Salmonella Men on Planet Porno

I laughed in the pit of my stomach. If I’d said it, she’d have been fuming. But now that an expert had said it, she couldn’t help but agree. I looked at my wife, marvelling at the power mere names and positions of authority have over women.

“Come on, then. Make the guest some tea!” I said, cheerily shaking hands with the moustache man. “You came at just the right time. Just the right time! Hahaha!”

“Yes, I’ll make some tea.”

But as my wife was about to stand up, the moustache man banged his fist hard on the table. “Out of the question! You have nothing to gain by offering me tea. Tea must only be offered to the most exceptional of guests. Even tea’s expensive these days. If you’re thirsty, drink water. You’re both too young to appreciate the taste of tea. Water’s perfectly good for you.”

“Yes, you’re absolutely right,” said my wife with moistened eyes.

In that case, I thought somewhat vacantly, it would also be rather wasteful to bring my friends home.

“Well, seeing as you’re here now, I wonder if you could look at our household accounts,” said my wife.

The moustache man stood up in a hurry. “No. That I cannot do, madam. After all, I’m looking after all fourteen households in this block. I’ve enough on my plate just seeing you all. Besides, in your case, I can more or less guess your accounts without even seeing them.” So saying, he moved to the hallway and slipped his shoes back on. Then, as he opened the door, he turned to face us. “Whatever you do, avoid being wasteful. Though of course, if ever you’re about to be wasteful, I’ll be sure to come and warn you. Hahahaha!” And with that, he left.

“If he’s a Household Economy Consultant, you’d expect him at least to look at our accounts!” my wife said with some dissatisfaction.

“I’d say that shows what a professional he is,” I replied. “He just takes one look around a house and understands everything without seeing the accounts. And anyway, all the houses in this block have about the same income and the same family composition. I bet all the household accounts are the same too.”

“Well. Experts are experts, after all,” said my wife, nodding solemnly in appreciation.

From that time on, the moustache man started appearing before us on a regular basis. Not only in our apartment, but when my wife was out shopping in the local supermarket, too. Once he even turned up in a restaurant near my work.

“Hello, hello, hello! Here I am, here I am! Tanaka’s the name!!” He looked at the set lunch I was about to eat, and said loudly, without regard for privacy, “Just as I thought. As if eating out weren’t beyond your means already! But no, you have to eat an expensive meal in a high-class restaurant!”

I put my knife and fork down. “Sorry,” I said, bowing my head.

“From tomorrow, get your wife to make you a lunch box. I’ll tell her myself if you like.”

“No, no. I’ll do that.”

“Well, you’ve already ordered, so it can’t be helped. You’d better eat it now,” he said over his shoulder with some annoyance, as he returned to his seat at the back of the restaurant. I finished my lunch with no pleasure at all. As I got up to leave, I craned my neck to look across at the moustache man’s table. He was sitting by himself and eating a steak. There was no doubt about it – it was the prime steak lunch.

“Mr Tanaka turned up at the supermarket again today,” my wife said with a hint of irritation as we ate our dinner at home that night. “I was going to buy some meat, but he said I should buy potato croquets instead. He said it out loud in front of all our neighbours. I was so embarrassed!”

“By the way,” I started hesitantly. “It’s my school reunion tomorrow night. Two thousand yen a head. I didn’t go last year, and if I miss this one, who knows what they’ll say about me? They’ll say I can’t show my face because I’ve gone down in the world. They’re sure to. People can’t bear going to class reunions when they’re down on their luck.”

“Yes, your class reunion,” said my wife with a smile. “I wonder what Mr Tanaka would say about that!”

“Well, it’s already eight o’clock. He’s not going to know about it, is he. And even if he did, I’ve locked the door, so he can’t get in, can he.”

“Hello, hello, hello! Here I am, here I am, here I am! Tanaka, Tanaka, Tanaka’s the name!” The moustache man slid open the French windows and came in from the veranda.

I gave a silent groan.

“What’s that you say, sir? What’s that you say? A class reunion?” He came up and sat beside us at the kitchen table. “Out of the question! Will your life end if you miss your class reunion, sir? Does it matter what they say behind your back? Everyone has things said behind their back! Weren’t you just talking about me too?!” He wiggled his moustache.

“No, it was just that…”

“Anyway, never mind, that’s not important. Do you think your financial status will allow you to attend your class reunion? Of course not. But you still want to go. That is pure vanity, sir. Vanity is the greatest enemy of thrift. Some people have sufficient financial status to afford a modicum of vanity. But you don’t even have that.”

I thought I’d try standing up to him this time. “It’s all right to indulge myself a little, isn’t it?”

The moustache man shook his head resolutely. “No, sir. It would not be indulging yourself. Yes, you’d have a drink or two. But drinking at a class reunion would not be indulging yourself. All you’d gain is fatigue. When you saw how well your classmates are doing, you’d be full of anger and resentment. And that would only make you drink more to drown your sorrows. Am I wrong, sir?”

Yes, that’s exactly what would happen. I hung my head abjectly. “I understand. I won’t attend the class reunion,” I said. I felt so miserable that I could have wept.

My wife couldn’t hide her relief.

“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. More needless luxury,” the moustache man said, looking in dismay at our kitchen table. “Not just potato croquets, but no fewer than three bottled condiments, too. I’m not saying they’re excessive in themselves. The problem is this: not only do they lack nutritional value, but they also encourage you to eat more of the main dish. And as you know, overeating is bad for your health. Well there! Just as I thought. Look how much rice you’ve made!” he cried as he took the lid off the rice-cooker.

My wife blushed and hung her head. “I’m sorry. I only wanted to make our humble meal look a little grander,” she said. A single tear rolled down her cheek.

My feeling of misery was beyond description. I put my chopsticks down and turned to the moustache man. “You make us sound like paupers,” I said with some sarcasm. “I’m not sure if I like that!”

But he didn’t take it as sarcasm. “What’s that, sir?” he said. “I make you sound like paupers?” He rose from his seat and knelt on it again. “You mean you don’t see yourselves as paupers? How wrong you are. You are paupers. It’s an undeniable fact that salaried workers today are the lowest class of all in this country. People selling bananas at late-night markets, tradesmen with special skills, they all earn more than salaried workers do. They may not save much, but even beggars are better off than you. You’re just going to have to accept it. Salaried workers often fail in life. Why? Because they’re weighed down by their superiority complex. The successful ones are those who quickly discard their sense of superiority. Prudent salaried workers are the ones who, though not actually saying it, know they’re all paupers.”

“How wretched we are,” my wife said, starting to sob.

“What makes you think you’re wretched, madam? You mustn’t,” the moustache man continued. “Because you see, being paupers also proves that you have no vices. All you’re doing as salaried workers is using your meagre income to save for your own home, pay for your children’s education, and contribute to pensions for your old age. In that way, you’re helping the national economy and maintaining the healthy state of the country. There’s nothing to be ashamed of at all, madam.”

I’d been staring sideways at the moustache man as he cheerfully launched into his lecture. “How can you possibly understand how miserable we’re feeling?” I countered. “After all, you can afford the prime steak lunch, can’t you.”

His eyes widened. “How could you say that, sir? How could you?! Oh, that you should be so petty in mind! Spying on others while they’re eating, envying them! When did you succumb to such sordid thoughts? They bring far more shame on you than poverty ever will. How sad. How truly sad.” He looked up to the ceiling as tears fell from his eyes. “How poverty dulleth the wit. Well fed, well bred, ’tis true. Alas, alas. Doth a life of poverty corrupt a man’s heart so?”

Starting to loathe myself, I felt so utterly full of remorse that I too burst into tears.