For days after the moment that name left her lips I drifted in a numb haze, interacting with the world around me but not really seeing or hearing it, my mind too busy replaying the alien words. She'd dropped them so simply, not even a lilt in her voice, as if it meant nothing at all that she knew.
She knew my name. Coffee girl knew exactly who I was, knew exactly who sat across from her in the bookshop every Sunday. And all this time I'd been flattering myself she knew as little about me as I did her, perhaps called me Coffee guy or Blue eyes in her private thoughts. Two anonymous souls sharing a table, no agendas, no politics. I thought she was separate from the rest of the world, I thought she was my escape.
Wishful thinking, looking back. I was stupid to think she didn't know who I was, most of the city knows me by sight. My picture shows up frequently in the local paper, and she did say her brother was a duelist. Anyone in that particular world would know me, so it was only logical. My reading material must have been a big clue, there couldn't be many twenty year-olds that immersed themselves in the Economist for pleasure. And the car, of course the car. How many men my age drove a Lexus, with thermal seats?
So what did it mean?
I wrestled with paranoia for most of the week, convinced it must mean something. Nobody who knows me can ever leave me alone, I've spent too much of my life fighting them all off to let myself relax now. She knew me, she shared my table, she must want something. Right? But after so many months she'd never asked me for a thing, beyond that chair at my table, demanded nothing but some quiet time. Gave me, the multimillionaire, a box of homemade Christmas cookies and expected nothing in return.
Coffee girl wasn't like all the others, I finally decided. For whatever reason, she didn't care about my wealth or my name and especially not my cards. Speaking those words had changed nothing.
Why was I so relieved when I came to that conclusion? Why did it matter so much, anyway, what Coffee girl thought about me, it wasn't anything that kept me up at night for anyone else. She wasn't that special. She wasn't that nice. Just a random girl in a café that shared two hours of her life with me every week.
I like her.
There, I admitted it.
'point'
But now that I had, I wasn't quite sure what to do about it. Should I act differently? Say something? Be, um, flirty? I didn't know how to do any of that and I fretted all weekend, but as it turned out, seeing Coffee girl's face on Sunday wasn't even an issue.
It was seeing my own.
Still standing at the periodicals shelf, I stared at my picture in the paper and debated whether to buy it. The short tease directing readers to the editorial page was enough to tell me it was going to be bad, and there was no point in subjecting myself to a lot of misinformed abuse. I'd heard it often enough before, and I didn't care what the newspaper thought about me.
Told myself that but I bought it anyway. I guess I'm a glutton for punishment. And it was every bit as spiteful and stupid as I knew it would be; when I'd finished I cursed myself for wasting both time and money. Determinedly I turned my attention to the more intelligent Wall Street Journal.
"Konichiwa," she greeted upon arrival.
"Hn."
"Is something wrong?" I looked up and met her concerned gaze, almost inclined to blush when I remembered I liked this girl. But my mood had soured and I didn't have the energy to do anything more than shrug.
"-m fine."
"Thank you again for last week. You really didn't have to."
"Don't mention it."
Taking my meaning literally, she opened her book and said nothing more. We read in our customary silence, and by the time I'd devoured the Journal and Economist front to back I was feeling better. I moved on to the crossword. Tapping my pen against an unsolved clue, I was startled into looking up again by her soft gasp.
"You're in the newspaper," she reported, awed. Too late I realized that my picture and the accompanying editorial had been left exposed, from underneath my messy spread of papers, and almost threw the Times on top of it.
"No I'm not," I lied, stupidly. Coffee girl looked properly confused.
"But that was your picture."
Of course she knew that was me, I had to remind myself she knew who I was.
"Well," I admitted, "yeah. But it's not a story, just someone talking about the company… and, um, me."
"Wow, that's exciting. Can I read it?"
I bit back the impulsive "No!" and cleared my throat. I couldn't say that, not to Coffee girl. And refusal was probably pointless, she was perfectly able to read the same paper anywhere else.
"Don't you want to read your book?"
"Well, I got to a good pausing point and just happened to see your picture on the table… it will only take a few minutes, right?"
"It's not very interesting."
