Barring any significant changes, we predict that the energy your jealousy generates will enable you to keep going strong until you are at least a hundred, but given that we are somewhat short of hands, we would prefer if you were to make your way here before then. The sooner the better, as far as we are concerned. The numbers of people with the levels of passion it takes to become a ghost are decreasing every year. Contrary to common presumption, it’s not just anyone who can assume spectral form. Without the requisite degree of jealousy or obsession, people just float straight to heaven. Between you and us, everyone is so blessedly sensible that we sometimes find ourselves tempted to give them a good talking-to. Are you really going to settle for that? we want to ask. Quite frankly, watching over lives as dull as theirs, we are bored witless.
In today’s world, there’s a tendency for jealousy and obsession to be portrayed in a negative light. Those with talents in these areas are often criticized, as if they were lacking in some way. This only serves to ensure that people with extraordinary talent like yours shrink in number. This is the vicious cycle we find ourselves in. The situation is truly grave.
On that account, as embarrassing as it is to admit, we find ourselves chronically understaffed, and nothing would please us more than if you were to join our team. For a person of your gifts, we don’t feel any training will be necessary and hope to welcome you into our team immediately. Recognizing your capabilities at this stage, we have extremely high expectations for what you could accomplish with us into the future. In terms of arrangements for your appearance on the spectral stage, rest assured that we have a wide variety of options available, and we feel confident that we’ll be able to find something you will be satisfied with.
Accordingly, when you do pass away, please be sure to get in touch.
Where the Wild Ladies Are
It was hands down the worst spring ever. Trudging wearily into the changing room, Shigeru wedged his shoulder bag inside his locker and, with a heavy heart, began to put on his coveralls. With no one else around, the room was totally silent.
Glancing up at the Seiko clock on the wall, Shigeru realized his shift was about to start. He’d been sure that he still had a good ten minutes to play with, but of late, time seemed to be wreaking havoc on him. Either that, or he was just zoning out too much. Shigeru kicked off his navy Converse and put on the black canvas shoes provided by the company. He left the room with his cap in hand, transferring it to his head as he navigated the dark corridors and the stairs as quickly as he could, finally turning into the room labeled MANUFACTURING ROOM NO. 6. When he reached his workstation, his manager, Mr. Tei, nodded at him in greeting. He had made it just in time.
Fresh out of university, Shigeru had quickly become what was colloquially termed a “flitter”: someone who bunny-hopped from one fixed-term contract to another, without ever becoming a permanent employee. These days, with permanent positions becoming something of a rarity and companies taking on equal numbers of female employees, being a flitter had become more or less the norm, and the word was losing its original significance. Nonetheless, Shigeru still found the term appropriate for his current state. Both materially and spiritually speaking, he was a flitter.
Switching places with the morning-shift worker, Shigeru took up position at the end of the assembly line and commenced inspection. His work here was supremely easy. He simply had to watch the sticks of dried, compressed incense that went streaming past him down the conveyor belt, and check that they weren’t misshapen or broken. The incense had a peculiar aroma, like nothing he’d ever smelled before. In the beginning, that weird smell pervading the entire working space got to him, but now he was pretty much used to it. More important, a job where he didn’t have to use his brain was ideal for Shigeru in his present mental state.
One day last year, every last drop of Shigeru’s motivation had evaporated all at once. It was the day his mom had killed herself. Shigeru had been the one to find her body after she’d hanged herself with a bath towel. His first reaction wasn’t one of sadness, but perplexity—it was as if his mom were playing some kind of practical joke on him. She just wasn’t the kind of person to go and do something like that. She was a hearty old thing; a ball of energy; a living, breathing stereotype of the Middle-Aged Woman Who Won’t Shut Up. But it wasn’t a joke. His mom really and truly was dead.
At the wake before the funeral, Shigeru had seen Okumura for the first time in what seemed like ages. Okumura had been his mom’s lover for years, and, biologically speaking, was Shigeru’s father. Shigeru had seen a fair bit of Okumura while he’d been in grade school, but by the time he reached his mid-teens, it had become clear they didn’t have much in common. In any case, Shigeru had never really thought of Okumura as his dad—he was just some guy who came around a lot, and who seemed to like spending time with his mom. His mom was cheerful as it was, but when Okumura came over, she grew even brighter, so Shigeru supposed he couldn’t be a bad sort. Instead of looking at
