WORKING IN JAPAN: PT. 21

Reckless plastic bag placement/stabbings

Sometimes I wipe posters advertising companies I have visited on business. They overlook the stairs in one of the stations I clean, and I pass a damp cloth over them. In my previous line of work, I would sit at computers in the corporate offices of these companies to discuss their research and development projects. Now I keep the dust off the metal frames holding their commercial messages.

I wonder if I have fallen down society’s rungs. Am I ‘lower’ now? I’m not sure what that question means. Objectively speaking, have I slipped downwards in the world or am I viewing everything through an arbitrary lens I picked up at private school and university?

One way to rank occupations is by safety vs compensation. If there’s a chance of being injured AND the pay isn’t good, you can argue it’s a step down from something with better money in a nicer environment, or something with a massive salary where you might get blown up. One thing is for sure: the company I work for is short-staffed and hiring all year round so what I do can’t be the most desirable gig. I’ve already cut my head open once, although it was kind of my fault… Then there’s the escalators I ride all day. You wouldn’t want to take a tumble on those…

And on Wednesday, on the Namboku Line in central Tokyo, a 43-year-old man went on a stabbing spree in the subway. He slashed one victim a few times with a kitchen knife and caught another in the finger as the guy, and other passengers, attempted to put an end to the mayhem.

I still feel safe at work, but it’s a reminder that even Japan’s commuters, and, by extension, the staff of its train stations, are not entirely secure from attack. On rainy weekday afternoons, weather tickling the roof above an empty platform, I have felt peace more total than the sureness of this world’s existence, and yet, jarringly, those long quiet walkways between train lines are, and will remain, openly accessible to a blade-waving maniac.

In the last week, I myself did something I was told could cause an accident: I left a packet of trash bags lying around. I put them atop the garbage cabinet of a vending machine as I emptied it, then walked away and left them there. Non-Skeletor, one of the managers who looks like another manager I have code-named Skeletor, was drifting around Little Station when I bumped into him. We got to talking and he informed me of my mistake, which I had apparently made the previous day at Crazy Lunatic Paranoid Maniac Station.

We got into an exchange I am forced to paraphrase due to faulty recollection:

‘There were bags left on top of one of the vending machines yesterday,’ said non-Skeletor.

‘I wasn’t here yesterday.’

‘No, it was at Crazy Lunatic Paranoid Maniac Station.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.’

‘Why did you do it?’ said non-Skeletor.

‘Errr… Some of the cabinets don’t have shelves in them so I guess I just put the bags on top for a second and…’

‘You didn’t have your cart?’ (There’s a trash cart for collecting rubbish and it has a plastic box on the front that you can shove fresh bags in.)

‘Sometimes I don’t use it. And there was no shelf in the cabinet, maybe, and if the trash is overflowing…’

‘So… you had no cart and no shelf in the cabinet and… the trash was overflowing. What difference does that make?’
‘I don’t know, just… If you have to remove overflowing trash, you can’t hold the bags and… I don’t know. I won’t do it again.’

‘If the wind blew, where do you think the bags might fly to?’ asked non-Skeletor.

‘Onto the train tracks.’

‘That could cause an accident.’
‘Sorry. I won’t do it again. I’ll be careful. I won’t put the bags on top of the cabinets anymore.’

‘You could dump them on the floor, by your feet, if you don’t have the cart on you. Or in your pocket.’
‘Yes, I’ll do that. I won’t put them on the cabinet again.’
‘They could cause a problem if you do that. It’s dangerous.’
‘Yes. In conclusion, then, I will never do it again.’

This last part I said in a firm but polite way, trying to end the conversation, which had grown repetitive. The manager seemed to get the message, and walked away. In the moment, it felt kind of surreal that I had to repeat myself so many times, making me feel like no matter what I said he didn’t trust that I had understood him. But, then again, and I don’t want to sound elitist, there does seem to be a diversity of IQs in this profession.

Non-Skeletor is used to hammering his point home because, otherwise, some people won’t get it. Also, to be fair, it’s not like I’ve been behaving like a genius. Last month I ran head-first into a steel counter, was carried to hospital on a stretcher, and needed five staples in my head. This month I left a bunch of light plastic bags in a high place on a windy, exposed station platform in a crowded structure that plays host to fast moving vehicles. From his point of view, it probably is best he makes sure I’ve been listening. From my point of view, I don’t need telling again. It’s bad to leave trash bags on top of the vending machines. I know now. I fucking know.

The next day after the trash bag talk, my mistake was announced at the morning pre-work address at the dispatch office. And, again, the next day. If you do something wrong, they will bring it up over and over for a while, until all members of the rotating staff have heard it. They won’t mention you by name, but you’ll have to stand and listen yet again, as they advise on what not to do. Fair enough, I suppose. It’s a sturdy incentive to carefully obey guidelines!

I have no complaints, not in general, though I do think, when wiping down ads for big corporations, that one or two might employ me, and my fairly-fluent business Japanese, in their sales or international marketing divisions. I’m in a weird place in my life, at 46, kept out of offices by my hatred of structure yet still intrigued by the career possibilities of belonging to a major company.

And, while I do love being a cleaner, the most mundane error, committed while daydreaming, might lead to a seemingly inescapable lecture. All jobs have their stresses, but I’ll put up with a huge amount so as not to be tied to a wheeled plastic office chair.

The next post (Part 22) is here, and…

You can read Part 20 here.