"Less 'interest'ing than interest rates?" she kidded. I didn't move my hand from its place on the papers.
"Very."
"Oh, c'mon. It can't be that bad."
How little she knew. Her choice of words hit closer to my heart than I'd ever admit to anyone, and I crumbled. Without speaking I slid the editorial in her direction, and happily she began reading.
By the end of the first paragraph, a heartrending story about the single mother I'd just laid off and her struggles to pay the rent, her smile had fled. The writer went on to describe in detail her difficulty in buying new clothes for her children, how she'd had to cancel their spring vacation plans, and was dipping into her savings to make ends meet.
Neither was she alone in her plight, the editorial pointed out next paragraph, forty percent of her department had met a similar fate. I'd been busy, this spring, firing people left and right here in Japan while I invested more expenses in dirt-cheap Indonesia. Jobs were literally flying over the ocean, as I callously cut loose loyal employees in favor of the low cost workforce abroad. At a time when the nation's economy was none too steady on its feet, I'd made matters worse by depriving its citizens of work.
Meanwhile, the writer gleefully continued, I was exploiting a poverty-stricken country and its labor force for my own ends. Children who couldn't even read spent nine to ten hours working in my factories, assembling duel disks for pittance wage. Cheap manufacturing ensured substantial profits – profits that, given my recent downsizing spree, I was obviously not willing to share with anyone else.
She finished the damning indictment and lowered the paper, eyes round as coins.
"Oh."
"Yeah," I muttered. She was looking at me like she never had before, and I could have kicked myself. Why, why, why did I have to go and buy that stupid paper in the first place? I could have gotten it on the way out, I could have not gotten it at all. I didn't care what they said about me, I never had.
She was still staring at me.
"It's to be expected, really," I added. "Just some fallout from the annual layoffs last month, it's no big deal."
"It's horrible."
I shrugged. "I hear it all the time, I'm used to it."
"Is it true?"
The crucial question. I started to speak, then hesitated and blew my bangs out of my eyes. "Yes. And no. He's not lying, he just… picked out the right facts. He has this way that he wants to see me, and will see me, and he'll find any evidence he can to make it possible. It's wrong, though, everything about his argument is wrong. He's not lying but he's wrong."
The plaintive pitch in my voice shocked me, not to mention the many words that had just spilled out of my mouth. Coffee girl was watching me carefully.
"Are you sure you're used to it?"
"I am," I said quickly. "I just get so sick of it sometimes, and I wish that for once someone would think before they throw around those overdone attacks. Doesn't it ever occur to them that there might be another side?"
Coffee girl's gaze flicked to my left and I chanced a look; one of the patrons at another table was staring at me. I must have been talking more loudly than I thought, now everyone in the café was in on it. And to think I came here for escape.
"Sorry," I mumbled, and dropped my eyes. "Um, I guess you want to get back to your book."
Coffee girl set the novel on the table, closed. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"Huh?"
She smiled that gentle smile again, gathering up the awful newspaper and scooting back her chair. "I think it will help. Let's go upstairs."
And such was my agitation that I actually followed her.
"Okay," I started, "yes. I fired that woman. And I'm sorry that she's a single mother, but I didn't do it just to be mean. I had a reason, she was in the Marketing department. You know what that is?"
Sitting on the floor with her knees hugged to her chest, leaning against the Research and History bookshelves, Coffee girl shook her head.
"They're the people that identify our target consumers and their specific demands. In theory they analyze the market and figure out how to expand the consumer base- get more people to buy our product," I added, when I saw her blank look. "But within the world of Duel Monsters, we've reached market saturation. There's nowhere to go. And why should I keep doling out paychecks to people who have nothing to do? I told the head of Marketing to lay off the lowest performing forty percent of his department, and that's what he did. She and her friends were probably playing solitaire all afternoon in their cubicles."
Coffee girl said nothing, watching me patiently, a cool contrast to my petulant pacing. It was ridiculous, of course, to bother defending myself against such tripe but now that I'd begun I just couldn't stop.
"And what's more, that was not downsizing. I might have fired half of Marketing but I also hired more engineers and lab techs. Yes, I'm putting more money into the Indonesian suppliers, but that doesn't have anything to do with Marketing – I didn't send any jobs overseas. They're not even my factories, I don't own them. The company just buys their product."
