by Robert Feeney
It was on a night similar to this one that I first heard the salaryman story. Bill had just put his jacket on, and was about to step out the door, when a torrential downpour began. Tony and I laughed, as that was about as clear of a sign as you could get to stay in, or stay out as the case may be. 鈥淥ut鈥� was Sol鈥檚 bar, where we always went, because it had an electronic darts board and cheap drinks. Bill鈥檚 house was a good twenty minute walk away and, of course, he hadn鈥檛 brought an umbrella. None of us had. The Japanese rainy season wasn鈥檛 supposed to begin until June, but, unluckily for Bill, it decided to start early that year. It certainly kicked off with a bang. The force of it against the roof made you worry for your safety, especially given where we were at the time. Let鈥檚 just say that the dartboard was by far the most modern fitting in Sol鈥檚 bar, and Sol himself wasn鈥檛 in a rush to do the place up. I swear, one of the walls was pure corrugated iron, like a badly made shed. Some of the seats were just beer canisters with a piece of wood on top. Not attached, mind, so you had to watch yourself. We enjoyed the DIY feel of the place though, and like I said the drinks were cheap. Which was good, because we weren鈥檛 going anywhere that night.
You couldn鈥檛 walk in that kind of rain. It was like a waterfall, it would push you down and soak you through in less than a few steps. Tony told us he had been caught out in one before, and once you were that wet, you stopped caring. But he wouldn鈥檛 have braved the downpour that night, even if you challenged him. Bill had more reason than us to attempt it. He had somewhere to be, judging by the phone call he鈥檇 received just a few minutes earlier. You could tell it was from his wife, because he turned his back on us to take it. When that rain started though, he sat right back down, and ordered another lemon sour. He hadn鈥檛 even zipped his jacket up. His face was still flush from the round of tequilas we鈥檇 drunk. Just one, of course. 鈥淥ne glass, that鈥檚 a pass,鈥� Tony would say, then one of us would have to say 鈥渢wo glass, on your ass鈥�. Because once you drank two, then it was three, then it was trouble. But one gave you a nice buzz.
The rain kind of stung us, because we had exhausted our normal routine for the night, and now we were stuck. The routine was well rehearsed by that stage. First off, Tony would talk about his latest plans to move and teach English in Brazil, or Spain, or China. He liked the idea of Brazil especially, because he thought he could make a lot of money as a male model over there, and that always amused Bill no end. Bill had thinning hair, but Tony, despite only being in his early-twenties, was full-on bald. The top of his head was permanently sunburned during summer, so I don鈥檛 know how he would have coped in Brazil. But he liked to talk about it anyway. When he鈥檇 got that out of his system, next up was a game of darts, a bit of physical activity to get us going. Tony won that night, which was a relief. He was a competitive man, and if he lost he鈥檇 adopt a low sulk for the rest of the night. I remember one time Bill outran him in an impromptu sprint outside the bar, and for the next three hours Tony wouldn鈥檛 stop talking about how his shoes had been tied too tight. Tony was younger than me and Bill, so I suppose he thought it was his duty to beat us at physical activities, which he certainly did many times. And maybe that鈥檚 why he wasn鈥檛 so bothered about losing at cards, as that was the mental side of things. He definitely lost at cards that night, and I won. I know because I still have the receipt we wrote the scores on. I used to keep those random pieces of paper, to remind the other two of times they鈥檇 played particularly badly, but I threw most of them out years ago. I still have that one receipt though, in my to-do pile, along with the bills and unfinished manuscripts. Bill gave it to me, to write the scores on the back. Years later, when I had more Japanese, I was able to read the print on the front. It was for a pregnancy test kit, at a cost of two thousand yen, bought in Yamada chemist Tokyo. But I didn鈥檛 know about that, back then.
When Bill sat back down, and we all had a drink in front of us, I knew Tony was going to say something, and I was pretty sure what it was as well. He had that look on his face, which told me he was bored, but that he knew exactly what to do to relieve that boredom. And of course, before we can even put the glass to our lips, he comes out and says it.
鈥淐丑补濒濒别苍驳别.鈥�
That word preceded every one of Tony鈥檚 backarsed plans to amuse himself, usually at the expense of others. He once challenged Bill to give him a piggyback from Sols to the station, and when he jumped on Bill鈥檚 back he drove him into the ground and broke Bill鈥檚 arm. That was an insane idea. Tony was a bulky lad with weight from the gym, but I guess both of them must have been fairly drunk. Bill said he didn鈥檛 even feel it. He was off work for a week, and the school never forgave him for that, because they had to spend to bring in a cover teacher. Another time, Tony challenged us to do press-ups outside the convenience store near my apartment, and some police turned up to berate us for disturbing the peace. I had to try and explain in half Japanese that we were just a bit drunk, but Bill wasn鈥檛 helping things by hyperventilating in the background. Luckily, the police didn鈥檛 want to bother with the paperwork involved in bringing in three foreigners at midnight, so they let us go with a warning. And there was yet another time when Tony challenged us to a joust using the zip lines in the kids playground, and we broke them. That was at night as well, so nobody saw us skulking away, half ashamed, half delighted with ourselves. But Bill鈥檚 wife found out about it somehow, and she made him promise to give money to the city council to fix it. As far as I know, he never did.
