“By the way, did you tell them you’re quitting?” “Work? Yeah, today.” “What’d they say?” “Nothing,” I said with a wry smile. He tilted his head to the side, eyes still fixed on his phone. “After everything you’ve done for them?” “Well, yeah. It’s not like I was doing anything that important. After we move, I hope I can find something better. It’s probably going to be part-time, right? I wish I could find a permanent position . . . Then again, I’m turning thirty this year, so . . .” “But we won’t have to worry about rent up there, so what’s the rush?” “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Just then, on the TV, the comedian lunged at the wayward animal but fell short, landing face-first in a puddle of mud. Glancing up at the screen, my husband muttered “idiot” and laughed. I laughed, too. We moved into our new home two weeks later.
“Quitting? Are you serious?” I was in the bathroom with my only friend from work. A sheet of blotting paper pressed against her forehead, she widened her eyes in disbelief when I broke the news. “My husband’s getting transferred to another branch. We’re moving . . .” “You serious? Where to?” “Not far. North of here, but too far to commute . . . I know, right? It’s kind of sudden . . .” “No, I’m happy for you . . . Is it okay to say that?” She tossed the used sheet in the trash and let out an exaggerated sigh. It was the busiest part of the year, but a good portion of the permanent staff was nowhere to be seen. One had just had a child, another was sick, and two others simply couldn’t face coming in. The extra work had to be done — by us, the nonpermanent employees. We were both putting in overtime, even though it wasn’t in our contracts. We were even handling tasks outside of our job descriptions — receiving orders, interacting with clients — but our base pay remained the same. The only appreciation our employers ever showed us came when the permanent employees got their winter bonuses. Instead of bonuses, we got envelopes with A SMALL TOKEN OF OUR GRATITUDE printed on the front in a cursive script. It really wasn’t much. From what I’d heard, the permanent employee bonus was three months’ pay — at a minimum — but I only got 30,000 yen, in cash. I did the math. Permanent employees likely got somewhere between 600,000 and 700,000. My envelope had maybe a twentieth of that. It’s always nice to feel appreciated, right? I dropped the envelope into my bag, where it’s been ever since. I never felt the urge to spend or even deposit it. Who knows — if I were sticking around, maybe I’d get 50,000 next year. Maybe.
“I wish I could leave . . . I wish I could quit,” she said. She was two or three years older than me and lived with a guy she wanted to marry. He had a permanent position somewhere, but still wasn’t making much money. She didn’t like her job, but didn’t know what else she could do. It was horrible being worked to the bone, but there was no guarantee that she’d find anything better elsewhere. “Really, what are the chances I’d find something permanent out there? At least I’m full-time here. And if we keep working overtime like this, I’ll end up making more than my boyfriend. Not that there’s any hope of ever getting promoted to a permanent position here . . .” When she first started working, she was a permanent employee at a major corporation, but her boss was an evil scumbag who made her life hell. She resigned and came here. “I’d give my right arm to never come back to this place. I wish someone would ask my boyfriend to transfer . . . But what are you going to do? Look for something new up there?” “Well, it’s way out in the country. I’ll try to find something, but who knows. Either way, we should be all right. We’re going to live in a house that my husband’s family owns.” “Wait, seriously? You mean you’re going to be a housewife?” Her eyes opened even wider. “Look at you!” “Look at what?” “You, Matsuura-san. Living the dream. You won’t have to work. You’ll be free to look after the house, bake, do a little gardening . . . That’s the life.” She shook her head as she tugged at the bottom of her vest, smoothing it with both hands. Then she held her nails up to her face, inspecting them closely. Once a month, she went to the salon to have them done — and it looked like she was almost due for her next trip. These were the kind of nails you had to go to the salon to remove. It probably wasn’t conscious, but she had a habit of picking at them. They were dark purple and studded with tiny, clear rhinestones, but at this point only one-third of her nails had any color left. It looked a little punk rock. She told me it was 6,000 yen for both hands (rhinestones cost extra), but she knew somebody at the salon, so she didn’t have to pay full price. I’d done my own nails before, but didn’t take good care of my cuticles, so they never looked very good. Still, I never felt the need to spend that kind of cash to have somebody glue little stones to my fingernails.
“What I wouldn’t give to be a housewife . . . Wait, no way. Are you pregnant?” I shook my head. She was basically the only person I ever spoke to at the office. I had no idea how to interact with the permanent staff, and it didn’t help that I was shy. Even though she was my closest work friend, that didn’t mean that we were actually close. She was always telling me about the things that were worrying her — how she and her boyfriend kept putting off marriage and how she was scared that she was going to miss her window to have a baby. I wasn’t pregnant — not that I would tell her if I were. She washed her hands, then wiped her fingers with extra care, as if polishing the stones. The color on her nails never seemed to last, but those little gemstones stayed put no matter what. “Okay, not yet. But once you move and you have some time on your hands, I bet you’ll get pregnant in no time. You have to tell me, okay? Seriously, I don’t care how far away you live. I’ll come visit.”
I don’t know why, but she’d always been under the impression that I wanted a child as badly as she did. I’m pretty sure she thought I’d been trying to get pregnant ever since I got married but wasn’t having any luck. I suppose I could’ve said something to set the record straight, but I just went along with it. The truth was I wasn’t trying to have children — not that I was bitterly opposed to the idea. I always figured, if it happens, it happens. “If you’re going to have a baby, you’re better off working. That way you get support from the government.” “Support?” “Well, you wouldn’t get all the benefits you’d receive if you were permanent, but still . . .” She leaned in to get a better look at her eyebrows in the mirror. For someone who spent as much money as she did on her nails, I thought it was strange how little makeup she wore. Then again, she had such strong features that it was probably best not to overdo it. She had wide double eyelids, long eyelashes that cast shadows over her cheeks, a giant mole by her temple, and skin far better than most, but she had so many fillings that you couldn’t help but notice all the metal when she smiled. “It’s definitely best if you’re both permanent. I mean, socially and personally.” “So if you had another shot at a permanent position, you’d take it?” “Me? In a heartbeat!” She nodded aggressively. During lunch, all the permanent women go outside to eat. Meanwhile, the rest of us eat at our desks. It’s an unspoken rule. Permanents would only eat at their desks when they were exceptionally busy or if something was going on with their usual lunch partner. It’s not like the permanents and nonpermanents despised each other. Some permanents were actually nice. We simply lived in different worlds. They were taking home 600,000-yen bonuses, while our envelopes contained only a fraction of that. What could we possibly talk about? The bathroom was quiet. Just the two of us. In another fifteen minutes, the permanent employees would flock to the sinks to brush their teeth before getting started on the afternoon work.