anything, I would pile on a little extra helping when they’d come into Yoshinoya for a bite to eat.
Once a Megaton customer called to me, apparently taking me for an employee. It was, I suppose, an easy mistake to make, as I was casually dressed in navy-blue chinos and a brown jacket, similar to the actual employees. I looked around and, seeing no clerk, offered my assistance. When it came to knowledge of the latest products, I could hold my own against any of the staff and so played my role to perfection, even surprising myself at just how smooth my sales pitch was. The customer clearly had an itch, and I knew just where to scratch. As it happened, he was looking for information rather than an immediate purchase and so, having heard my spiel, left the store quite content.
Another customer had been observing us and then came to me to ask about the most popular models. I instinctively guided him to the top-sellers, explained their strengths and weaknesses, and, when he seemed to waver, asked for what purpose he chiefly intended to use the product. With that matter cleared up, I made a further suggestion and, when he again appeared to vacillate, pushed the hidden pluses of the camera. Finally, for good measure, I added: “Actually, I own and regularly use this one myself—in black—and, to tell you the truth, I’m so comfortable with it that I wouldn’t want any other. But that’s just between you and me.”
And with that I clinched the sale, though now I was in trouble, having, of course, no access to the merchandise. The customer suddenly looked suspicious, when Nakamura, a staff member who knew me, came to my rescue, along with Tajima. And so the purchase went off without a hitch.
Impressed by my prowess, Nakamura told me that I ought to leave Yoshinoya and come to work for Megaton, saying that if I was interested, he’d be happy to put in a good word for me with his superiors. And so I landed an interview. Tajima, suspecting that I had been trying to con the customer out of his money, voiced his skepticism to the hiring committee, but in the end it was Nakamura’s recommendation that won the day.
Reminiscing about it all, I found myself dozing off—slipping from memories to dreams. I was running away from a pursuer. All I remember is feeling relieved at not yet having been caught.
Drifting awake, I heard Minami-san say to Yasokichi: “You need to be more solid, you know, in the hips . . .”
“Are you talking about sumo?” I asked.
“Go back to sleep, Hitoshi,” said Yasokichi.
“Yasokichi’s a lightweight.”
Minami-san’s eyes had also turned glassy. Whenever he got plastered, he’d start in on personal evaluations. “Am I no better than Hitoshi?” he asked Yasokichi.
“Nagano’s heavy. You’re light as a balloon.”
“Am I a balloon?”
“He’s saying I’m solid and sedate?” I piped up.
“Nah. You’re morose. There’s something dicey about you. Yasokichi has a touch of charm—but take away his buoyancy and he could be real trouble. As I say, you’re dicey.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I retorted.
“You see? You make people feel like they have no idea what you’re going to do next.”
“Just because I head-butted Tajima? Well, I only played dirty because Tajima is himself a dirty player. I was just giving him a dose of his own medicine.”
“Yes, you two may be similar.”
“Cut the crap.”
“It’s not crap. You and Tajima are both simple souls: when you’re hurt, you don’t heal. And that makes you dangerous. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Yeah, now I can see it too: you two have a lot in common,” Yasokichi affirmed.
“We’re nothing alike!” I snapped.
“Tajima was a fine young man when he first joined the company, with a positive outlook on things. He’s a man of talent and skill who can be plugged in here and there to perform a variety of tasks. But when he feels underappreciated, he gets his back up against the wall. And that’s made him embittered. He takes pride in being the only one who can do this or that, when, in fact, anyone could. And then he feels hurt. So when Nagano came along, the touted camera expert, Tajima couldn’t take it.”
“Minami-san, I thought you suggested we go out for drinks to cheer me up, but now I feel more hounded than ever. I’m going home.”
“Let’s call it a night then. Nagano’s about to get all teary.”
I walked with them as far as the Hiyoshi Station ticket gate. As a parting shot, Minami-san added for good measure, “Don’t let yourself get all worked up about Tajima. If you do, you’ll wind up just like him.”
“I was hurt today,” I replied reproachfully. “And I won’t be getting over it.”
* * *
My spirits remained low when I returned to my apartment. As I put the key in the lock and opened the door, I decided to hit the sack without bothering to shower first. But then I noticed that the light was on in the dining room and was immediately enveloped in tepid air and the smell of cooking. I could hear the sound of the television, and from the other side of the sliding door in front of me came a voice: “Dai-chan? You’re home so late!” A moment later its source stood before me: an elderly woman I had never seen before.
“I’m sorry!” I said, panicking, as I started to back away. “I’m in the wrong place!”
“What are you saying? This is your place, isn’t it? You must be upset at my sudden visit, but you’re the one who’s at fault here, you know. You’ve changed your cell phone number, haven’t you? You should have told me. You promised me you’d call the next day, but then you didn’t, and when I tried to call, I couldn’t get through. And you responded to none of my messages. I thought something must have happened. I was afraid you might have gotten yourself caught up with some loan shark. I almost called the police. But then Kasumi said I should just look for you here. So I dropped everything and came. Now don’t just stand there, come on in!”
I did as I was told and took off my shoes. The silly question I was about to pose—Who the hell are you?—died on my lips. I could tell from her voice and manner of speaking exactly who she was: Daiki’s mother.
But why was she here? Unless she was involved with the police, she had no way of knowing my address. Was it a sting operation? I’d heard of would-be victims of remittance fraud playing along in order to help the police arrest the culprits. But I had given her my own account number, so there was no need for any such charade.
So what was the scam? What sort of scheme was I caught up in?
“Your face tells me you’ve been drinking. Do you need anything to eat? I’ve prepared something simple . . .”
“No thanks,” I answered cautiously, taking my place onstage.
“How are you feeling? Have you been overdoing it?”
“I’m all right.”
“Did you solve that problem involving your friend?”
“Yeah.
