After the transfer of the property, I headed to the real estate agent to thank Yamada for his assistance. When I peeked in through the glass walls, a young staff gestured toward the narrow street. Before long I caught him smoking with his colleagues, middle-aged dudes, at the foot of the street in what seemed a hiding place. I could sense I was about to enter a quite different atmosphere—I was like an outsider―there may well had been confidential “information.”
That reminded me of the years I was going to the vocational school. Of the thirty-five or so student in my class, most of them were men. When recess came, mostly they were in the class room. A week later, I noticed most guys other than me disappearing from the room every single recess―I had been growing uneasy about where they were. But there were a few nerds left here. And the women, too, talked cheerfully together.
One day I asked a fellow where the guys were during recess. “We just smoke,” he said. Even though they were mostly minors, they went to the smoking area, where there was a heavy smoker, our classroom teacher who was an enthusiast eager to foster the students’ ability, and the guys, especially the teenagers, followed him to extract valuable “information” that would certainly be useful down the road. A recess is between classes, so they were there a lot. Rarely had I smoked, Rarely did I went there. It felt like I always fell behind the guys who puffed cigarettes.
It is the similar way in companies. Of course, it troubled me from time to time. It must have happened not only in smoking area, but in pubs and golf courses, where the men talk about their work relaxing, a kind of community like an old-boy network built up. I did not belong anywhere, and neither did most of the women. In the office the men behave like nothing happened, but those who did nowhere, every now and then, especially woman, become aware that something happened―in fact, some important matters had been made among the men, as though they were one step ahead of us, and besides I had never heard that the men in such a community could not get promoted. At that time what did the women feel?
I had an instinct that told me to keep out of a long talk with Yamada. They fell silent when I walked over them, and I could see a troubled expression on his face. I exchanged a few formal words with him, a smile coming over his face; I thanked him, bowing slightly and walking away. I was not interested in the middle-aged dudes who were confined to a little world of their own. Instead, I googled in English and learned the world.
It is ridiculous for the minors to imitate their teacher who smoke, but young men who want to go up have to adapt to their superior’s preference. I knew the outgoing middle-aged man being great at his job. He was a hyperactive. He hung out with his team member every day after work—drinking then playing slot machines at pachinko parlors. Plus he gambled on mahjong at his staff’s house until dawn and slept there. But many night they ended up going to kyabakura (men and women drink close together) in Nakasu. He enjoyed flirting with women, but at the same time he found opportunities to make sales.
Pachinko and mahjong―I can imagine―give off in dimly lit space a strong odor of the sketchy world. Cigarette and racket. Neither agree with me. On the other hand, I admired him for working with surprisingly enthusiasm every day, whether it was wholesome environment or not, while a nerdy person dallies over her work yawning because she watches the movie until the small hours, and as for me, I am not reckless―I was good at being alone. I would exercise, surf the internet, sleep by midnight and work as usual.
At some point, life forced me to get along with the new boss, who loved drinking with his colleagues. He went out for a drink with someone after work every day, so I kind of knew that my turn was coming up. He loves people and is easy to talk to; of course he treats us. Pretty soon I would been ordered out of the blue. “K. Let’s go for a drink today! Tell the others this.” I would see the excitement in his face and say: “Yes sir! we’ll accompany you.”
I first I enjoyed the drinking party the way Japanese seemed to. Then, a week later, he asked us to again, but this time, after doing he took to a hostess bar only me. It is called snack, whose women relatively older than kyabakuras. It was well past midnight―there was something about convivial atmosphere around me that compelled me to talk with my boss and the lady of the house, or rather a portly man and an auntie. Pretending to enjoy myself, I was tired of the whole business for a sense of duty, and in the end, he said cheerfully, “K. Let’s have ramen to call it a night.” Screw you! I have to wake up at 6:30 a.m. while he dozes off at CEO’s office until noon. Let me go home, please. Please.
Then, the next week we drank with my boss again. I knew that he just took advantage of me, as though I had been given a mandate: “Whenever I wanna drink, you must follow me.” That was the stint in the bar I hated the most―take a back seat, serve his drink, listen to his glory days, then say, bowing deeply “Thank you very much for today.” I hated it so much. I hated someone who flattered and sucked up to a person who had power. I never do that. I am never going to do. That is my pride.
“K. Drinking!” he said out of nowhere, feeling elated, like it was the natural thing. I was not the kind of person like him, nor was I a slave to the company. “I’m truly sorry, sir. I have things to take care of,” I said, politely. For a moment he looked both bewildered and a little bit smug. “Oh, I see,” he said, soberly. However, I could see a forlorn figure on his back, as if to feel betrayed. Sure enough, since then, I had never ever been asked to.
I was telling you that I was left out, so you will understand what a stretch it was.
