Poisoned Manjuu

Author:Black Cat Keaton

The Choice

　

The moment I signed the contract, I could feel poison slowly seeping into my life— and for some reason, that premonition was correct.

I was in a multi-tenant building in Shinjuku. Stepping out of the elevator, the old carpet gave off a smell that seemed to be a mixture of sweat, cigarette smoke, and resignation. The interview room had white walls and folding chairs. Coffee stains were scattered on the floor, and the moment I saw them, I could imagine how many similar interviews had been conducted here over the years.

The interviewer, Hayashi-san, was in his mid-thirties, and had folded the sleeves of his white dress shirt three times. He had what you might call a “salesman’s smile”. But his eyes weren’t smiling. They were sizing me up. Putting a price on me. On me as a person.

　

“Tamura-san, this job is really good. It pays 1,800 yen an hour. It’s simple data entry work. It’s a three-month contract, and there’s a good chance it will be extended.”

　

I tightly gripped the shoulder strap of my bag. I noticed my knuckles were turning white. I had been gripping too hard. For the past two months, I’d been browsing job sites almost every day, applying for jobs only to be rejected, repeatedly told in interviews that I ‘lacked experience’. At my last job, they told me “Sorry” just one week before my contract was up. I laughed then. No, I could only laugh. I couldn’t speak.

My savings are almost gone. I only have 110,000 yen left in my bank account. The rent is 65,000 yen. Just thinking about next month’s payments gives me the chills.

　

“Just …….”

　

Hayashi trailed off.

That “just” immediately made me wary. Anyone who’s been in this industry for a long time knows that there’s always something hidden behind that “just “. It’s usually a cushion phrase to alleviate pangs of conscience.

　

“There might be a bit more overtime, but we’ll make sure you get paid properly for it.”

　

Overtime. That word lingered in my ears. An alarm bell rang somewhere in my brain. But that alarm was soon drowned out by a much louder rumbling of hunger. I hadn’t eaten a proper meal since lunchtime the day before. The last thing I ate was a cup of instant noodles last night. It’s now eleven in the morning. My stomach hurts. No, it was beyond pain; it felt like the inside was clenching as if being sucked in.

Without this job——.

　

I signed the contract. The tip of the ballpoint pen trembled. I didn’t know why my hand was shaking. Was it fear, or just low blood sugar?

In hindsight, I realize that I was standing at a crossroads in my life at that moment, but I pretended not to notice. Even though I knew the manjuu(steamed buns) were poisoned, I couldn’t bring myself to choose not to eat them.

　

　

　

My assigned workplace is the back office of a major telecommunications company. Just entering a building changes the atmosphere. The air conditioning is so strong that my skin feels smooth. The security guard checks the name tag, I go through the gate, and take the elevator to the eleventh floor.

The desk I was assigned was in the back of a windowless room. The air circulation was poor there. There was a coffee stain on the desk, and for a moment, I wondered if my predecessor had cried there. Then I thought, “Maybe I’ll cry here someday, too.”.

Three monitors were lined up. One of them displayed an Excel spreadsheet. There were too many cells to count. The moment I saw it, I felt nauseous. Was it the air pressure, or was it fear?

　

“Please read the instructions later.”

　

My colleague, Sasaki, a full-time employee, said that and carelessly placed a stack of documents down. A man in his mid-thirties. His hair was thinning, and the eyes behind his glasses seemed lifeless. I could sense the lingering trace of how much this workplace had worn down his soul.

The document I opened was a work procedure manual, but the sheer volume made me gasp. There were at least a hundred A4 pages. Moreover, there was a sticky note attached to the top page with the following written in red pen:

　

　

The documents almost slipped from my hands.

　

“Um…… All of this by today?”

　

My voice trembled. Sasaki didn’t even glance at me.

　

“Yes, well, if you can’t manage it, then work overtime.”

　

If you can’t do it, just work overtime.

At the time, I didn’t fully grasp the violence inherent in those words. It wasn’t an order. However, refusal was not an option either. It was the gentlest form of violence in the Japanese language.

The more I read the manual, the more questions I had. The manual, written ten years ago, was completely out of sync with the current system. Some screens didn’t exist. Some buttons had different names. I got up from my desk and went over to Sasaki’s desk countless times.

　

“Excuse me, but this section is…….”

“Did you read the manual?”

“I read it. But here—”

“Then, just follow the manual.”

　

That wasn’t an answer. But I couldn’t ask any further questions. I returned to my seat and stared at the manual and the actual screen, feeling the time just slipping away.

The first time I took the last train was three days after I joined the company. As I was pushed along by the crowd waiting for the last train on the platform at Shinjuku Station, I had a thought. I wondered if all these people had also eaten some kind of “poisoned manjuu”.

