’t need to worry about chipping in on living expenses, but apparently he hadn’t given up on me finding a real job. He tossed the ad in my lap and said, “Yoshiko, you should apply for this. It’s a permanent position, at the factory. All you need is a four-year degree.”

  Goto listened patiently as I explained why I had left each of my five previous jobs. In every case, I admitted, some of the blame was mine, but of course my former employers had also played a role in my premature departures. Goto occasionally threw in a supportive I see or Uh-huh. Then another overweight woman walked in — this one’s lipstick was impeccable — and said, “Goto-saaan, city council, line three.” This, I thought, is why interviews should be conducted in private rooms, to avoid unnecessary interruption
s. Goto turned to me and said, “Hold that thought,” then he got up to take the call. I suppose he didn’t have a choice. It was the city council, after all.

  “Now, Ushiyama-san,” Goto began again, returning from the call, “How would you feel about coming on as a contract employee? It’s a different listing. One second, I’ll print it out for you . . .” I didn’t know what to say. In that moment, I felt like I’d been tricked. But then I started to feel something else, something like relief — it was as if the world made sense again. The permanent position was too good to be true, a liberal arts degree couldn’t get you a permanent job in a place like this, and I obviously wasn’t the sort of applicant that companies would go out of their way to hire, especially not at this stage in my career. Goto had been really kind to me, too. All the interview manuals I’d read advised that when the interviewer is being too nice, it’s a clear sign that you’re not getting the job, or at least that the conditions won’t be the same as advertised. And that was exactly what was happening.

  “You’d still work here in Print Services, but as part of the Staff Support team. They’re currently hiring contract employees. On the bright side, with this position, you can pick your own hours, and the work won’t be very demanding. This honestly seems like the best fit for you, considering your employment history. We’ll take it from there. If that sounds good, I’ll bring you down to Staff Support and introduce you to the team. They’re down at the far end of the corridor.”

  The far end of the corridor had an ominous sound to it, like the place was reserved for dead-end employees. Goto handed me a printout of the new job description. Some of the details were exactly the same as the permanent position, others weren’t. For one, permanent employees had to have at least a BA, but there were no educational requirements for this position. A permanent post meant a fixed monthly salary, but the contract job was hourly. Work hours were different, too. Permanent employees work Monday through Friday, 9 a.m. to 5:30 p.m. (flextime available), but this job was for 3 to 7.5 hours daily (at least two days a week), somewhere between the hours of 9 and 5:30. I couldn’t figure out the difference between a monthly salary and hourly pay, at least not on the spot, but I was confident that the latter wouldn’t be as good. Part of me felt undervalued, but they must have seen some promise in me. I mean, they were still offering me a job. In a way, this made things easier. Goto and I were, in fact, much closer to arriving at a decision. If I were being considered for the other position, the interview would end, then I’d say goodbye and head home. Goto would look over my application, and a few days later they would contact me if I’d made it to the next round. If they’d decided to move forward, there might be a second interview or some test. But with this new contract job, the only question was how I felt about the description that Goto had placed in front of me. It really wasn’t complicated. I only had to decide whether I would give in or hold out. But could you even call that giving in? In times like these, a job’s a job, even if it pays by the hour, even if it isn’t permanent, even if it’s physical labor. This wasn’t a bad thing. On the contrary, it could be the best thing for me.

  “Specifically, what kind of work would I be handling?” “Support.” At that point, I’d assumed that support meant something like unpacking reams of paper and loading them into the printers, or replacing dead toner cartridges.

  The job they assigned me was document destruction: operating a shredder all day, as a member of what they called the Shredder Squad. We were stationed at the far end of the basement floor, in a room stocked with machines made for destroying large quantities of paper. That was going to be my job — for up to 7.5 hours per day.

  At first, I thought the black birds were crows, but I was mistaken. They had to be closer to cormorants, maybe shags. Gathered by the edge of the water, far from where I was standing on the bridge, I could see some of them, clumped together, staring at the factory. They looked slick as oil, like if you wrung one by the neck you’d get black ink all over your hands. They were floating in brackish water, where the river spills into the ocean. But do shags live in places like that? Are they ocean birds? River birds? I wiped the sweat from my forehead.

  It was almost evening. After stopping at several sites along the way, the orientation hike — a training and networking event for new hires — was wrapping up for the day. We were close to the factory’s south side now, on a large bridge that stretches over the river separating the north and south zones. The bridge has two lanes of car traffic flanked by wide footpaths. In the time it took our group to cross, we saw at least five buses, three excavators with their shovels tucked downward like the heads of sleeping giraffes, one concrete mixer, five vehicles loaded with some kind of heavy equipment, and too many cars to count. Maybe half of them were company cars. Gray, with the factory logo on the side. There were a few jeeps, too. “This bridge feels sturdy, doesn’t it? Even with this wind, and all the buses, it doesn’t wobble,” said the young man walking next to me, a gifted soul with a knack for communication, hired by the factory straight out of school (no easy feat, to be sure). He was refreshingly self-assured, and when I was quiet for too long he’d try to make conversation. Still, he was more interested in the group to his other side, two men and three women, among whom he had already established himself as the leader of the pack. And what a leader he was, refusing to let the silent, brooding types peel away from the group. Can’t blame him for trying. I wonder if he knows I’m ten years older than he is. I was late to join the workforce, but I don’t look my age — probably because I’ve never had to live through the horrors of job hunting. I’m well aware of how young I look, but I still can’t believe I’m here, walking around with these kids as if I were one of them. It was never something I wanted. Even now, it feels like someone’s playing a trick on me. But why? Who could possibly benefit from that? I kept on walking. “You’re from around here, aren’t you? We were thinking about going out after the hike. Any places you’d recommend? You’re welcome to join us, by the way.” I guess that means he’s not from around here. The finest applicants from all across Japan are dying to work at this factory. I never saw the appeal. Maybe the factory is generous with funding? Granted, a top-tier corporation would be much better funded than some provincial university, but what difference does it make if you can’t do what you want? “Actually, my university’s up by the mountains. It’s not around here. And, I’m sorry to say, I have plans tonight.” I really did. Some guys from school, the elite few who’d managed to land jobs in the area, were throwing me a party.

