“Form 44-k

  Form 27-A

  Stamped in blue,

  Signed in black,

  Old forms, new forms,

  For Tanaka’s stack.”

  Night.

  Realm of nomikai.

  Night meant mandatory drinking.

  Night meant the smell of drunk laughter.

  Night meant glossolalia of future promotions.

  Night meant complaining about past clientèle.

  We were modern-day samurai, celebrating our modern-day victories. Our katana was the suitcase. Our battlefield, the cubicle.

  Those celebrations came in rounds, and they came with a price.

  The first round was pride.

  "Cleared out my email backlog. Two hundred and sixteen of them."

  “I used to work downstairs. But look at me now. On the 7th floor!”

  “I was on a three-hour call with my insurance, but they caved. I won.”

  “Got my bonus. Going to Thailand to find myself a wife.”

  Then came wrath.

  “My client can kiss my ass!”

  “Can you believe it? Idiot CC’d his supervisor.”

  “New guy won’t last a week...”

  "Those gaijin scum have ruined this country."

  Lastly, envy.

  “I wanted to be a writer, you know… Not this.”

  “Cheating wife? I have no one at all! You have two!”

  "See that girl over there? I wish she were mine."

  “Let’s open a ramen shop together in Yokohama.”

  Night meant madness.

  Night meant delusion.

  Night meant limbo.

  We were modern-day monks, muttering our modern-day confessions. Our sutras were the words unsaid. Our temple, the isakaya.

  After three rounds, the modern-day monks were slouched forward, flush in their cheeks, slurring their sins.

  “You hear? They’re downsizing the General Processing Section,” a man in a black tie whispered. “Anyone could be next on the chopping block.”

  “I hear they’re starting with the old ones,” said a man in a flannel tie. “No longer useful.”

  “We’re safe for now, huh, Kuramoto?” said another, nudging my shoulder.

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  Their heavy cologne mingled with the taste of beer on my tongue, allowing new migraines to flourish. The redness of our faces, the recklessness of our spoken word, evoked the atmosphere of a Renaissance painting. We, frozen in it, and this, our supper.

  At exactly 10 pm, men who came in with sharp suits stumbled out of the izakayas across Japan with disheveled suits. Scattering in all directions, like lost spirits.

  Walking home was painful... Not because of the soreness of my feet in the stiff loafers that confined them, or the aching of my fingers that’d worked so tirelessly to stamp and sign for hours far too long. But the exhausted workers who filed out of their corporate trenches into the streets and trains of Tokyo reflected in myself, my own exhaustion.

  I was a wandering spirit in a sea of wandering spirits. They were sinners, and so was I. This was our punishment.

  Here, the sights and sounds of breakdowns, both physical and mental, were even more present than before. The men who had failed revealed themselves to the herd. Lining sidewalks with unconscious faces.

  Upon entering the station, I found a familiar failure.

  There he was again. The salaryman whose hair had sprouted monkey grass on my way to work the previous morning, leaning against the tiled wall as the crowd stepped over him. Despite his comatose state, he looked oddly at peace.

  I stepped forward to my shrine and placed my offering between his spread legs—my Pocari. It shimmered with rosary beads. The man didn't wake. But between two salarymen, I felt a 'thank you' slip from his soul to mine.

  I boarded the train. It took me back to my resting place.

  My apartment mirrored my outward composure. It was clean and accessible. It was empty and lifeless. It was everything and nothing. My home.

  It consisted of two rooms separated by a shoji, a paper sliding door—one for the futon and the other for the food. Function and flesh. Wine and bread.

  Commandments on the bedroom wall—

  - Stamp forms

  - Answer emails

  - Sleep more

  - Visit Mother

  - Quit smoking

  Commandments on the kitchen counter—

  - Canned coffee

  - White rice

  - Packaged ramen

  - Frozen onigiri

  - Pocari Sweat

  A God in the corner—

  Tonight, a documentary concerning the growing number of vacant villages across rural prefectures. Those farm towns that had stood for a thousand years wouldn't stand for another ten. We abandoned the generations of yesteryear, packed up and left home. Leaving behind nothing but an aging hole in the torso of Japan.

  Another. A show where the man in his fifties returns back to his hometown. Only to find that the high school from his memories had been turned into an insecticide factory.

  I turned the channel to the graveyard slot. A rerun of Evangelion was playing. I wondered if I’d once enjoyed that show in my youth. It was good. I hope I did.

  A God in my pocket—

  [Mail] 田中課長から新着メール：3件

  (3 new emails from Supervisor Tanaka)

  [News] 日経平均、関税不安で続落

  (Nikkei falls again amid tariff fears)

  Asahi in hand, I fall asleep on my modern-day altar.

  My sleep. My death. My rebirth.

  Tomorrow, I shall do it all over again.