As Bee lapped at her water, he scratched her head, and her eyes fluttered shut as if she was basking in bliss. It truly felt like if he could just get through today, he would find his way.
“Mamiya has been at the bottom of our department for three weeks in a row. A round of applause for him, please!” Emoto’s husky voice echoed across the floor. Shuta felt his stomach flip as sparse hand-clapping broke out. It was a ritual to use the weekly morning meeting as a stage for public shaming. From behind his desk, Emoto, the department manager, was giving Mamiya a roasting in front of this team.
“He’s dragging all of us down. No matter how much we hustle, our department can’t hit our target numbers, all thanks to this guy. Living the dream, huh, Mamiya? Cashing paychecks while kicking back.”
Emoto, an Osaka native, spoke in the Kansai dialect instead of standard Japanese, even in professional settings.
Mamiya kept his head down and remained silent. None of the sales team members dared look him in the eye. Being called out in front was enough to shatter your spirit. Witnessing someone else get chewed out was stomach turning.
“Hey, Kagawa!”
Shuta flinched. “Y-yes?”
“You’re not far behind,” said Emoto. “How do you guys even dare to show your faces at work? If it was me, I would’ve quit a long time ago out of shame.”
Shuta clenched his fists. He’d learned that in these situations it was better to force a wry smile than to hang his head. He let out a nervous chuckle.
“You think this is a joke? Are you an idiot?” asked Emoto. “Usually, scrawny, pasty guys aren’t cut out for this work. Good salespeople are tanned from working outside the office. Look at me. This is a real man’s arm.”
Emoto revealed his nicely bronzed forearms. Shuta suspected it might be a golf tan, given how the arm was pale from the wrist down, but he kept his suspicions to himself. He laughed weakly.
Emoto clicked his tongue and walked over to someone else.
“You’re not thinking about asking for overtime, are you? With subpar performances like yours, I’m amazed you’re trying to squeeze the company for more money. Have you thought about the importance of contributing to the success of our company?”
Emoto berated everyone who didn’t have a strong sales record. He was known to smack people on the head with bundles of paper or with ballpoint pens. Nothing was more excruciatingly embarassing. Shuta had been singled out before the team several times, and each time he’d shaken with shame. After he was offered up as a living sacrifice, people avoided speaking to him for a while—no words seemed adequate.
The air was shot through with fear—anyone could be next. Emoto was notorious for being a power-abusing manager, but there were others like him scattered across different departments. In the sales department, employees who fell short of their quotas were essentially stripped of their human rights. Those who couldn’t stand it quit.
Shuta had completed his off-site meetings but hadn’t managed to bring in much new business that day. An elderly man had patiently listened to his long spiel, but ultimately, Shuta couldn’t convince him to invest any more. Clients rarely purchased financial products during these sales visits, especially when conducted by junior salespeople like Shuta, who were almost always turned away at the door.
After joining the brokerage firm, Shuta learned that finance was all about collecting commission from customers. If you were lucky, the value of the products you recommended would increase, and the client would thank you. But it wasn’t your job to make your customers any profit. The goal was to make them deposit more and more money.
The firm was located at the intersection of Karasuma and Shijō streets, an area teeming with people and jam-packed with banks, department stores, and other commercial buildings. When Shuta had first arrived in Kyoto, he’d been excited to work in such a prime location filled with skyscrapers. Now he lumbered through the streets, his painfully heavy gait drawing stares from passing tourists.
Shuta knew that as soon as he returned to his desk that day, Emoto was going to call on him, and he would have to report on his performance. He was probably going to be yelled at again. As he trudged down the street, someone tapped him on the shoulder.
It was his colleague Kijima. He, too, looked tired.
“Hey, Kagawa. Perfect timing. I’ve been wanting to catch up with you.”
Kijima also worked in the sales department. He was around Shuta’s age and was similarly mild-mannered. In the past, they’d both been underachievers and had frequently griped about work together. But lately, Kijima had begun to win bigger clients and no longer competed for the bottom spot.
They dropped into a coffee shop close to work. Shuta was relieved to have reason to take a detour. He’d been dragging his feet in everything lately.
“What happened to Mamiya today was awful, wasn’t it?” muttered Kijima.
“Yeah, that guy’s been a target lately. It’s uncomfortable to watch,” said Shuta, but deep down, he knew it was better to watch than to be attacked. He was grateful for Mamiya. Without him, Shuta would be the one forced to stand before everyone.
“You’ve been so lucky, Kijima. You’ve been doing great. You need to tell me how you’re selling products with such low interest rates.”
Shuta couldn’t stop himself from making the snide remark. There was no point in learning new sales strategies now. He’d been through countless in-house training and role-playing sessions. The truth was this: successful salespeople possessed unique talent that set them apart from the rest. When companies ignored this fact and imposed the same quota on everyone, workplaces became toxic. Kijima, too, had complained about this until recently. But something felt different today.
Kijima cracked a smile.
“I’m quitting,” he said.
“Whaaat?”
“Here, this is for you.”
Kijima opened his briefcase and took out an envelope stuffed with papers.
“What are these?”
“Documents that need to be given to our manager Emoto’s clients—income and expenditure reports, payment statements, receipts, and the like. They’re organized by client, so distribute them according to the list.”
“No, no, no. This is all wrong.” Shuta’s face contorted as he looked at the documents. “We’re strictly forbidden from handing statements directly to clients. And look at this.” His face twitched as he examined one of the documents. “This is a receipt. This isn’t a document the sales team should be casually handing out. I’m pretty sure it needs to be issued from the collections department or some other department that specializes in processing payments…to prevent fraud.” Shuta fell silent and broke out into a cold sweat.
A smile flickered on Kijima’s lips.
“I don’t get it myself, but according to Emoto, he has a special contact in the collections department and was granted authorization to issue receipts. He’s on a different level in his career than us grunts, so he said not to sweat the small stuff.”
“Is that right?” asked Shuta.
“That’s what I’ve been told.”