So, the challenges were nothing but trouble. But it was hard to ignore it once it had been said.
鈥淐hallenge, boys.鈥�
鈥淲hat鈥檚 the challenge?鈥� I said.
鈥淲ell, we can鈥檛 do one outside obviously, so鈥� how about first one to do twenty push-ups?鈥� said Tony. The athletic challenges were weighted in his favour, given his workout regime. Also, there was the potential for looking good in front of any female clientele in the bar (in Tony鈥檚 mind that is, the only potential we saw was for looking like insane foreigners). Actually though, that night, there was just the three of us. That wasn鈥檛 particularly surprising. It was a Thursday, and Sol was blasting Tina Turner out the door. He鈥檇 wanted to call the bar Soul, but someone made a mistake on the sign, and he couldn鈥檛 afford to fix it. We liked to remind him of that by calling the bar, and him, by the incorrect title.
鈥淣o way, I鈥檓 not doing push-ups,鈥� said Bill, 鈥渢he floor鈥檚 filthy, and there might be broken glass somewhere.鈥� That was a good bet, as we had broken many a glass in Sols, and Bill the majority of them. Sol charged them to his tab. In fact, sometimes he would charge Bill for one in a week when he hadn鈥檛 even been at Sol鈥檚. He just assumed. In fairness, those weeks were rare.
`鈥淎lright, alright,鈥� said Tony, 鈥渉ow about a game of cards, loser does a forfeit.鈥�
鈥淲e just played cards,鈥� said Bill. We had in fact just played a game of cheat, where the object was to lie about the cards in your hand. Tony would cheat in the most outrageous ways, hiding cards in his pocket, throwing them away when we weren鈥檛 looking. Bill was terrible at it though, because he was a bad liar. He鈥檇 always pause for a few seconds, like his brain was having problems coming up with something. I think he was afraid of losing again that night, and having to buy Tony a drink or something because of it.
鈥淔ine, tell a story then,鈥� said Tony.
鈥淲hat?鈥� said me and Bill simultaneously.
鈥淭ell a story, and if it鈥檚 not good, you have to do a forfeit.鈥�
鈥淗ow do we know if it鈥檚 not good?鈥� I said.
鈥淭he other two will vote on it, and if there鈥檚 not unanimous approval, you lose.鈥�
鈥淲hat鈥檚 the forfeit?鈥� asked Bill.
鈥淵ou have to drink a shot of tequila.鈥�
This was both unprecedented and unexpected. Usually Tony鈥檚 forfeits involved us buying him drinks. Apart from amusing himself, that was the main reason for the challenges I reckon. Tony always appeared to be semi-broke, even though we knew he was teaching extra classes at the weekend. He probably spent a lot on his protein shakes and gym membership.
鈥淥kay,鈥� said Bill, 鈥渨ho goes first?鈥� Tony choose three cards from the deck.
鈥淭hree cards, one Queen. Whoever gets it goes first,鈥� he said, fanning out the cards in front of him. Bill quickly grabbed at one, and flipped it over. There was the Queen. To this day I still don鈥檛 know if Tony set that up. But Bill didn鈥檛 seem to mind, he went straight into it. He鈥檇 been fairly quiet that night, which usually meant he had something to say. I think he had a story ready to go from the first moment we met him that evening, or maybe he鈥檇 had it for a while, and that night just set it up perfectly. Anyway, the story he told us was the salaryman story.
Bill said he had this student, a businessman, or as they鈥檇 say in Japan a salaryman. They鈥檇 borrowed those words from English, and messed up joining them together, creating a title which suggested your life was ruled by your salary. I suppose it was, in a way. Anyhow, Bill told us he had this student, who was a salaryman, who came to class everyday drunk. A certain kind of drunk, which allowed him to be angry without being threatening (which was something Bill wasn鈥檛 good at). He had no interest in learning English. In fact, his level of spoken English was quite good. He only wanted to smoke, and complain about his job (who were ironically paying for his lessons). He didn鈥檛 know the exact word for his job, it was some kind of office work, but he knew that he hated it. He鈥檇 been trying, and failing, to get fired for years. He turned up late, drank cheap whiskey in the office, smoked weed in the bathroom, and read dirty comics in front of the female employees. But it was hard to get fired in Japan. All that happened was his desk was moved farther and farther away from the centre of the office, and more towards the outskirts. In this way, his status was reduced amongst his colleagues. The management hoped that this dishonour would prompt a change of behaviour, but that change never arrived. The salaryman was stubborn, and not typical of the traditional, convention-loving Japanese salaryman, who we all knew would bend over backwards to appease their superiors. The movements of this salaryman鈥檚 desk only increased his bad behaviour. He had gotten to a point where his desk was right next to the office entrance. It couldn鈥檛 go any farther. One more transgression and he would be out the door and free, or so he thought.
