Woman in the Purple Skirt! Give it your best shot! Get through the interview, and get the job!
Four days later, the outcome of the job interview was clear. Whether it was all my fervent prayers that did the trick, or the “fresh floral”–scented shampoo I had given her, or because the company is so desperate that it would take anyone, the Woman in the Purple Skirt had got the job. It had been a long time coming, but finally, she had made it through. She was standing at the starting line.
First day at the new job. The Woman in the Purple Skirt left her apartment a little on the early side, at about 7:30 a.m., and headed to work. I was waiting for her at the bus stop. We got on the bus not far from the entrance to the shopping district, and got off near her place of work. For forty minutes we were being jolted around on the bus. It was 8:30 when the Woman in the Purple Skirt knocked on the door of her workplace.
When she entered the office, she was handed her corporate uniform and given a key to the locker room by the agency director. First, go and change. The Woman in the Purple Skirt did as she was told, and headed straight to the locker room, which was the next door down from the office.
The corporate uniform was a neat black dress. A good, sturdy garment, nicely “breathable,” and also conveniently stain resistant (or rather, since it was black, the stains didn’t show). Made of polyester, it dried within minutes of washing—which was also convenient. Perhaps the one unattractive feature was that the fabric generated a lot of static. A minor problem, but annoying nevertheless.
With the black uniform, she wore matching black shoes that she bought yesterday in the shopping district. But oh dear, as soon as she tried to step into her new black tights, also purchased yesterday, at the hundred-yen store, there was a ripping sound. The Woman in the Purple Skirt took off the tights and discarded them, then slipped her feet straight into her shoes: she would go bare legged. The finishing touch was a white apron. But oh, the Woman in the Purple Skirt had managed to tie the apron in the wrong way. She was supposed to pull the ties over her shoulders and cross them before securing them.
Now in her work uniform, the Woman in the Purple Skirt knocked again on the office door. By now a few more people were in the room.
The agency director was sitting at his desk, staring at his computer screen. When the Woman in the Purple Skirt entered the office, the director lifted his eyes, glanced at her face, and then glanced at her legs.
Maybe he didn’t realize she wasn’t wearing stockings. In any case, he didn’t say anything about that. But he did point out that she had tied her apron wrong.
“Tsukada-san, Tsukada-san.” He beckoned to Supervisor Tsukada, who was standing next to the office whiteboard. “See to her, would you,” the director said, and gestured toward the Woman in the Purple Skirt.
“Yup. One second.” Supervisor Tsukada put down the nameplate she was holding and walked over to the Woman in the Purple Skirt.
“First day?” And she rested her hands lightly on the Woman in the Purple Skirt’s shoulders. It was the first time I had ever seen anyone apart from the children in the park touch the Woman in the Purple Skirt.
“Yes,” came the reply, spoken in a tiny voice.
Supervisor Tsukada rotated the Woman in the Purple Skirt so she was facing the other way. With quick movements, she undid the bow at the waist, unbuttoned the ties, and, jostling her roughly, rearranged the ties. She crossed them over each other, buttoned them, and then retied them in a bow.
“Good grief, aren’t you a skinny little thing! Did you eat breakfast this morning?”
“Yes,” the Woman in the Purple Skirt replied. Again, her voice was barely audible. Really? What could she have eaten? I wondered.
“What did you have?” Supervisor Tsukada demanded.
“Cornflakes,” replied the Woman in the Purple Skirt.
“Cornflakes? You won’t be able to do much work on that! A good breakfast is rice! Rice! You got that?”
Supervisor Tsukada gave the Woman in the Purple Skirt a little tap on the shoulder. Again, she replied with a “Yes,” in the same small voice. And then she gave a demure little giggle.
For a moment, I thought I had misheard. But no, it was definitely her. Amazingly, the Woman in the Purple Skirt had just let out an ingratiating laugh.
It was 9:00 A.M. The usual morning meeting got underway. Since today was the first Monday of the month, the manager from the hotel was present. After everyone stood and wished one another a good morning, he said a few words directing us to “continue with the initiative begun last month to keep strict tabs on the complimentary items provided for guests.” And then he left.
This manager had a distinctly laissez-faire attitude when it came to giving direction to the service companies working for the hotel. His policy was basically to stay out of it. This was why he turned up only once a month for the morning meetings, and also why, even now, he didn’t know the names of any of the staff. It was only recently that he had started telling us we needed to keep a tighter check on the complimentary items—previously he hadn’t bothered even to cast his eye over the checklists. Everybody thought he was an arrogant twerp—standing there, head thrown back, barking out his orders—especially considering he was never around anyway.
Once the hotel manager had made his quick exit, it was the turn of the agency director, who stood up and read from a list of prepared topics. These included today’s room occupancy rate and the mottoes to bear in mind this month. There were too many of us to be able to fit into the office for morning meetings, so some of us were always left standing in the corridor between the office and the hotel.
Sadly, from where I stood, I couldn’t get a view of the Woman in the Purple Skirt. Not so much because of the number of people but because of the rotund figure of the agency director, who stood like a blank wall right in front of her. The Woman in the Purple Skirt was completely obscured.