By the fifth day, I was working past midnight. The company didn’t cover taxi fare. Every time I missed the last train, I walked home for thirty minutes. Shinjuku at night wasn’t scary. If anything, the deserted office district was the place where I could truly acknowledge my own loneliness.

A week later, I looked at my desk and was shocked. Three coffee stains. A dozen or so pages of scribbled notes in my notebook. Clear dark circles under my eyes. I didn’t even need to look in the mirror to know. Exhaustion was oozing from my entire body, screaming, “I’ve had enough”.

　

　

　

Friday of the second week. I was finally starting to get the hang of the data entry process—or rather, just starting to get the hang of it. More accurately, my speed had increased slightly before I stopped making mistakes.

It was at that very moment that it happened.

Sasaki came to my desk and slammed a stack of documents down. It was twice as thick as usual.

　

“Tamura-san, starting next week, I’d like you to take on another job as well.”

　

For a moment, I couldn’t understand Japanese.

　

“Another… job?

“Yes. This system migration project. The outsourcing company has backed out. Starting tomorrow, we’re short on personnel, so we’d like you to help out.”

　

The outsourcing company backed out. The weight of those words slowly sank into my stomach. In other words, a temporary data entry worker was now expected to do a job that a professional contractor had given up on.

　

“That’s… different from data entry, isn’t it?”

　

My voice was quiet. It had to be quiet. If I raised my voice here, I wouldn’t get any more work in the future. That was the unwritten rule of the temp agency ecosystem.

Sasaki frowned. His expression showed a mixture of irritation and a hint of contempt.

　

“Everyone else is doing it.”

　

Everyone else. I didn’t know who he was referring to, but those words always stifle my resistance. Everyone else is doing it. You’re not the only one. When he put it that way, I couldn’t say a thing.

I mentally calculated the figure of 1,800 yen per hour I had at hand. If a full-time employee were to perform this system migration work—converted to an hourly rate including overtime pay—it would probably amount to at least 3,000 yen. But I was only paid 1,800 yen. And where does that difference go? Perhaps it’s going toward Hayashi’s new suit at the temp agency.

　

“Does that mean… are there any additional allowances?”

　

I put up as much resistance as I could. For the first time, Sasaki’s expression changed. It wasn’t surprise or sympathy. It was pure—no, almost unconscious—contempt.

　

“Take it up with the temp agency.”

　

With just those words, he walked away. All that was left on my desk was a mountain of paperwork.

During lunch break that day, I called Hayashi-san from the temp agency. I made sure no one was around on the stair landing.

　

“Hayashi-san, the job description is different from what was originally agreed upon. It was supposed to be data entry, but I’m being made to do system migration as well.”

　

I could hear Hayashi sigh on the other end of the line. It wasn’t a sigh directed at me, but a sigh at having to deal with a troublesome complaint.

　

[Oh, really? But Tamura-san, it’s just an extension of the same data entry work, isn’t it?]

“It’s a system migration, not data entry.”

[Could you please check the contract details regarding the scope of work? It says ‘other related tasks’.]

　

My hands were trembling. The contract. I didn’t read it properly back then. No, I did try to read it. But the hunger and anxiety that day prevented me from reading the fine print.

　

[Good luck! It’s a good project.]

　

Click.

　

The call ended. I stood frozen in place for a while. The landing on the stairs was cold. No, even the sensation of cold felt distant.

So that’s it. So this is what poisoned manjuu were all about.

The first bite was delicious. 1,800 yen per hour. Easy work. Three-month renewable contract. Each sweet promise melted away my wariness.

However, the poison begins to take effect after the second bite. First, there’s a tingling sensation. Then, a dull ache. And by the time I realized what was happening, half of my body was already numb.

Because I’m numb, I can’t escape. Because I’m numb, I can’t even raise my voice saying something is wrong here.

　

　

　

It was at the end of the third month—that is, one week before the contract renewal.

I had lost sight of who I really was. I’d wake up in the morning, wash my face, take the train, and go to work. I’d enter data. I’d migrate systems. I’d work overtime. I’d miss the last train. I’d walk home. I’d sleep.

Through this repetition, the outline of the person “Tamura” gradually became blurred.

One day, Sasaki made a huge mistake. He accidentally deleted a portion of the client data. His face was deathly pale. He apologized over the phone, rushed to his boss, and tried to make some excuses.

However, I was the one who ended up being burdened with that recovery work.

　

“Tamura-san, the temp—could you handle this? I’m sorry, but please get it done by the end of the day.”