Then, disaster struck. The officers of the national tax agency raided the office. Apparently, the management had been doing some transgressing themselves, to the tune of several million yen. They had a search warrant, and naturally the first place they searched was the salaryman鈥檚 desk. And what did they find but the accumulated detritus of his misbehaviour 鈥� endless cigarette butts, broken bottles, crumpled tissues, the foulest pornography, and several cockroaches he had smuggled in to keep him company. The officers decided there were easier places to search that day, and left. The salaryman was hailed as a hero. He had given management the time they needed to destroy any incriminating evidence. The company was saved. His desk was moved back into the centre of the office, and he was assured by his boss that he had a job for life there. A salaryman forever.
Bill finished the story by taking a long drink, and then laughing, laughing hard. I asked him if the story was a joke.
鈥淣o,鈥� he said, 鈥渙ne hundred percent true. I don鈥檛 think his imagination would鈥檝e been good enough to make up something like that.鈥�
鈥淚 don鈥檛 buy it,鈥� said Tony. 鈥淲hy did the police give up so easily? They鈥檙e professionals, right? I don鈥檛 think a dirty desk is going to get in the way of their job.鈥�
鈥淭hose big cockroaches are fairly off-putting though, especially the flying ones,鈥� I said.
鈥淲hy didn鈥檛 he just quit?鈥� said Tony.
鈥淟ike you always say you鈥檙e going to?鈥� said Bill.
鈥淚t鈥檚 to do with honour, or something like that. Maybe he needed the redundancy money,鈥� I said quickly.
鈥淒oesn鈥檛 make sense.鈥� said Tony.
鈥淭ony, I鈥檝e been here for eight years now,鈥� said Bill, 鈥渁nd I can tell you that story makes more sense to me than most things.鈥�
He started laughing again. He鈥檇 had a few I guess. Still, it was too much, it was uncomfortable.
鈥淥kay, let鈥檚 vote,鈥� I said. 鈥淚t鈥檚 a thumbs up from me. Tony?鈥� Tony was staring at Bill鈥檚 face. He had stopped laughing, and there was just the vestige of a grin there now. Things got silent, apart from the rain, which was still hammering against the roof, trying to get in. I remember seeing what looked like a funeral procession of umbrellas pass by the window. They were just walking at a normal pace, and they were heading north, even though there was nothing there but rice fields and train tracks.
鈥淣o,鈥� said Tony. 鈥淣o, I don鈥檛 like it. Thumbs down.鈥�
Bill shrugged.
鈥淪ol, a shot of your finest tequila,鈥� called Tony. Sol got a glass from the fridge, and poured one out. He brought it to the table on a tray. Bill raised his hand, to show who it was meant for. Sol placed the glass in front of him. Bill drank it down. After that, he was a goner.
Two glass, on your ass. More so for poor Bill, who had less tolerance for it than some. I wasn鈥檛 feeling that great myself, so I left them an hour or so later. The rain had stopped, so the silences in-between drinks were worse. The two of them had taken to arm wrestling left-handed. I walked home and tried to get some sleep before my classes started. When I went to school in the afternoon with a raging hangover, I had to teach Bill鈥檚 classes as well, because Bill never showed up. I overheard the headmaster ringing him up, asking him where he was, and I could hear that long pause before the lie. And so could the headmaster.
Tony and I never even told a story in the end. I had one ready to go as well, and I think Tony did too. But we weren鈥檛 much in the mood for stories after the salaryman. It seemed that one was enough that night. We鈥檇 all had enough.
I saw Bill鈥檚 wife and kid in the street the other day. I guess that鈥檚 what reminded me of that night. The two of them, and this fucking rain. The kid鈥檚 got sandy coloured hair, like her dad. They didn鈥檛 even look at me. I don鈥檛 blame them, I鈥檓 just a sore reminder to them now. I hardly ever hear from Bill, just the odd email occasionally. I sometimes wonder if I should have done something, but back then I didn鈥檛 know what to do, or even if I had to do it. I wonder if Tony feels the same way. Now that Sol鈥檚 bar is closed, we鈥檝e had to start going further afield for a drink. Tony doesn鈥檛 talk so much anymore about going to Brazil, or Spain, or China, but sometimes he鈥檒l come up with a challenge, for old times鈥� sake. One night, I challenged him to tell me something interesting, and he started telling the salaryman story, without even realising what he was doing. I told him I鈥檇 heard it before.
Quarryman
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