Chapter 3
Proliferation
On the first Saturday in May, we decided to take a trip to Mount Takao. It was to be our first outing together. As Hitoshi and I had no overlapping days off, our only meetings until then had been in the evening at the student’s apartment. I would normally stay in Hiyoshi before returning home, as it were, to Ōkubo. I still felt the strong urge to step out for a drink, but had no desire to publicly reveal the merciless condemnation the three MEs carried out in our tête-à-tête-à-tête of anyone who was not of US.
The fact is, our conversations revolved around complaining about those in our immediate spheres. My target was Tajima. I would pour out my resentment of him, reporting in minute detail our exchanges and whatever he happened to do to piss me off. It was all fundamentally different from the griping I had done when talking to Minami-san or Yasokichi. Whenever I was with colleagues, I would, of course, launch into an anti-Tajima diatribe, but with Hitoshi and the student, the shared assumption was that none of us was compatible with corporate entities to begin with. And that meant that the dumping on Tajima eventually turned into a critique of company types in general. And the more we talked about it, the clearer it became to me just how much, without even realizing it, I had adapted.
That lesson applied to the other two as well. Hitoshi would scathingly denounce municipal employees and their mentality. It was his way of dismantling the pride that had sustained him. Thus, when he had finished railing against his colleagues, his own harsh words would rebound and strike himself painfully as well.
The student went after his cohort with a very broad stroke, in the end conceding that he was all too representative of those he was attacking, and asking for a remedy. Needless to say, no one could provide it.
And yet the exercise liberated us. Once we had let our emotions explode and brought our spirits down, we found ourselves feeling extraordinarily tranquil. The three of us basked in the quiet happiness of simply being together, so close that we needed no words to understand the others’ thoughts and feelings as one’s own. As the days went by, the others would say to me immediately upon our meeting, “Tajima again?”
Several weeks into our association, Hitoshi grew taciturn. He listened to what the student and I had to say but had nothing of his own to add. He appeared particularly unwilling to talk about his work. Whenever we asked him about it, he would forcefully change the subject.
Our inability to read his mind was both troubling and perplexing: we were, after all, one person. Did that not ominously suggest that the very idea of “me as we” was losing its meaning?
“Aren’t we being a bit too hermit-like?” the student asked.
“Well then,” said Hitoshi, “how about going to a park to drink cheap sake under the night sky?”
“Let’s do something bolder and wilder. We’re being too gloomy and acting as though we’re afraid of showing ourselves in public.”
“You’re right!” I chimed in. “We have nothing to be ashamed of and every reason to strut about.”
“We’re not ashamed. It’s just that we don’t want to look at faces we find disagreeable. Isn’t that why we do our drinking in private?”
“That’s what I mean about being gloomy. Wouldn’t it make a lot more sense for us to go out and have everyone else withdraw in embarrassment? Let’s do it!”
“Isn’t it great to be young!” I added, spirits high.
“The practical problem is that either Daiki or I will have to take time off.”
“That’s true,” I acknowledged in a more subdued tone.
“So that means it should be Daiki-san, doesn’t it? If we go on a weekday, we’ll have nothing but old people around. We should be putting us MEs on display when society at large has a holiday.”
And so I put in for paid vacation for the first time in my life. I knew, however, that a request for leave on the first day of Golden Week, when our electronics store would be at peak traffic, would not be at all welcome, especially as I would be giving only a few days’ notice. I went to work resolved to either simply play hooky or go all the way and quit.
I was in the locker room just before noon, as I was assigned to the late shift, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I was turning around when a voice shouted in my ear: “Well, if it isn’t ol’ Hiyama, or should I say Yaso?”
Standing before me, a smirk on his face, was the same Nakamura-san who had recruited me to the company when I was a part-timer at Yoshinoya. He had been transferred to the Shibuya store before I became a regular employee, which made it particularly odd that he would be tossing “Yaso” around, a recent code word for those of us in the inner circle of Hiyoshi.
“Nakamura-san,” I finally squeezed out, “it’s been a long time!”
“Same as ever?”
“Yes. Are you here to meet someone?”
“Yeah. The manager.”
“I’m thinking of asking for a vacation during Golden Week,” I blurted out involuntarily. “I wonder whether that’s a bad idea.”
“Oh, so you’re giving me the full Yaso treatment! Listen up, Master Hiyamaso—that’s precisely the sort of thing you’ve got to decide for yourself.”
My heart was in my throat; I was breathing rapidly. It was as though I could see myself turning pale.
“I’ve never taken paid leave before, so I wasn’t sure if there was some sort of unspoken rule against doing so.”
“Just put in for the vacation, and if the answer is no, you can think about the reason later. You’ll never be a full-fledged player if you expect the company manual to give you all the answers.”
I took a deep breath and then burst out: “Why did you just refer to Yasokichi? You were already working in Shibuya when he was hired. How did hear about him?”
“Hey, it’s no big deal. I don’t know him personally, but young workers of his type have become an issue for the entire firm. Every branch has been pushing to discourage Yasoism. At last Monday’s morning meeting, your boss made reference to you, though not by name; he spoke of being put off by a young man who was coming to him every time a customer tried to bargain down the price of some item. It was a matter of shifting responsibility onto others. That’s what was bothering him.”