  “Look at you, Furufue. From researcher to corporate scientist, just like that. Looks like you hit the jackpot,” they’d said, acting like I’d won some huge victory by getting this job. They thought I was lucky, but I didn’t see it that way. This whole situation was nothing but a pain. Honestly, I would’ve rather continued my research at the university. “Taxonomy isn’t exactly a growing field, you know. Genetics, now that’s another story. But what do you do? You classify moss. That just makes you weird. Following a path this narrow doesn’t leave you with many options. No one wants you to get stuck down some dead-end path. I know I don’t. Your parents can’t look after you forever, can they? Your dad may have some influence, but there’s no guarantee that something’s going to open up for you at the school, no matter how long you hang around. Things just don’t work that way.” Out of nowhere, my advisor came and asked me if I’d like to get something to eat in the cafeteria. It was ten in the morning and I’d just arrived at the lab. It was too late for breakfast, but too early for lunch. I had to order something, so I went with a bowl of miso soup — the one with no pork — and paid my thirty yen. I walked over to the tea dispenser, poured two cups of hojicha, then carried them over to our table. My advisor was already sitting. In front of him was a giant slab of tonkatsu, stir-fried eggplant and pork liver, an extra-large helping of rice, natto, and seven umeboshi from the condiment island. “Did I tell you about my diet? I’ve been skipping lunch.
I stick to two meals a day, no carbs at night. I lost over twenty pounds in the past six months.” Around that time, whenever he had something to drink or something sweet to eat, in fact any time he put anything in his mouth, he’d given the exact same speech. Everyone in the lab, myself included, had already committed the whole routine to memory. Admittedly, I hadn’t seen him eat rice or noodles at night, but I’d seen him knock back more than a few carb-heavy beers, and he never turned down fried food. Look at him — eating that many umeboshi is too much salt for anyone. As he poured most of his stir-fry over his rice and started digging in, he told me about the factory job. “The offer came through the placement office. They need a bryologist. The office asked me if anybody came to mind and I gave them your name.” After shoveling the stir-fry and rice into his mouth and slurping it down, he got back up to put some Thousand Island dressing on the shredded cabbage that came with his tonkatsu. I was lost. They need a bryologist? My advisor returned to his seat and resumed eating. “It’s not a bad gig, this job. You should really think about it.” “Does the factory have some particular interest in moss?” “No clue. They mentioned something about green-roofing, though. You should go over to the placement office and see what the description says.” He took the cabbage off his plate, pink with dressing, put it on his rice, then crammed it into his mouth. Setting his chopsticks down for a moment, he stuck an umeboshi in his mouth, sucked off the flesh, cracked the stone with his molars, and tongued free the innermost kernel before spitting it back onto his plate. “Green-roofing? They should ask a specialist. These days, all you need to do is lay down some sheet, then add water . . .” I looked at my soup. All the ingredients had settled on the bottom. I didn’t bother eating any. Then I watched my advisor cover his natto in mustard, pour some soy sauce on top, and dump the whole thing over the last of his rice. I remembered him once saying how much he loved the taste of natto with mayonnaise. I bet the only reason he was holding back now was because the cafeteria charges ten yen per packet. Diet? What bullshit. “I don’t know what to tell you, Furufue. This is a job in the factory — we’re talking big leagues here. What more do you need to know?” he asked, thick strings of natto webbing his mouth. I had a rough idea where the factory was. I knew some of their products, too. I’d even used a few. But why would they need me? It didn’t make sense. “To be honest, I’m not sure I’m ready to leave the program. Isn’t there anyone else?” “No,” he shot back, using his chopsticks to slice through his natto. “Furufue, buddy. The factory went out of their way to ask our university for someone. If we recommend the wrong person, it’ll negatively impact our placements in the future. We need to give them our best and brightest. That’s why it has to be you. Besides, they’re asking for a bryologist . . .” He poured some tea into his bowl, started stirring with his chopsticks, brought it to his mouth, and washed down the natto stuck between his teeth. He inhaled another umeboshi while I thought of at least two talented researchers who were more deserving of this post. It’s not like I thought I wasn’t a good enough candidate, but they were older and more qualified. I couldn’t think of one good reason why I should get this job instead of them. I was about to say as much, too, but my advisor spoke first. “Just consider it. Think about how happy it’ll make your folks.” And that was the end of that.