　

I nodded silently. Before anger could even arise, fatigue had already overwritten it. Every time something like this happens, there’s a part of me that thinks, “Here we go again”. It’s been a long time since I even bothered to count how many times I’ve thought that.

The recovery process was hell. The deleted data was fragmented and I didn’t have the authority to restore it from backups. I manually flipped through old paper slips and re-entered the data one by one. My fingers moved on their own. I no longer needed to think. My body had become a work machine.

Eight hours later—after six hours of overtime, earning 1,800 yen per hour, totaling 10,800 yen worth of work—I finished the recovery.

　

“It’s done.”

　

Sasaki gave a slight nod. He took the recovery procedure manual I had written—fifteen pages long, handwritten— and carried it back to his desk. I said nothing. I no longer had the energy to say anything.

The next morning’s staff meeting.

　

“Sasaki-kun, that recovery job was outstanding. We’ve received messages of thanks from the client. Well done.”

　

Applause.

　

I looked at my hands. My fingertips were swollen from staying up all night typing on the keyboard. The calluses from writing had burst, and new ones were forming on top of them. The instruction manuals I wrote with these hands are now being praised under Sasaki’s name.

At that moment, I searched within myself for even a shred of “anger”.

Nothing.

It was nowhere to be found. No, to be precise, it was there, but before I could feel it as an emotion, something else—resignation, exhaustion, or some kind of gray substance— overwrote it.

I just thought.

So that’s it. Is this the effect of the poison, too?

The poison slowly but surely invades the nervous system. At first, you feel pain. Then, you stop feeling pain. Finally, you begin to accept the fact that you are being treated as mere “data”.

My mind was already beginning to go numb.

　

　

　

The day before the contract renewal. I got a call from the temp agency.

The location was the same interview room. It smelled just like it did three months ago. There were more coffee stains now. Presumably, someone had cried in this room, someone had gotten angry, and someone else had signed a contract.

Hayashi-san, sitting across from me, looked a little more haggard than he had three months ago. Perhaps he, too, was being forced to eat something. But that doesn’t make my own poison any less bitter.

　

“Tamura-san, regarding your contract renewal….”

　

Hayashi started the conversation. I was already prepared for it. These kinds of conversations always end with “however”.

　

“Your hourly wage will be reduced slightly.”

　

By how much? I did the calculations in my head. I added up the overtime pay for the past three months and calculated the average hourly wage—no, there’s no point in doing that. I just accept the number that Hayashi tells me.

　

“It will be 1,500 yen.”

　

A 300 yen pay cut. This translates to a monthly loss of approximately 48,000 yen, without overtime.

I didn’t say a word. Over the past three months, I’d learned that the option to say “no” doesn’t exist from the start in this industry. It’s impossible to resist something that doesn’t exist.

　

“Understood. I’ll renew the contract.”

　

I signed the contract. The tip of the ballpoint pen didn’t tremble nearly as much as it had three months ago. It had gone numb.

Hayashi’s mouth moved.

　

“Tamura-san, I have another good job for you. The hourly wage is 1,700 yen. However, it involves…… a little night shift.”

　

As I listened to those words, for some reason, memories from my childhood came flooding back. My grandmother’s house. Sitting on the veranda, my grandmother gave me a manjuu.

　

“Even if it looks delicious, you don’t know what’s inside, so look carefully.”

　

I laughed. There’s no way there’s poison in a manjuu.

But my grandmother was different. She was someone who had lived through the post-war era. She knew from experience that food could be laced with poison.

Now, I keep eating those manjuu.

I’ve stopped counting how many I’ve eaten. The more I eat, the worse the symptoms of addiction get. Even if my hourly wage drops, I can’t quit. Because there are no other jobs. Because I’m afraid of having my contract terminated. Because I might not be able to find another job.

I know. This logic is flawed. Continuing to work for low wages makes it increasingly difficult to find the next job. It doesn’t build a career. It doesn’t develop skills. You’re just treated as a disposable commodity, to be used and discarded.

However—even though I understand that logical contradiction, my body won’t move. No, I can’t move it. Because in order to move it, I would have to allocate the little energy I still have left to “anger” and “hope”. But that energy has long since been drained away by the work.

I keep eating. Because I cannot live if I do not eat.

But if I keep eating, someday, inevitably——.

There’s no exit in sight. Or rather, to be precise, this maze had only an entrance from the very beginning.

Poisoned Manjuu.

There is only one fate for anyone who eats this manjuu. They slowly become numb, slowly waste away, and then one day, the moment they think, “I’ve had enough,” it all ends.

I haven’t reached that moment yet.

So today, as well, I keep moving these hands.

Tomorrow too.

The day after tomorrow as well.

Until the day the poison spreads throughout my body.