I had the sensation of listening to a story about someone else. It was true that it related to me, but at the time I had been running up against the limits of my authority. It seemed to me that going to consult with a superior had been par for the course. If I had taken it upon myself to approve the discount, I would surely have caught hell for it. Indeed, just two years earlier, Tajima had set off a terrible argument when, in the absence of the clerk in charge, he had daringly knocked off a generous percentage from a videotape recorder. As it happened, the customer used the difference to buy various accessories, thereby running up quite a bill—so that the store wound up making a tidy profit. But the clerk whose turf he had intruded upon was not amused. He reported it not only to the manager but also to the personnel division at the main office, and Tajima ended up with a negative performance evaluation. The incident turned me into a stickler for the rules.
I felt the urge to explode at the absurdity of it all but restrained myself. “How is it that you knew what the manager was talking about?”
“We have an information network.”
I figured Miyatake-san was the source, but only said, “Am I cataloged in the network as Hiyama, Yasoist?”
“Those with access to it are highly restricted. From a company-wide perspective, you’re not seen that way. So you really have nothing to worry about.”
His words only served to convince me that I was indeed being targeted. I was overcome with a feeling of terror, as though I were in freefall. Was I on the verge of being exiled to a Megaton store in the middle of nowhere? At the same time, I thought that perhaps I should consider myself lucky at least to have a steady job. I could feel the seismic tremors once again threatening to bring ruin to the life I had known.
“It’s stress
, isn’t it? You’ve had it with being his subordinate, right?” Nakamura-san said under his breath. “This is just between you and me—you’re about to be transferred. You’re at last going to be out from under him. So go ahead and take your leave—your days off have been cut anyway. I’ll put in a good word for you with the manager.”
Our conversation had become totally confidential, Nakamura-san’s words whispered in my ear.
“Thank you very much,” I said, trying to look untroubled, indeed relieved. I had the gloomy feeling that he would in any case go around hinting to everyone that I had pulled a Yaso in taking leave despite his advice.
* * *
The three of us—Hitoshi, the student, and I—had agreed to meet at ten in front of Takaosanguchi Station. As it was a splendid Saturday morning at the beginning of Golden Week, the station was teeming with young people and families. It felt more like Harajuku than Takaosanguchi. Hitoshi’s bright red backpack seemed particularly out of place for a mountain setting.
“You look like a cartoon character!” I said with a laugh.
“Wow, Daiki’s a riot, isn’t he?” Hitoshi deadpanned, turning to the student.
“I told him that it would look all right on me but not on him,” the student explained.
“It’s all right. I got this on purpose to act as a landmark, so that you two won’t get lost in this crowd.”
Hearing that, I knew with absolute certainty that Hitoshi had bought the red bag with the notion that it made him look chic.
From the eight options, we chose the panoramic ridge trail. Now in full bloom, dazzlingly verdant leaves spread all around us. It was as though, floating in a rice bowl of chazuke, we were gazing up at finely chopped green tea. We watched while the stream of hikers pass before us, and I remarked, “With all of these people, we might even encounter another ME.”
To this the student piped up excitedly: “I just recently ran into another one of US at school.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. He’s in the same class. Actually, I was vaguely aware that there was a guy named Mizonokuchi, but he was so ordinary that he didn’t stand out. It’s really amazing!”
“How could you tell?”
“I had some sort of intuition as soon as I entered the room. Maybe I was sensing his gaze—I felt an itch on my left side. I turned, and there we were, face to face. I was petrified. Mizonokuchi just stared at me without moving. When class was over, I went over to him. Hey there, I said. This is the first time you’ve noticed? he replied, a cold expression in his eyes. I felt the sting of his words.”
“He looks like you?”
“Well, um, he’s a lot less flashy than we are, but there’s no doubt about it: he’s one of US. Afterward we went out for a drink. It wasn’t just that we were on the same wavelength. We talked all evening, holding nothing back. As our conversation went on, I wasn’t sure which of us was which. Was he Mizonokuchi or was I?”
“That’s because you’re the same and we’re the same. Did you tell him about us?”
“Of course. He wants to meet us. Next time I’ll bring him.”
“Great.”
“We’re constantly together at school now. It’s, well, so pleasant and easy. We get hungry at the same time. When it comes to what we want to eat, when one of us says he has something in mind, the other pretty much does too. And when I don’t feel like talking, he’ll also be in the mood for silence. Our opinions about our classmates and teachers mostly coincide. So there’s no need to work toward agreeing on things.”
“Like with us?”
“Yes. We’re at the point where participating in club activities or hanging around with other friends is a chore.”
“Wow. If I had someone like that at work, life would sure be easier.”
I wondered whether I would meet another ME at Megaton. I had been checking out the customers but so far hadn’t had a similar encounter.
I said to Hitoshi, who had been walking ahead of us, “Have you met a new ME?”
“Here. This is your job, Daiki.” Having clearly ignored my question, he handed me a small black case. Inside was a camera, a high-priced Ricoh GR Digital.