Coffee girl looked surprised. "I didn't know that."
"Obviously the writer doesn't, either. It's international trade, that's all, buy and sell. Like what I told you about the trade deficit last fall. I'm buying hardware from a place like Indonesia because it's cheaper than anything I could get in Japan, and my company's better off for it. That's not evil, that's common sense. And my company's a part of this economy too; if it's good for us then we didn't make anything worse."
Coffee girl considered all this, and fidgeted. "But, isn't it wrong to make money off those children?"
"Ask the kids. They're the ones making money off me." She blinked, perplexed, and I dropped to my knees to face her directly. "That's the thing about business, nobody gets into it if they're not making a profit. Me, the workers – we're 'exploiting' each other, using each other to get what we want. If they weren't getting something out of it, then they wouldn't work."
My eyes fell upon the paper, next to her, and I growled unhappily. "I guess that's what bothers me the most: everybody's in this voluntarily. My suppliers, my employees, and the customers. If everybody in this city hates me so much, why don't they just stop buying my stuff and put me out of business? I don't make them fork over their money in the shops, I don't march them into my park at gunpoint. I don't do anything but sell them what they want and I'm so sick of everybody attacking me for it. I just wish they'd leave me alone."
Those last words tumbled out of me in a rush, and once they'd been spoken I felt a curious relief. It was inexcusable, such pathetic whining, but god it felt good. Depleted, I slumped against the bookshelves next to her.
The far corner of the store was silent, for a few moments.
"Wow," she finally murmured. "I never thought about all that."
"Most don't."
"But you're right, you really don't deserve that. People aren't very fair; my brother has one of your duel disks but he says a lot of unkind things about you… he doesn't like you very much, you know."
I don't know why she had to add the 'you know' like that, was it such a given that people despised me?
"Well, thanks for listening, anyway. Sorry about interrupting your reading."
"Oh, please. Haven't you listened to my problems? Besides, I think you must feel a lot better now."
She was right. Was that why I bought the paper? Did some unconscious part of me hope it would come to this? Guess it wasn't such a terrible thing, after all, that she knew who I was. Because who else could I talk to?
"It was really interesting," she was saying, "hearing your side of all that happened. I think you should write that paper and tell them what you told me, you deserve a chance to make your case."
I snorted. "That implies they had a case to begin with; I won't dignify stupidity with a response. I told you I don't care."
"Yeah, I can see that," she answered lightly, hardly a trace of sarcasm in her very sarcastic reply. I scowled.
"Businessmen don't respond to media attacks, if we did we'd never get anything else done. Let the journalism majors fume, I've got a company to run. The only free time I have in the entire week is this right here."
"Really?"
"Yes. And I'm not about to give it up so I can write rebuttals to morons. Besides, you're enough."
"Me?"
"Mm. At least I know you understand."
"Oh… Well, I'm glad I could help."
Sitting next to each other like this, our hands were so close to touching. I don't know if she moved first or if I did, or perhaps we acted in a silent understanding that brought us together somewhere in between, but she slipped her hand into mine and I held it.
The far corner of the store was silent, again.
Coffee girl's hand was small, but warm. Her skin was soft, and felt good against my own. It was cozy, this act of holding hands, and comfortable. I couldn't even remember what it was I was so upset about earlier. How could such an insignificant action change a bad evening to good? Change everything?
Neither of us spoke for some time, content to enjoy the peace and quiet. I think I could have stayed there all night, but she shifted slightly and saw something troubling.
"Oh my god," she squeaked. "It's six o'clock!"
Hmm?
Our drowsy tranquility scattered like a deck of cards caught in the wind. Looking absolutely horrified, Coffee girl ripped her hand out of mine and dove for her purse. I blinked at the rapid and unexpected shift, then checked my own watch. Sure enough, it was 6:04; we'd been up here longer than I realized.
"What's wrong?"
"I'm late!"
"Late for what?"
I didn't get an answer. Holding the phone to her ear, she hit a fast pace out of our secluded corner and I had to hurry to catch up.
