It’s hard to leave after taking up this offer. I found a myself here in these last two years. Myself and a family. It’s not goodbye forever, I’m sure.
But it will be the last time someone comes asking for my help. The last time I complain about the Buggy programs and the dry air. Or the cleaning woman when she’s starting to vacume clean at 7 o’clock once we all started working. Even though she’s been here for two hours already.
It will be the last time I get the call to leave early. The last I hide my stuff in the plant next to my desk, because in those two years I was still too lazy to organize myself the key to my locker.
It’s strange to think about it. I’m seeing things through rose-coloured glasses, i know. Because I complained about those things just two weeks ago. You always miss what you can’t have anymore, I guess.
Deer, Boar, Bear – all present at tonight’s drunken feast, all in the background of Hanafuda cards, or so I’m told by superiors not so much drinking sakeas spilling it everywhere.
Passing time, talking about an old man’s card game, when all I’m thinking of is everything but.
Remember that time you beat me with 70 so points?
It’ll haunt me the whole 14 hours home tomorrow. Time to strategize.
She’s the devil in a pilled-up old sweatshirt and choppy hair pinned back with tortoiseshell combs, with a stale coffee in a mug that says “I love New Yerk,” with resoled shoes and mediocre table manners.
“Let me offer you some advice: If you are in a place you don’t think you can stay, get out. Don’t wait to see if it gets better. Don’t wait for your life to pass by. If you feel in your heart you need to change, then do so. It will only save you from so much pain.”
a person
My secretary called me in the morning two weeks ago, excited, and I couldn’t muster up the courage to show my face at work to talk about his “good news.”
I was in this office, two weeks ago, with a different piece of paper, a thicker one. I sat with over lukewarm, bittersweet coffee with my Principal asking me to stay, first at his request, then at the request of my coworkers.
I was pulled out to dinner once, drinks thrice, and told in broken English “We want you to stay here.”
…and yet, two weeks later, it finds its way to my hands:
“Mr. Fizz, Misty
We regret to inform you that we do not intend to reappoint you for the following reason(s):
Generally, the maximum number of reappointments is two. Our City also follows this procedure.
Unfortunately, for budgetary reasons, we cannot extend your contract at this time. We appreciate your help and cooperation with us.”
This paper is flimsy. This paper is recycled, darkened, lazily stamped by some nameless bureaucrat. He hands it to me like a stone tablet, delivers an apology even heavier before shuffling back to his office.
Every 3rd year, cut.
It’s like opening divorce papers on the 25th, they look at me and say, wry smile stretched across their face, “Merry Christmas,” with all the sincerity of a department store jingle on repeat.
Whatever happens, is going to happen.
Now more than ever. The only thing that will keep me here is how much I put into finding a way to stay.
Read your paperwork carefully,
as the years pile on
the money grows shorter
and there might not be an offer for another year or two
waiting on your desk if you’ve served your three years,
be aware,
as people are forced to go home,
check and see
if its not you
The sound of a doorbell reminds me of a note I’d left in my techo on this date /months/ ago: 11,474 yen, Zekkei, which I guess would roughly translate to…11,474 yen, Great View. It didn’t dawn on me what it was until I stumbled through the change and lazily signed where I should have firmly hanko’d, and opened the box –
“幸せつつみと花遊び”
Oh! Of course! I ordered this all the way back in…September? It’s probably the 4th time I’ve bought this game, in different editions. I grab my phone to send a quick reminder and reality bites at my excitement – even if I snapped a picture, there’s no way to put it anywhere meaningful…so instead I ruffle through the little cardboard treasure box alone.
It comes with a Zabuton?!
I’ll probably frame the Hanafuda cards, maybe request to get the posters signed, and…what’s this?
An almost dismissably small Ema, hidden under the bubble wrap and paper wrapping. I double check my order and wonder what it is, and find that if you bought it through the E-capcom store, you get one of 12 Fudegami Ema with your purchase.
I turn mine over, hoping for Bakugami, and of course, of course,
The sound of a doorbell reminds me of a note I’d left on this date /months/ ago: 11,474 yen, Zekkei, which I guess which translate to…11,474 yen, Great View. It didn’t dawn on me what it was until I stumbled through the change and lazily signed where I should have hanko’d, and opened the box –
幸せつつみと花遊び
Oh! Of course! I ordered this all the way back in…September? It’s probably the 4th time I’ve bought this game, in different editions. Even if I snapped a picture, there’s no way to put it anywhere meaningful, so instead I ruffle through the little cardboard treasure box alone.
I’ll probably frame the Hanafuda cards, maybe request to get the posters signed, and…what’s this?