The director next read out a list of yesterday’s oversights.
“Room 215: Mirror not wiped. Room 308: Kettle not filled with water. Room 502: New roll of toilet paper did not have the end folded into a neat triangle for the next guest. Now, I repeat: Make sure you give a thorough last check before you leave any room, using the so-called point-and-call routine. You know the one. Direct your eyes to parts of the room, point your finger at each item, and say it out loud. That usually prevents most mistakes.”
Everybody listened—or pretended to listen—to what he was saying, with solemn expressions on their faces.
“And last of all, I want you to meet our newest recruit. She’ll be working with us starting today.”
And here, he glanced behind him, and stepped back.
“Now. Please introduce yourself.”
At last. The Woman in the Purple Skirt’s face came into view, or at least a glimpse of it. Perhaps on someone’s advice, the Woman in the Purple Skirt seemed to have gathered into a tight ponytail the hair that normally hung loosely over her shoulders. The style showed off her oval-shaped face, and she looked surprisingly clean and neat.
“Come. Introduce yourself.” The director motioned for her to come forward. The Woman in the Purple Skirt did as she was told. But then she simply froze.
“Well, come on . . . introduce yourself,” the director whispered to her, frowning. “Just say your name. You do have a name, don’t you?”
There were some titters of laughter.
“. . . My last name is Hino. . . .”
Finally, she had uttered her own name, just barely managing to force it out.
“And what’s your first name?”
“. . . Mayuko . . .”
What did she say? the cleaning staff asked loudly. I didn’t catch it. . . . Did you hear it? No! Did you? No, not one word of it. Sorry! Hey, speak up a little, will you? Can’t hear you!
The truth was, she was perfectly audible. “My last name is Hino. My f
ull name is Mayuko Hino!” she had said, quite distinctly. And then: “And I have another name too. The Woman in the Purple Skirt!” That part was very audible, at least to the Woman in the Yellow Cardigan.
“Hey, speak up, will you? Can you say that again, please?!”
“Her name is Mayuko Hino-san!” The director’s voice boomed out, taking over. And then, on her behalf: “It’s a pleasure to meet you!”
The job of the agency director seems almost impossible. He has to assemble the staff, negotiate with the hotel, collect staff reports, produce bulletins, help out on-site if there are staff shortages, schedule the shifts, deal with the objections that inevitably arise from someone or other on the staff . . . He must find himself continually pulled between the head office and the hotel. And then, on top of it all, rumor has it that at home he’s a henpecked husband. He has to do exactly as his wife tells him.
That must be partly why he is packing on weight. It must be all the stress. These days all he seems to get from the head office is one stern directive after another. “Do not—whatever happens—lose any more staff! We’re hard pressed enough as it is!”
As soon as the Woman in the Purple Skirt’s self-introduction was over, the director told her to come to the office during her lunch break—he would give her some voice training. The Woman in the Purple Skirt nodded, though she looked a bit anxious. In fact, it is not unusual for employees on their first day of work at this company to be made to do voice drills in the required daily greetings and exhortations. The place where it happens is always the same: outside, in the recycling-collection area.
We were in the recycling-collection area. The sanitation workers had not yet come to pick up the trash. Other than the director and the Woman in the Purple Skirt, no one else was there.
“Standing where you are, just try shouting as loud as you can.”
The director had positioned the Woman in the Purple Skirt next to the crates holding recyclable bottles, cans, glass, and newspapers. He himself took up a place by the large dumpster for general recyclable waste. The two of them stood on opposite sides of the service bay, facing each other as if in a standoff.
The lesson took the form of a series of drills. The director started each drill with a brief vocal exercise used by actors based on the sounds of the hiragana alphabet, to limber up the voice.
At first, I couldn’t hear the voice of the Woman in the Purple Skirt at all.
“A—e—i—u—e—o—a—o!” the director beeped in staccato fashion. And then: “Ohayo gozaimasu! Good morning!”
The director’s words rang out unanswered in the collection area.
“Ta—te—chi—tsu—te—to—ta—to! Arigato gozaimasu! Thank you! We appreciate your kindness!”
In college, the director had belonged to a student acting club. Everyone knew about it. At one time, the story went, he had even thought about becoming a professional actor. I suspected he had other motivations, like a relationship with an actress, because he hadn’t stuck with it for even two years before giving up altogether on the idea of acting. Still, his voice was unusually resonant: only someone with some stage experience could project like that. No doubt his big tub of a belly helped.
“Na—ne—ni—nu—ne—no—na—no! Otsukare-sama desu! Good work!”
Perhaps encouraged by his enthusiasm, the Woman in the Purple Skirt started to answer him. Her voice grew steadily louder and clearer.
“Arigato gozaimasu!”
“Arigato gozaimasu!”
“Itte irasshaimase! See you again soon!”
“Itte irasshaimase!”
“That’s more like it! Itte irasshaimase!”
“Itte irasshaimase!”
“Otsukare-sama desu!”
“Otsukare-sama desu!”
“That’s the way!”