“Hitoshi, where have you been hiding this fine camera all this time?”
“You’re the expert, Daiki, so today you have to show us your stuff.”
I was immediately captivated by the device. Having lovingly played with such cameras day after day, I naturally and instinctively ran my hands over it, as if I had been wedded to it for years, adjusting the exposure and the aperture.
I threw myself down in front of Hitoshi, opened up the exposure, and, looking up at him against the light, pressed the shutter. The feeling was overwhelming, a feeling I had not experienced for eight years, ever since graduating from photography school. From my inner being came a burst of joy; the shell in which I had been held in check now shattered. In the image on display in the monitor, the soft light shining through the verdure sparkled in Hiyoshi’s green-tinged thin contours. The sky was saturated with light and drained of color.
“Ooh, that’s awesome!” the student called out, gushing as he examined the photo.
“Well, well,” Hitoshi exclaimed, looking not at all displeased, “that’s too good to be me!”
“Take one of me too!”
Using the same settings, I took a close-up shot of the student. Now I couldn’t stop myself. I snapped my two companions in quick succession, then the trees, the sky, the very air . . . I was practically dancing: leaping, hopping, falling to the ground, getting up, and hopping again. The camera had become a musical instrument, the sound of the shutter marking the rhythm.
I felt the flow of blood in every part of my body; I could feel each capillary. The sense of existence was palpable. I took deep breaths and then exhaled with equal force.
“This one doesn’t look like me either! But it’s fantastic!”
“Really, Daiki, your being stuck selling cameras is a total waste!”
“No kidding. You’re on the wrong course in life.”
“Look, never mind about that. This way I don’t have to earn my keep with a camera. It’s important to me to be able to take photos unimpeded.”
“Okay, I see what you mean. Still, it’s too bad . . .”
I was satisfied. Having now been praised, I experienced for the first time the sensation of self-confidence. My old self as a taker of photographs, long buried and done with, had come back to life. My hollowed-out flesh was slowly being healed. I had told myself that my true love was cameras, but that had just been an excuse. It was taking photos, and I would not let that go by again.
I went on snapping as we made our leisurely way up the trail. We were being steadily passed by couples with children in tow and groups of middle-aged and elderly people. Four young women about our age soon overtook us, drawing my attention. I was clearly not alone in following them with my eyes. Hitoshi and the student quickened their pace, as though not to fall far behind them. As I observed this, Hitoshi came to a sudden realization.
“High heels,” he muttered, as though to justify his interest. “What is she thinking?”
Prompted by his words, I took a closer look and saw that while three of the women were wearing sneakers, the fourth wore short boots whose slender heels were now the focus of our rapt attention. Just as expected, she accidentally wedged a heel between protruding tree roots and slipped, falling to the ground with a scream, her ankle twisting into an unnaturally rubbery shape.
The three of us stood stock-still. Despite our desire to help, our bodies were immobile, holding us back. Meanwhile, her companions had run back to her, tending to her and carefully removing her boot: “Are you all right?” “How bad is the pain?” Two of them glanced at us. The jeans of their fallen friend were covered with sticky mud.
The student, his face taut, started to walk away, his gaze resolutely directed at his feet. Hitoshi and I followed. The women were examining the twisted ankle, glancing around as if to seek help
, but we left them behind.
Eventually we heard their voices: “Hello! Could someone give us a hand?”
In response we quickened our pace. We walked on without a word for twenty or thirty minutes. The silence was finally broken by Hitoshi.
“Is anyone thirsty?”
The stiffness instantly vanished from the student’s face. “Oh, yes. I made us some tea with milk.”
“Most considerate of you!”
From his backpack he took out a thermos, poured the liquid into a cup, and handed it to Hitoshi, who had sat down on a nearby bench. He took two sips and then passed it on to me. I too took a swig. The faint sweetness was just the perfect balm for my fatigue.
“I reset myself with this every morning.”
“Coffee’s no good, is it?”
“That’s right. There’s a bitter aftertaste, and it gives you bad breath. Also, it seems to me, it puts one in a nasty frame of mind.”
“Teas do the opposite. They seem to have a cleansing effect.”
“Yes indeed. Once I have my tea, I’m sailing along comfortably in neutral.”
“I become a blank sheet of paper, transformed into the work me.”
We nodded in agreement. This was indeed a moment for us to go into neutral.
“High heels!” snorted Hitoshi.
“She had no idea what she was doing, coming to Takao in shoes like that!”
“Ever since the Michelin Guide gave the Takao trails a three-star rating, there’s been an explosion of hikers thinking they’re on an urban shopping expedition,” Hitoshi remarked. “And so there has also been an increase in accidents.”
“It’s her own fault,” I added. “People have to learn to look out for themselves and behave prudently and properly.”
“Absolutely! If people can’t avoid preventable injuries, they’re just being irresponsible, don’t you think?”
“Mountains have their own code, and one simply has to know it.”
“She had no business being here.”
“Women . . . in these situations they’re totally oblivious.”
“Anyway, it’s good that it seems to have been only a minor injury.”
ME Page 9