It was just after midday. I was standing at what was pretty much the epicenter of the shopping district, holding a translucent plastic bag stuffed with every shampoo sample I had. This was the spot where TV camera crews conducted their street interviews. There were always throngs of people, since the roads leading off the main shopping street, which ran on an east–west axis, led to a large supermarket on the right and a pachinko parlor on the left. Occasionally people handed out flyers there, but rarely product samples. Shoppers and passersby gladly accepted the freebies I was offering. One or two of them even took one, moved on, and then came back for another. It was gratifying to see that my efforts were being appreciated, but at this rate I was going to be left with none for the person who needed them most. To anyone who came back a second or third time, I now simply shook my head and turned them away.
When I was down to five of my little packets of shampoo, the Woman in the Purple Skirt finally made an appearance in the shopping district.
Noticing me handing out free samples, she cast a curious glance at the contents of my plastic bag. But she didn’t actually come over to me, and instead walked straight on by.
Just as I was swiveling myself around to follow her and press a sample into her hands, I felt somebody grab me by the elbow.
“Hey. Who are you? You’re not from around here, are you? Have you got permission from the Shopkeepers Association?”
It was the proprietor of the Tatsumi sake store.
The Tatsumi sake store is the oldest of all the stores in the shopping district. Its proprietor is also the president of the local Shopping District Shopkeepers Association. Normally a courteous, smiling sort of man, he proceeded to grill me in a very unfriendly tone.
“Answer me. Come on! What are you handing out? What are those things? Let me have a look.”
I shook my arm free of his grip.
“Hey! Oi! Wait!”
Normally, there is nothing I hate more than having to run, but this was one time I needed to. As I ran, I soon caught up with the Woman in the Purple Skirt, then left her far behind me. Once I’d made my way through the shopping district and was out on the main road, I kept running, repeatedly glancing over my shoulder, certain that the proprietor of the Tatsumi sake store was chasing after me. At a certain point, however, looking over my shoulder for the umpteenth time, I realized he was nowhere in sight.
Eventually—much later, after dark—I made a special excursion to the apartment of the Woman in the Purple Skirt and hung my bag of shampoo samples on her doorknob. This is probably what I should have done in the first place. I put my ear up against the door and heard a faint, steady scrubbing sound. It seemed she was brushing her teeth. Well, that was a good sign. If she kept this up, maybe she was even going to wash her hair.
Woman in the Purple Skirt! Give it your best shot! Get through the interview, and get the job!
Four days later, the outcome of the job interview was clear. Whether it was all my fervent prayers that did the trick, or the “fresh floral”–scented shampoo I had given her, or because the company is so desperate that it would take anyone, the Woman in the Purple Skirt had got the job. It had been a long time coming, but finally, she had made it through. She was standing at the starting line.
First day at the new job. The Woman in the Purple Skirt left her apartment a little on the early side, at about 7:30 a.m., and headed to work. I was waiting for her at the bus stop. We got on the bus not far from the entrance to the shopping district, and got off near her place of work. For forty minutes we were being jolted around on the bus. It was 8:30 when the Woman in the Purple Skirt knocked on the door of her workplace.
When she entered the office, she was handed her corporate uniform and given a key to the locker room by the agency director. First, go and change. The Woman in the Purple Skirt did as she was told, and headed straight to the locker room, which was the next door down from the office.
The corporate uniform was a neat black dress. A good, sturdy garment, nicely “breathable,” and also conveniently stain resistant (or rather, since it was black, the stains didn’t show). Made of polyester, it dried within minutes of washing—which was also convenient. Perhaps the one unattractive feature was that the fabric generated a lot of static. A minor problem, but annoying nevertheless.
With the black uniform, she wore matching black shoes that she bought yesterday in the shopping district. But oh dear, as soon as she tried to step into her new black tights, also purchased yesterday, at the hundred-yen store, there was a ripping sound. The Woman in the Purple Skirt took off the tights and discarded them, then slipped her feet straight into her shoes: she would go bare legged. The finishing touch was a white
