In the lobby of the Nomura Securities Shinjuku branch, there were fewer seats.
To be precise, the number of seats hadn't decreased—it was still that same batch of blue-gray row seating from last year, four rows, twelve seats per row.
But the people sitting on them were less than a third of what they used to be.
Tanaka Masao walked into the lobby at 9:07 AM.
The market had been open for seven minutes. The numbers on the ticker board were jumping, red, a sea of red.
Last year—when was last year again? December?
When the ticker board was entirely red, the brokers standing in the center of the lobby had to scream at the top of their lungs just to drown out the chatter around them.
Some had cigarettes dangling from their mouths, some pounded on tables, and some rushed to the counter shouting, "Add another 500,000!"
The stack of paper cups next to the coffee machine—last year, they couldn't even keep up by refilling the coffee grounds three times a day.
The coffee machine was still there now, but the hopper was full.
At 10:00 AM, Tanaka went to pour a cup. When he picked up the paper cup, the sides were even a bit sticky—it had been sitting there too long.
He didn't tell his wife.
Every morning at 7:45, he would put on his leather shoes, grab his briefcase, and leave the house.
Inside the briefcase was a copy of the Nikkei newspaper and an onigiri his wife had made for him.
He never ate it in the lobby. He always waited until 11:30 AM, when there were the fewest people, to walk to the stairwell, stand there and eat it, brush off the seaweed crumbs, and then return to his seat.
His wife thought he left every day to meet his former colleagues.
Retired seniors were like that, after all. Three or five of them would meet up for coffee or golf.
But he didn't have his golf clubs anymore. He'd hung them up at a second-hand shop last month and sold them for 70,000 yen.
He had entered the market at 36,000 points.
Back then, that broker—he couldn't remember the name—had said—
"Mr. Tanaka, with your thirty years of experience at the trading company, you surely understand this better than anyone. Land and stocks in Japan only go up. They never go down."
He believed it. To be precise, he watched as NTT went up, watched Mitsubishi Estate go up, and watched Mitsui go up.
He took 14 million from his retirement fund from the trading company, took out a mortgage on his house, and scraped together 23 million.
He went all-in on Nikkei 225 component stocks.
At the opening today, the Nikkei was at 21,800.
He did the math in his head.
Principal was 23 million. Market value was now around 4.9 million.
He had lost 18.1 million.
Ha… and there was still the mortgage.
The ticker board jumped again. Nomura's stock price dropped by 60 yen.
Tanaka Masao looked away from the screen and took a sip of the coffee that had been stuck to the side of the cup.
It was cold and sour. He had never tasted such terrible coffee.
At 3:00 PM, the closing bell rang.
It had fallen another 320 points.
"Well, how much more did I lose?"
"…Forget it, doesn't matter."
The wind was strong on the streets of Shinjuku. It was late October, and it was a bit cold.
He switched his briefcase to his left hand and shoved his right hand into his pocket, only to bump into the onigiri wrapper he had forgotten to throw away.
When he passed the south exit of the station, there were still twenty or thirty people queuing in front of a "Uniqlo".
A large poster was plastered on the window—"Fall/Winter Fleece Series. 1,900 yen."
In October, when all the shops were closing down, there was actually a store with a line.
He didn't stop. He just glanced at it and walked on.
When he got home later, he would just say—"I had a great chat with my old colleagues today."
He had practiced this sentence over a hundred times.
"…5:40 PM, Ginza 6-chome. Club Étoile."
When Unako was squatting behind the bar counting the inventory in the freezer, her knee made a "clunk" sound.
This sound had started this spring. She was already forty-three. Her knees were more honest than her ledger.
She straightened up and clipped the freezer inventory list back onto the clipboard.
Yamazaki 18-year, two bottles left. At the same time last year, she usually kept eight in stock.
Hibiki 17-year, full. No one ordered it.
Instead, she had restocked three cases of the large bottles of Kakubin whiskey. This was the best-selling item since customers started switching to mizuwari (diluted with water).
The hostess schedule was posted on the inner wall. Of the fifteen names, eight had already been crossed out in red ink.
The list of regular customers was also shrinking. Murakami, the branch manager of Sanyu Bank, who used to come every Tuesday and Thursday, had changed to calling once every ten days—
"Unako, I'll go next month. Things are a bit tight lately… you know how it is."
She knew.
She had already lowered the minimum charge from 35,000 to 28,000.
But the rent hadn't gone down.
Unako took out the black-covered ledger and sat on a bar stool at the end of the counter to open it.
From the first to the third week of October, revenue had dropped by 38% compared to the same period last year.
Liquor procurement had been cut by 40%, but the profit margin was actually two points thinner than before—because she had suppressed high-priced items and increased volume-sellers. The whole gross profit structure had flipped.
The tip of her pen paused for three seconds on the "Rent" line.
1.2 million.
She closed the ledger.
The seven girls arrived one after another. Unako stood at the entrance of the changing room and scanned them.
"We might have three groups of guests today," her voice was steady. "Koya, you're responsible for the construction company president in Box 1. Remember, if he starts talking about words like 'Civil Rehabilitation'—don't respond, just pour the drinks, and let him finish."
Koya nodded.
"The executive director in Box 2 switched from Yamazaki 18-year to Kakubin mizuwari last time."
"Don't ask why, and don't show any expression. Serve whatever he orders."
There was a beat of silence.
"And that walk-in girl," Unako lowered her voice half a tone. "The one who works at the real estate company. Her company closed last month. Every time, she only orders the cheapest cocktail and sits until closing. —Give her a plate of edamame on the house. Don't tell her it's from me."
6:55 PM.
Unako went back to the washbasin and applied a layer of lipstick in the mirror.
Her lips were a bit dry—autumn was here. She twisted the lipstick cap shut and put it in the drawer.