An almost dismissably small Ema, hidden under the bubble wrap and paper wrapping. I double check my order and wonder what it is, and find that if you bought it through the E-capcom store, you get one of 12 Fudegami Ema with your purchase.
I turn mine over, hoping for Bakugami, and of course, of course,
She extended her hand, palm open. “I’ll take it.”
“No, I think I’ll keep it here.”
“Just hand it over, we’ll put it here.”
“I’m gonna hold on to it.”
“Stop being a child.”
“I don’t trust you.”
“I’m hurt. Hand it over.”
He raised and eyebrow and pocketed the device, crossing his arms over his chest. She laughed, “What makes you think I won’t go in there and get it?”
Maura stiffened at the number, but I was insistent.
“It’s all I had. It’s all I wanted to offer. We need to eat, Maura. I want to try music again, but we need to eat.”
“He’s never going to sell that piano to you for that low,” she mumbled.
“I’m still waiting for his decision.”
Belinda Roddie
I offer her my hand as she steps down from the throne. She shrugs it off with a chuckle, and I feel my cheeks burn. But she still steps in line with me as we exit the throne room and make our way outside the castle walls. The guards following us don’t faze her, so I choose to ignore them too, noticing instead the way her body sways closer to mine as we walk through the gardens. I nervously point out each flower I picked for her, chosen because – “well, they’re pretty, like you,” – and I watch as her tense shoulders lower with each stumbling word until she’s strolling and laughing outright. And, all of a sudden, I realize I should have been more careful with my heart, because somehow I’ve made her smile, and I know she has stolen it without any warning.
By the time we return to the castle walls, her hand is linked with mine, warming me better than any furnace could in this mountain chill.
A hand extended in the ether, and with it the full intentions to grasp and carry and lift and drag and pull or to be grasped, carried, lifted, pulled, torn from the comfortable seat of the status quo and thrown headlong into whatever acceptance means, whatever consent implies; a hand extended means an object at which to extend, another person, another universe, two pinned together for an instant of need, a cry for empathy.
It’s hard to leave after taking up this offer. I found a myself here in these last two years. Myself and a family. It’s not goodbye forever, I’m sure.
But it will be the last time someone comes asking for my help. The last time I complain about the Buggy programs and the dry air. Or the cleaning woman when she’s starting to vacume clean at 7 o’clock once we all started working. Even though she’s been here for two hours already.
It will be the last time I get the call to leave early. The last I hide my stuff in the plant next to my desk, because in those two years I was still too lazy to organize myself the key to my locker.
It’s strange to think about it. I’m seeing things through rose-coloured glasses, i know. Because I complained about those things just two weeks ago. You always miss what you can’t have anymore, I guess.
Deer, Boar, Bear – all present at tonight’s drunken feast, all in the background of Hanafuda cards, or so I’m told by superiors not so much drinking sakeas spilling it everywhere.
Passing time, talking about an old man’s card game, when all I’m thinking of is everything but.
Remember that time you beat me with 70 so points?
It’ll haunt me the whole 14 hours home tomorrow. Time to strategize.
offer me the thing I want
pointing fingers, runny nose
the river is flowing
flowing and flowing
the river is flowing back
to the C.
She’s the devil in a pilled-up old sweatshirt and choppy hair pinned back with tortoiseshell combs, with a stale coffee in a mug that says “I love New Yerk,” with resoled shoes and mediocre table manners.
“Let me offer you some advice: If you are in a place you don’t think you can stay, get out. Don’t wait to see if it gets better. Don’t wait for your life to pass by. If you feel in your heart you need to change, then do so. It will only save you from so much pain.”
My secretary called me in the morning two weeks ago, excited, and I couldn’t muster up the courage to show my face at work to talk about his “good news.”
I was in this office, two weeks ago, with a different piece of paper, a thicker one. I sat with over lukewarm, bittersweet coffee with my Principal asking me to stay, first at his request, then at the request of my coworkers.
I was pulled out to dinner once, drinks thrice, and told in broken English “We want you to stay here.”
…and yet, two weeks later, it finds its way to my hands:
“Mr. Fizz, Misty
We regret to inform you that we do not intend to reappoint you for the following reason(s):
Generally, the maximum number of reappointments is two. Our City also follows this procedure.
Unfortunately, for budgetary reasons, we cannot extend your contract at this time. We appreciate your help and cooperation with us.”
This paper is flimsy. This paper is recycled, darkened, lazily stamped by some nameless bureaucrat. He hands it to me like a stone tablet, delivers an apology even heavier before shuffling back to his office.