The director went on to explain to the Woman in the Purple Skirt that the greetings and exhortations she would have to use would fall into two broad categories—those for greeting a guest in the hotel corridor, or a colleague at the cleaning agency. Being able to offer the right kind of greeting or exhortation, in the appropriate tone of voice, is essential for anyone who wants to be considered an adult. But you’d be amazed by how many people just can’t seem to manage it. This is one of the reasons the agency is constantly short of staff. The more experienced staff take every opportunity to persecute any new recruits who can’t get the hang of it, until the recruits eventually quit. If the fault lies with anybody, it has to be with the ones who do the persecuting, but, well, if you’re an adult and you can’t even manage a “Hello” in the morning, you have to wonder. . . . But then again, I’m hardly the world’s most socially adept person.
“Now, one more time. A bit louder. Arigato gozaimasu!”
“Arigato gozaimasu!”
“A touch more energy. Arigato gozaimasu!”
“Arigato gozaimasu!”
“Louder. Loud enough so that the person over there—whoever it is—lurking in the smoking area can hear you. Arigato gozaimasu!”
“Arigato gozaimasu!”
“Hey, you! Yes, you, whoever you are. Your face is kind of in the shadows, but I can see you’re wearing our uniform. Yes, you, standing right there. Raise your hand and wave if you can hear her. Here we go, then: Arigato gozaimasu!”
“Arigato gozaimasu!”
I raised my hand and gave a little wave.
“Well, that person seems to have heard you. Excellent. You’ve passed!”
Thanks to the crash course given to her by the director, that afternoon the Woman in the Purple Skirt was being treated by the regular members of the cleaning staff like an altogether different person. Perhaps it was just the stark contrast with the appalling impression she had made with her self-introduction in the morning, but now all she had to do was call out a clear “Otsukare-sama desu!” and give a little bow with her head when anyone stepped into the elevator, and all of them would look utterly amazed.
“Wait, what? So she can talk after all, and like normal!”
“She actually looks as if she might have some wits about her!”
This reaction relieved me of my first worry. At least now she wouldn’t be persecuted for not even being able to properly recite the various obligatory salutations and exhortations. More than a few of the older cleaning staff, and managers like Supervisor Tsukada and Supervisor Hamamoto, made it a policy to refuse to deal with new recruits who couldn’t handle this most basic of requirements. I didn’t know how many new employees I’d seen quit before finding out even the first thing about the job.
But the Woman in the Purple Skirt had mastered this part. Her induction started that very afternoon, in a room in the hotel’s utility corridor.
Supervisor Tsukada began with a demonstration of the various pieces of housekeeping equipment, and then handed the Woman in the Purple Skirt a form, telling her to fill in the blanks with the names of the items.
But, oh dear, the Woman in the Purple Skirt didn’t have a pen.
“You mean you forgot?” asked Supervisor Tsukada in stern surprise. “The least you can do is bring a pen with you to work.”
“I’m sorry.” The Woman in the Purple Skirt hung her head.
“Well, what about a notebook?”
The Woman in the Purple Skirt shook her head. Supervisor Tsukada took out an unused notebook from the tote bag she carried around with her.
“I’ll give you this one.”
“Is it all right? It’s yours, isn’t it?”
“Of course. I’ve got lots more. I bought five in a special deal.”
“Thank you! I appreciate your kindness!” More evidence of the efficacy of the director’s vocal coaching.
“Now. The one thing you have to understand about this job,” Supervisor Tsukada said as she handed her a pen, “is that it’s rather mindless. Basically, you’re doi
ng the same thing over and over again. Anyone can do it, once they get used to it. It’s actually quite simple.”
“Yes.” The Woman in the Purple Skirt opened the notebook she’d been given, and wrote: “Involves doing the same thing over and over again.”
“Good grief!” Supervisor Tsukada exclaimed, taking a quick peek at her notes. “I hope you’re not going to write down everything I say!” And she laughed boisterously, giving the Woman in the Purple Skirt a whack on the shoulder.
The Woman in the Purple Skirt was now assigned to the training floor, which was, as the name implied, the floor specifically for trainees. Here, she would be joined by Supervisor Tsukada, whose specific job was to train the trainees, as well as three other supervisors who would come in one by one to observe, and ten or so fledgling members of the staff, all of whom had joined within the last year. She would have her cleaning procedures strictly monitored, until such time as Supervisor Tsukada stamped her official seal on a document that would signify she had completed her training.
The director also dropped in to see how his protégée was doing. The Woman in the Purple Skirt happened to be out of earshot, having been pulled aside by one of the supervisors to learn how to replenish the cleaning fluid in the housekeeping cart.
“The new girl looks like she’ll be all right,” Supervisor Tsukada told the director.
“Is she able to communicate?” the director asked.
“Uh-huh. Her responses are just as they should be.”
“Ah. Good.” The director nodded, looking pleased. “My voice lessons must have done the trick.”
“She is quiet and reserved, so at first I doubted whether she would be up to the job. But so far she’s been doing everything exactly as I tell her to. She’s very conscientious. And she’s quick and nimble, despite her dopey manner.”
The Woman in the Purple Skirt Page 3