"Mom? It's me… there's this horrible traffic jam on the highway, the bus isn't going anywhere. I think I'm going to be a little late."
Following her down the stairs, I could hear a female voice reply but not distinguish individual words. Whatever she said, it made Coffee girl cringe.
"I'm not making it up, it isn't Nii-chan's fault! I'll be home soon, I swear, I'm on my way." A pause, when her feet hit the first floor. "I'm sorry. Yes, I know, I'm sorry. Can we talk about it when I get home? I'll see you in a few minutes, bye-bye."
She hung up and I snagged her by the elbow, just before she rounded the Self-Help shelves.
"Whoa, slow down. What was all that about?"
"Didn't you hear? I'm late, Mom expects me home by six-fifteen. She goes crazy when I don't get home on time!"
"Do you really have to lie about a traffic jam, though? Over a few minutes?"
"You don't know my mother," she said darkly, which was true.
"But it's just a bookshop."
"She doesn't know that," she retorted, then immediately winced, looking like she regretted saying that. Coffee girl wrested her arm out of my grip and took another step, only to find her way blocked when I circled around in front of her.
"And what's that supposed to mean?"
"I really don't have time for this…"
"I'll give you a ride home. What was that about your brother, anyway, what does he have to do with it?" Coffee girl averted her eyes, which I took to mean that I was on to something. "Why would it be his fault?"
"Because I'm lying to her," she huffed. "I'm lying to them both. I told you I spend Saturday nights with my brother, and I come home on Sundays. But I come here in between – my brother thinks that I go straight home at three and my mom thinks that I leave Nii-chan at quarter to six."
I stared, incredulous. "You have to lie? About coming to a bookshop?"
"Do you tell anyone?" she challenged. "When you walk out of your office every Sunday do you tell them where you're going? That you're dropping work to come read and drink a cup of coffee?"
She had me there. I'd walked out on executives, cut myself short in the middle of chip design, ignored all pleas from the R and D department – all for this place. Of course I couldn't tell them why. I hadn't exactly lied to my brother, since he had not directly asked, but I knew he assumed I was coming straight home from work when I rolled up for dinner.
"No," I admitted.
"Because they wouldn't understand. They wouldn't understand how important it is, why we drop everything else to get here. And if my brother and mother knew, they'd just fight over who I should be spending those hours with. They wouldn't care that this is my only time to myself all week."
She crossed her arms over her chest, in subconscious defense. Not that it was necessary.
"I know exactly how you feel."
I drove her home after that, and neither of us spoke. But her hand was in mine until the moment she left the car.
'counterpoint'
Dear Sir,
In regards to your unkind editorial on Kaiba
Seto, I would like to point out a few things.
First, that while the writer was correct in
stating forty percent of that particular
department had been terminated, he failed to
mention that the company hired more
workers at the same time. There was no
'downsizing' in any sense of the word.
Moreover, the writer is absolutely incorrect
in declaring these lost jobs flew overseas.
The factories in Indonesia have nothing to do
with the office jobs eliminated here in Japan;
overseas workers aren't replacing anyone.
The Kaiba corporation doesn't even own
those factories, another point he neglected to
mention. It's true that the thought of poor
children working on assembly lines is
distasteful, but please keep in mind that
these children might be starving for the
money. Is it really our place, brought up in
comparative luxury, to judge whether or not
they should work?
When publicly condemning another, I feel
it's only fair to state all the facts instead of
selecting just those that support
preconceived notions. My question to the
writer: what has Kaiba-san done to deserve
such a scathing attack? He's done nothing
wrong, or illegal. All he has done is
provide products that – given their
widespread usage – are in great demand. Is
it fair to keep him in business but despise
his success?
– Anonymous
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Disclaimer: I do not own these characters
Sorry this chapter took so long; it was trickier to write than I thought. Primarily because I could go on for pages about this stuff, but such a lecture would bore you to tears and I knew I had to be concise. Your homework is to think about this chapter, decide for yourself whether I'm right or wrong, and then remember that the next time you hear a liberal open their big yap about Nike. Business is all about exploitation, and if you don't believe that then I'd better not ever see you buy anything.