堕落 (Daraku) - The Fall

Seven pounds.

Who knew twelve years in a company only weighs seven pounds in a box filled with memories of getting spitroasted day and night by CFOs when they are the ones who fucked up.

“It was a pleasure working with you Hinode-san. This is what’s best for everyone. You know that, right?”

That’s what Yamamoto-san said this morning. All you can do is nod. He shook your hand. Couldn’t even meet your eyes. Asshole. 

HR slid the NDA across the table. Fourteen pages of legal garbage establishing that you had nothing to do with any of this which really makes you wonder why you’re the one carrying the box. You signed it. Of course you did. What else can you do? 

It was going well. Corner office. On track for partner. Six months from the vote.

Now you’re carrying a box past security. “Tanaka-san.”

You’ve known him for nine years. He’s giving you nothing. Not even a glance.

“See you around, yeah?”

Nine Christmases of bringing him coffee because he pulled holiday shifts so the younger guys could stay home. You know his daughter’s birthday (never missed giving her a gift.) You know his wife cooks the best okonomiyaki in Chiyoda (god you’re going to miss the bentos she prepares for everyone every summer). Tanaka-san is a good man.

But now? He’s staring blankly into his desk like it holds the secrets to the universe. Sigh.

You don’t blame him. You wouldn’t look at you either.

The revolving door spits you out into Tokyo’s buzzing October air. Risk of rain and umbrellas and exhaust and the distinct smell of a man who used to fucking matter.

Your car is three blocks away. You start walking.

Phone buzzes, you ignore it. It’s been buzzing all day actually. Past clients, colleagues, and the occasional journalist fishing for a comment on the “developing situation at Ishikawa & Partners.” Noted. Fuck that specifically. No comment. 

Here’s what’s funny. In all of this fuckery happening within the company, becoming this week’s hot topic on social media, and the ongoing federal interrogation. All that and news flash: you were not even remotely close to being involved.

You didn’t know the partners were signing off on fraudulent audits. The machinery of corruption humming along beneath your feet: shell companies, kickbacks, under-the-table transactions that got approved for the better part of a decade. 

The worst part of all of this is you just worked there. You worked your fucking ass off every single day. You were great at your job; and now you’re walking through downtown with a box containing an Ikea desk lamp, three framed certifications, and a coffee mug your sister gave you that says “World’s Most Meh Brother.”

She thought she was being funny. Right now why the hell does it feel like she knew this was gonna happen.

Your footsteps echo as you walk through the cold parking lot. The Lexus sits where you left it this morning, back when you were still a senior manager at a prestigious firm and not whatever you are now.

Unemployable. 

(Kinda being too dramatic, no? Are you being dramatic? Name one firm that will touch you now.)

…

Yeah. It’s over. Might as well pivot to becoming a geologist since you’ve hit rock bottom.

You were not fired, technically (thank god for technicalities). You resigned, which is its own kind of joke if you think about it. You resigned because the alternative was getting laid the fuck off in the first wave of “restructuring,” and at least this way you can pretend you had some say in your own downward spiral.

Everyone knows. Everyone. Fucking. Knows.

The financial world is small, news travels fast, and by tomorrow your name will be permanently welded to the biggest accounting scandal since Polaris (and that company’s done fucked up stuff: military corruption, ties to the yakuza, basically all the red flags you can think of.) Not because you did anything wrong; because you were there. 

You put the box in the trunk. Close it. Stand there with your hand on the cold metal. Let out a deep sigh.

Phone buzzes again.

This time you look. Mom.

How did it go today Aki?

We’re praying for you.

Hope you’re doing fine.

Have you eaten yet?

Four messages in the span of thirty seconds. She must be worried, classic mom. You should call her. You should explain what happened. You should…

Phone screen darkens. 

You’ll call her tomorrow; explain that the severance is generous, that you have savings, that everything will be fine.

But not tonight. Not when the wounds are fresh.

Tonight you’re going to find a bar and drink until the numbers stop adding up in your head.

✦⟡⟡⟡⟡⟡

You found a newly opened hotel in Shinjuku. The hotel bar is the kind of place that caters to shady accounts and dark secrets, you fit right in. Dark mahogany wood, warm ambient lighting, and thankfully a bartender who understands that sometimes a man needs to be served and just left alone with his bourbon.

It’s the third glass when she sits down. You feel the air thin out; must be the bourbon.

Weird.

You didn’t see anyone approaching. Didn’t hear the stool move. She’s just there, like she’s been waiting for you to notice.

Except you don’t notice her at first. 

You’re too busy staring at amber liquid, running calculations that don’t matter anymore: How much runway? Severance lasts eight months if you’re careful. Savings? Maybe another year. Parents? They definitely need the monthly support; that’s non-negotiable. Your sister’s final year of graduate school? You promised you’d cover it, and you don’t break promises.

The numbers work; barely. As long as you find something to do in six months.

But who the fuck is going to hire you?

“You look like a man who’s doing math he doesn’t want to do.” Soft voice, slightly amused.