When the economy was good, they sold liveliness. The lobby was full of laughter, the sound of clinking glasses, and the sound of business cards being exchanged.
Now, they sold ears.
Customers stayed longer, talked more, and the content had changed.
Before, they talked about golf, Hawaii vacations, and newly bought Lexuses.
Now they talked about company matters—"We might have to lay off 200 people." They talked about insomnia—"I haven't had a full night's sleep in three months." They talked about things they wouldn't normally say to outsiders.
At least here, they could have someone listen to what they had to say.
7:00 sharp.
Unako walked to the door and flipped the "Preparing" wooden sign.
"Open for Business."
"…The day Yamada found Takahashi was in Sanya."
4:15 AM, Sanya, Taito Ward.
When Takahashi arrived, there were already over a hundred people standing under the streetlights.
It was still dark. The early morning in late October, the perceived temperature was about 9 degrees.
Takahashi was wearing a washed-out work jacket. The zipper was broken and held together with a safety pin. On his feet were a pair of worn-out safety boots, and the steel toe of the left one had a bit of gray showing.
He was in line—he counted—113th.
These were all people looking for day labor.
The vans would come around 5:00.
One, two, occasionally three. Each van took eight to ten people.
In other words, anyone past the 30th spot basically had to rely on luck.
113.
He shoved his hands into his pockets and hunched his neck.
To his left was an old man in his fifties, his teeth yellow to the point of being brown, constantly coughing.
To his right was a young man younger than him, wearing a dark blue jacket that looked like a company uniform, with the logo of some bankrupt company embroidered on the collar.
No one spoke.
The day Takahashi's company collapsed was August 29th.
The foreman stood outside the construction site hoarding for three minutes, said, "I'm sorry," and then turned and left.
Takahashi still regretted why he hadn't stopped that car.
He didn't receive any severance pay, and even his last half-month's wages weren't paid.
Takahashi went to the Labor Standards Inspection Office, waited in line for two hours, and got a receipt that said "Please wait for notification." There had been no word since.
He went to the employment agency for three days in a row, waiting in line for three days. The person at the window flipped through the ledger and said the same thing every time: "There are no vacancies in the construction industry right now."
He didn't quite understand the number in the "job opening ratio" column on the form.
He only knew that there were more people in front of him than behind him.
5:03 AM, the first van arrived. A white Toyota HiAce, with the name of a company he hadn't seen before sprayed on the side.
The window rolled down, and the driver stuck half his head out: "Need six. Priority to those who can tie scaffolding."
The people in front started yelling and swarmed forward like crazy.
Takahashi didn't move. He knew how to tie scaffolding, but being 113th, it wasn't his turn.
5:11 AM, the second van. It took eight.
5:30 AM, no third van.
The remaining people started to disperse. A few walked toward the park, where there were public restrooms and vending machines.
Takahashi squatted under the streetlight, took half a cigarette from the day before yesterday out of his pocket, and it took him three tries with the lighter to light it.
That was the day Yamada found him.
This guy Yamada—Takahashi had seen him a few times at his previous company.
Not tall, in his forties, always smiled before he spoke. It wasn't a polite smile, but rather like he was checking the other person's reaction.
He used to be a subcontractor for the company and had managed dozens of people under him.
"Takahashi, right?" Yamada squatted next to him and handed him a new cigarette. "I heard you got your certification for grouting skills, and you passed the Level 2 Civil Engineering exam, too?"
Takahashi took the cigarette but didn't light it.
"The day your company collapsed, I took a copy of the roster."
"Two hundred people, I screened them for three weeks. Less than forty were usable."
Yamada looked at Takahashi, who was squatting on the ground.
"There's a job. Saionji Construction site. Monthly settlement, cash payout on the 15th, no delays." Yamada's voice wasn't loud. "Lunch included, one day off a week. I'll handle the social insurance for you all."
Takahashi looked at him.
"Conditions?" Yamada pulled a piece of paper folded in four from his pocket and unfolded it. "Join the Mutual Aid Association. You can't be registered with other unions at the same time. You can't talk about the internal affairs of the Mutual Aid Association to outsiders."
Takahashi took the paper and looked at it.
The print was very small, printed, and arranged neatly.
At the very top, it said "Independent Labor Mutual Aid Association," and below that was a line of text—"Saionji Group Affiliated Enterprise Labor Mutual Aid Agreement."
"Who is Party A?" Takahashi asked.
"You don't need to worry about who Party A is." Yamada smiled. "You only need to worry about whether the money is in your hand when the 15th comes."
Takahashi knew the answer to that question now.
The money was there.
Takahashi joined the Mutual Aid Association in the third week of September.
By now, he had received one paycheck, 216,000. It was 20,000 less than his previous company, but it was on time.
On the 15th at 3:00 PM, the cash would be in envelopes, and Yamada would hand them out one by one. The name and amount were written on the envelope, accurate to the last yen.
He didn't read the newspapers and didn't understand what "total volume regulation" was.
He only knew: the work was gone, the boss had run away, and the bank wouldn't lend money.
As long as someone gave him work and paid him, that was enough.
Today's construction site was in Shinagawa. After finishing work in the afternoon, Takahashi took the Keihin-Tohoku Line back to Ueno. There weren't many people in the carriage. He stood by the door, looking at the streetscape outside through the glass window.
When passing through Shinjuku Station, the advertising light box across the platform was lit. A supermarket called "S-Mart" had an ad that read "Today's Special: Pork Shoulder, 100g/88 yen."
Two light boxes over was a Uniqlo poster. A young female model wearing a fleece jacket was smiling, and the price was printed underneath—1,900 yen.
Takahashi looked down at the work jacket he was wearing, held together with a safety pin.
"Payday's coming. I should go buy something nice."