Hey, my name's Matsushita Izumo. I'm 45 and I work for a logistics company in Tokyo. I'm stuck in a low-level grunt job, getting worked to the bone by my bosses for a pitiful wage. Why do I keep showing up? Simple: it's the only place that'd take a screw-up like me. Back in my youth, I blew off my studies, diving headfirst into drugs, booze, women, and all sorts of vices. That cost me a degree and, in a way, any shot at a brighter future.
Here's the thing: I don't come from some broke family, even if my life screams otherwise. My family's one of the heavy hitters in Japan, with a web of businesses and subsidiaries worldwide. So why's my life such a mess? Easy. I got disowned.
I'm the eldest of three siblings—a brother and a sister. I was supposed to be the next in line to lead the family. But, like I said, I spent my youth screwing around. That got me cut off. They still left me a decent chunk of money, but I haven't heard from them since. My younger brother's probably running the show now. He was always the studious type—everything I wasn't.
As for what happened next, I burned through that money like an idiot and ended up flat broke. That kicked off two long years of begging and petty crime. I even came close to selling one of my kidneys at one point. Somehow, I made it through with a clean record, and I'm grateful for that.
After that, I got the offer to work at the company I'm still with. Twenty-five years later, not a single promotion. Meanwhile, I've watched countless coworkers climb the ladder after just a year. Do I complain? Not really. There was a time I hated my family for abandoning me, hated the world too. But now, nearing what they call the age of wisdom, it's clear the problem's been me all along. If anyone's to blame for this lousy life, it's me. It's shameful, it's sad, but it's the truth. I'm reaping what I sowed. At least I've got a job and a roof over my head.
On the romance front? I'm not bragging, but I was a good-looking guy back in the day. That, plus the money I had, meant I had more flings than I could count in a year. Of course, that was just my youth. Later, instead of relationships, I was the one selling my body, trading what was left of my looks to the highest bidder. It's a chapter I'd rather erase, but the scars on my body are still there.
Now, my so-called beauty's long gone. Poverty and stress have worn me down to nothing. I'm 45 but look like I'm pushing 50. White hairs started showing up at 28, and lately, I've noticed the beginnings of a bald spot. No surprise, I'm single and probably will die that way. I can't say I'm childless, though—my reckless youth likely left a trail of kids out there. If I had to guess, maybe fifteen or so. But given how I treated their mothers, I doubt they think much of me.
It's 6 a.m., end of my shift. I'm a night guard at the company—yeah, a real loser's gig. My replacement's here, so it's time to head out. I change, then walk to the bus stop down the street. I'm not alone there—probably other night workers like me or early risers. I say "probably," but this stop's been my routine for over twenty years.
The bus shows up after about ten minutes. I climb on and head for my usual seat in the back, but someone's already taken it. Grudgingly, I settle for a side seat by the window. My neighborhood's miles away from work. Why live so far? Rent. With my measly pay, I can't afford Tokyo's pricey apartments. Factoring in stops and the bus's speed, the trip takes about two hours. Yeah, it's a slog.
I let out a yawn. No shock there—I've been up from 6 p.m. to 6 a.m. Used to be I could handle it no problem, but age is catching up. I'm starting to feel it. Sometimes I nod off during my shift, but I can't afford to get sloppy. If my bosses catch me, I'm toast.
I pull out my earbuds, pop them in, and fire up my MP3 player. With this long ride ahead, I figure I'll pass the time. I lean back, close my eyes, and let the music pull me into a dark, melodic world.
Man, I really screwed up my life…
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