July 8th, 1994.
My name is Yutaka Kashiwabara.
I'm fifty-eight years old, an age that matters for reasons you'll see.
Hokushin High—the 'North Star' school.
A lofty name for a place in Adachi Ward.
My job today, July 8th, was far from lofty.
Cleaning up vomit.
I wrung out the rag, the water just as gray as the bucket it came from.
They said a student got sick from the milk.
A boy that age should know what his own stomach can handle, but what do I know? My only concern was the floor.
Yamamoto should have been my concern, too, but he was out in the hall, charming the teachers.
Twenty years my junior and he'd already learned the most important lesson: how to avoid the bucket. I stopped expecting help from him long ago.
Eventually, Yamamoto remembered he had work to do and fetched the old palm-fiber broom from its spot by the men's lavatory.
Watching him, I thought about how people don't understand our job.
Here, the students do the real cleaning—the o-soji.
They scrub their own classrooms, their own desks.
Supposedly it builds character, teaches them responsibility.
That leaves us—me and Yamamoto—for the things a child can't, or shouldn't, handle.
The repairs, the heavy lifting, the messes too big or too dangerous for a kid with a dustpan.
Forty years of work, and it all boils down to three jobs: convenience store clerk, company driver, and now, janitor.
Eighteen of those years have been spent with a broom or a bucket in my hand.
This last one, I suppose, is the best of the lot, though that isn't saying much.
The schools change, the wards of Tokyo change, but the tools and the silence are always the same.
Three months I've been at Hokushin.
In that time, I've made what you might call two connections.
There's Yamamoto, of course, but we only ever talk about the work.
And then there's the librarian, Mrs. Suzune. She's got a few years on me, but her eyes are still sharp.
She holds herself like a woman who hasn't forgotten what it feels like to be respected.
Yamamoto's brief flirtation with work was over.
He leaned the broom against the wall—right back in its usual spot, of course.
Not an inch out of place.
"— So, get this." — Yamamoto started, leaning against the doorframe.
"— They found empty sake bottles in Sato-sensei's desk again." — He lowered his voice like he was sharing a secret stock tip.
"— And Tanaka-sensei, the PE teacher? Her kid's grades suddenly shot up to all A's. Funny what happens when your mother is warming a board member's bed, eh?"
He spoke of lives unraveling as if discussing a leaky faucet.
I just kept wiping the floor.
The sharp smell of disinfectant was more real to me than his words.
His chatter was just another sound in the hallway, like the squeak of my rag against the linoleum.
"— Is that so..." — I said, not looking up.
The floor was clean.
I wrung out the rag.
"— I'm leaving the rest to you." — I told Yamamoto, untying my apron.
"— I have to see the Vice Principal. Some papers to sign."
His sweeping stopped.
"— Don't tell me you're actually doing it. The retirement?"
"— Yes."
He let out a short, sharp breath, like a laugh without humor.
"— But you're just throwing money away, Kashiwabara-san. The rule is sixty for the full pension. You leave at fifty-eight, they take a cut. It's not smart. The only smart thing is to wait."
He said 'wait' as if it were a simple thing.
For him, two years was just a line in a contract.
For me, it felt like an entire country I'd have to crawl across on my hands and knees.
A place with no roads.
And they say the body is a machine...
And this machine of mine has been running a long time.
It creaks.
It takes longer to start in the mornings.
They can say a man lives to seventy-six, but that's an average, not a guarantee.
My parts are worn. Two years is a long time when you can feel the rust setting in.
I looked past him, at nothing.
"— There was a place I wanted to see." — I said, the words feeling strange.
"— A journey I meant to take with the only two people who carry my name... Shinji and Manami."
"— Oh, that's right. How are they?" — Yamamoto asked, his tone shifting, latching onto a new topic.
A warmth bloomed in my chest, a feeling so unfamiliar it took me a moment to name it.
Pride.
It felt like an engine catching after a long, cold winter.
I kept my voice flat, letting the facts do the work.
"— Shinji is in real estate, with a good firm."— I let that sit for a moment.
"— And Manami just turned eighteen. She'll be starting medical school next year."
"— A broker and a doctor, eh?" — Yamamoto nodded, a quick, impressed little bob of his head.
It was the simple approval of a man who sees two good, solid pieces fitting neatly into the system.
A quiet confirmation that all was right with the world.
"— You raised them well, Kashiwabara-san." — Yamamoto said, a rare note of respect in his voice.
"— I only gave them a name, they walked their own path."
He shifted his weight.
"— Eighteen, huh..." —The admiration in his tone curdled into a familiar, idle curiosity.
"— So, is she... seeing anyone? Has a boyfriend?"
A flicker of something crossed his face—not malice, just a thoughtless interest. It was a break in the day's boredom.
For once, I decided to play the game.
"— She has a commitment, yes." — I said, letting the words hang in the air for a moment.
I watched him lean into the possibility.
Then I added.
"— To her studies."
The thought seemed to deflate him.
"— Oh. Right." — He recovered quickly, nodding as if it were his own idea.
"— Well, a woman on a path like that... she would need a partner of equal standing, naturally."
A faint red crept up his neck.
He gave a single, stiff nod.
"— Of course. Makes sense." — Suddenly, the floor he'd just swept became the most interesting thing in the world.
The conversation had ended.
Leaving Yamamoto behind, I made my way to the Vice Principal's office.
Masanori Shingetsu...
It was a quiet room, smelling of paper, with a large window framing the grounds below.
Masanori gestured for me to sit.
"— Kashiwabara-san. Coffee?" — He didn't wait for my reply, simply poured from the glass pot on his desk.
I accepted the mug, letting the warmth work its way into my palms.
The coffee itself was excellent.
A clean, dark bitterness that finished smoothly.
I was particular about coffee; it was one of my few remaining indulgences.
A knowing smile touched Masanori's lips.
"— A Brazilian blend. They say the harvest was good this year."
I nodded in agreement.
"—The roast is done well, very little acidity." — For me, that was as good as a poem.
he good coffee didn't change the reason I was there.
I cleared my throat softly.
"— Masanori-san, I would like to request permission to leave a little early today. I have some personal documents to attend to."
He took a slow sip from his own mug, his posture relaxed.
"— Of course, Kashiwabara-san," — he said without hesitation.
"— You are a diligent man. Three months, and not a single issue with your work. That's commendable." — He placed his mug down with a quiet click.
"— If you require any assistance with these... papers... please, do not hesitate to ask. The school would be happy to help."
A simple nod was all the thanks I offered. It was all that was needed.
I stood, gave a slight bow, and left.
My business there was concluded.
"— Kashiwabara-san." — I stopped at the door, my hand on the handle.
The warmth was gone from his voice.
This was the Vice Principal speaking now, a man securing his ship before a storm.
"— You're in the hallways all day. You see things we don't, from behind our desks." — He paused.
"— Have you noticed anything unusual lately? Anything at all out of the ordinary?"
I looked at him.
I saw the worry in his eyes—the unease of a captain who feels a change in the current.
"— No." — I said. The word was as sterile and odorless as the disinfectant I used each day.
"— The students are as they always are. I have seen nothing."
The quietest sigh escaped his lips.
The tension in his posture eased, or maybe he just tucked it away.
"— I see. Very well. Thank you, Kashiwabara-san."
I gave a final nod and walked out, leaving the empty coffee mug, a small token of a trust I had just broken.