Every 3rd year, cut.
It’s like opening divorce papers on the 25th, they look at me and say, wry smile stretched across their face, “Merry Christmas,” with all the sincerity of a department store jingle on repeat.
Whatever happens, is going to happen.
Now more than ever. The only thing that will keep me here is how much I put into finding a way to stay.
Any way.
Every minute matters. I can’t waste any of it.
Read your paperwork carefully,
as the years pile on
the money grows shorter
and there might not be an offer for another year or two
waiting on your desk if you’ve served your three years,
be aware,
as people are forced to go home,
check and see
if its not you
The sound of a doorbell reminds me of a note I’d left in my techo on this date /months/ ago: 11,474 yen, Zekkei, which I guess would roughly translate to…11,474 yen, Great View. It didn’t dawn on me what it was until I stumbled through the change and lazily signed where I should have firmly hanko’d, and opened the box –
“幸せつつみと花遊び”
Oh! Of course! I ordered this all the way back in…September? It’s probably the 4th time I’ve bought this game, in different editions. I grab my phone to send a quick reminder and reality bites at my excitement – even if I snapped a picture, there’s no way to put it anywhere meaningful…so instead I ruffle through the little cardboard treasure box alone.
It comes with a Zabuton?!
I’ll probably frame the Hanafuda cards, maybe request to get the posters signed, and…what’s this?
An almost dismissably small Ema, hidden under the bubble wrap and paper wrapping. I double check my order and wonder what it is, and find that if you bought it through the E-capcom store, you get one of 12 Fudegami Ema with your purchase.
I turn mine over, hoping for Bakugami, and of course, of course,
OF COURSE,
It’s a maneki-neko, the kabegami.
I only know one other person who bought this.
I wonder if they’d want to trade…
The sound of a doorbell reminds me of a note I’d left on this date /months/ ago: 11,474 yen, Zekkei, which I guess which translate to…11,474 yen, Great View. It didn’t dawn on me what it was until I stumbled through the change and lazily signed where I should have hanko’d, and opened the box –
幸せつつみと花遊び
Oh! Of course! I ordered this all the way back in…September? It’s probably the 4th time I’ve bought this game, in different editions. Even if I snapped a picture, there’s no way to put it anywhere meaningful, so instead I ruffle through the little cardboard treasure box alone.
I’ll probably frame the Hanafuda cards, maybe request to get the posters signed, and…what’s this?
An almost dismissably small Ema, hidden under the bubble wrap and paper wrapping. I double check my order and wonder what it is, and find that if you bought it through the E-capcom store, you get one of 12 Fudegami Ema with your purchase.
I turn mine over, hoping for Bakugami, and of course, of course,
of course,
It’s a maneki-neko, the kabegami.
I only know one other person who bought this.
I wonder if they’d want to trade…
She extended her hand, palm open. “I’ll take it.”
“No, I think I’ll keep it here.”
“Just hand it over, we’ll put it here.”
“I’m gonna hold on to it.”
“Stop being a child.”
“I don’t trust you.”
“I’m hurt. Hand it over.”
He raised and eyebrow and pocketed the device, crossing his arms over his chest. She laughed, “What makes you think I won’t go in there and get it?”
“I told him I’d give him fifty bucks for it.”
Maura stiffened at the number, but I was insistent.
“It’s all I had. It’s all I wanted to offer. We need to eat, Maura. I want to try music again, but we need to eat.”
“He’s never going to sell that piano to you for that low,” she mumbled.
“I’m still waiting for his decision.”
I offer her my hand as she steps down from the throne. She shrugs it off with a chuckle, and I feel my cheeks burn. But she still steps in line with me as we exit the throne room and make our way outside the castle walls. The guards following us don’t faze her, so I choose to ignore them too, noticing instead the way her body sways closer to mine as we walk through the gardens. I nervously point out each flower I picked for her, chosen because – “well, they’re pretty, like you,” – and I watch as her tense shoulders lower with each stumbling word until she’s strolling and laughing outright. And, all of a sudden, I realize I should have been more careful with my heart, because somehow I’ve made her smile, and I know she has stolen it without any warning.
By the time we return to the castle walls, her hand is linked with mine, warming me better than any furnace could in this mountain chill.
A hand extended in the ether, and with it the full intentions to grasp and carry and lift and drag and pull or to be grasped, carried, lifted, pulled, torn from the comfortable seat of the status quo and thrown headlong into whatever acceptance means, whatever consent implies; a hand extended means an object at which to extend, another person, another universe, two pinned together for an instant of need, a cry for empathy.