Around 9 p.m., the restaurant closed.
The chefs didn't stick around to clean, and the manager drove home to soak in his tub. Mopping the floor to a shine, wiping tables to a waxed gleam, and restoring the stove to factory-fresh condition—tasks to ensure tomorrow's diners ate with joy and fueled society's progress—fell to the young, sturdy shoulders of a Heisei-era worker. (Heisei is the Japanese era from 1989 to 2019, during Emperor Akihito's reign.)
Takizawa squirted detergent onto a sponge, scrubbing grease off tables until they sparkled, chairs too. The bucket's clear water turned murky with repeated rinses.
His shoulders ached from the effort, tables gleaming, but his back screamed in protest.
He rested, hands on hips, like an old man drained after a burst of excitement.
Being a "good man" was tough.
Today, he'd played the humble servant, every move a model of service industry excellence, even flashing charm to make mature women laugh, their excitement securing customer flow.
Looking at his trembling hands, Takizawa sighed inwardly.
No wonder Japan led the global corporate grind—it squeezed every drop of potential.
But the experience was valuable, ready for next time!
He wasn't the only one chasing overtime pay. Nearby, a quiet man yanked a mop with steady precision, a seasoned pro.
Sensing a slacker's gaze, the man turned. "Something up?"
"Nah, just taking a breather," Takizawa said, stretching.
"You worked hard today," Matsuoka said, nodding. "Handling all those customers."
"If it wasn't for the cash, who'd play the gigolo?" Takizawa muttered.
"Takizawa-san, you short on money?" Matsuoka asked, surprised. "You're still in high school, right? And a Tokyo local."
"Parents split, so I'm fending for myself. Plus, my landlord's kicking me out soon. Hassle."
"Sorry… that was rude of me," Matsuoka said.
"No big deal. If you can earn enough to fix a problem, it's not a real crisis. Natural disasters or unavoidable messes—those are the real killers," Takizawa said. "But you, Matsuoka-san, coming from far away, grinding alone—that's tougher."
"As a guy, it's manageable. But some girls make the same choice as me—that's real courage," Matsuoka said.
"Voice acting?"
"Yeah. My teachers back home said if you want to make it, you've gotta come to Tokyo. The training agency's full of people in the same boat."
"Not easy, but hard work pays off, right? Getting from the agency to a firm seems tough," Takizawa said with a grin.
"No, my teachers always said the first year's brutal."
"Then year two's smoother. Every industry's like that—new field, new grind."
"Year two's supposedly rough too…" Matsuoka sighed.
"By year three, you're seasoned," Takizawa said, waving it off. "The fight's just starting."
"But if you're not good enough by then, newbies will overtake you, and you'll lose your edge."
"No way, newbies can't match our experience."
"Our experience can't touch the veterans'," Matsuoka countered, shaking his head.
Takizawa fell silent. Might as well quit now. Watching the man clean meticulously even while talking, he couldn't tell if Matsuoka lacked confidence or burned with too much drive. Feeling guilty for slacking, he wrung out his sponge and sped up.
Together, they finished in under an hour, removed aprons, locked up, and stepped out. Gazing at the sleeping commercial street, Takizawa had an idea. "Matsuoka-san, since we're both here working, wanna grab a beer and some late-night bites?"
"High schoolers in Tokyo can drink?" The Hokkaido native asked, shocked.
"Cough, no, I meant a colleague hangout."
"Got it. I know a cheap spot nearby," Matsuoka said after a moment.
"?"
Takizawa hadn't expected such a quick yes. Matsuoka seemed introverted, and the invite was just polite.
"Matsuoka-san."
"Yeah?"
"Just so we're clear, I'm into women."
"Uh? Wait, what? I—I am too!"
…
In a small late-night eatery, they sat on cushions. Matsuoka scanned the menu, ordering two fried rice plates, assorted meat and veggie skewers, fried chicken nuggets, and drinks.
"You're not great at saying no, are you?" Takizawa said, eyeing him.
"Not really. I'm not the type who gets a lot of invites," Matsuoka said, shaking his head, then offering a stiff compliment. "Not like you, all handsome and confident."
"No need for formalities. We're coworkers, and you're older. It's nearly midnight—drop the stiff talk, relax."
"Got it, Takizawa-kun. Sorry for stressing you," Matsuoka said, sitting straighter.
"…You're still too formal. Loosen up."
Matsuoka pursed his lips, hands clasped, then gave a wry smile. "I'm bad at talking. Sorry."
"Come on, I'm no pro either. Be yourself," Takizawa said, tossing him some peanuts.
"You're plenty chatty, Takizawa-kun," Matsuoka said, munching.
"Just call me Takizawa."
"Uh…" Matsuoka faltered.
"Japan's too hung up on etiquette. Names get overcomplicated. We're not closing a deal—drop the honorifics," Takizawa said firmly.
"Takizawa, you're so confident," Matsuoka said, surprised. "And not off-putting. This afternoon, handling those tough customers… is that the charm of a cool guy?"
"It's all small stuff. You don't seem like a stickler either," Takizawa said. "Without workplace pressure, I bet you'd ditch the rigid act too."
"Interacting with people is delicate," Matsuoka said, finally easing up. "Especially strangers. Words can hurt if you're careless. I envy how you handle it."
"Socializing splits into small talk and real talk. Empty flattery's one thing; being yourself's another. If you're kind and honest, not two-faced, people see who you are. Scheming and backstabbing? You'll get caught. No matter how pretty you play it on stage, if your core's rotten, people will scorn you."
Takizawa tossed a peanut in his mouth.
"Being slick opens doors, but real bonds come from genuine heart. Otherwise, it's just a fleeting spotlight at a dinner table."
"In this fast-paced world, without flashy skills to catch eyes, how do you get a shot?" Matsuoka said softly, shoulders slumping.
The turbaned owner brought a tray: fragrant fried rice, juicy skewers, and fizzy iced drinks. He said, "Enjoy," And left.
"You really worry about that?" Takizawa asked, surprised.
"Just sometimes," Matsuoka said, passing him a meaty skewer. "Lots of people grind endlessly without a chance to shine, stuck building confidence alone."
"Because of that sliver of hope, you still ask the night before sleep, 'What's tomorrow like?'" Matsuoka said, poking at his rice.
"Without an answer, it's easy to worry," Takizawa said, pausing. "Do you really love voice acting? What's the magic in it?"
Matsuoka looked up, thinking hard.
"I was moved—shocked, really—when I learned the voices in shows come from real people."
His voice softened.
"Your voice, someone else's, becomes part of a story, a character's soul. Words you spoke, when you hear them again, feel like a new, living life. Every time, it sparks joy—a satisfaction from deep within. Obsession? Aspiration?"
"Creating is sacred," Takizawa said with a smile, his voice drifting.
Creation is selfish individuality, selfless exposure.
A call for kindred spirits, a lonely confession.
Joy in progress, pain in stagnation.
"Sounds arrogant when I haven't even landed a role," Matsuoka said, scratching his head. "What about you, Takizawa? What's your take?"
"Guess I'll know when I get a gig."
"No audition calls yet?"
"Why do you sound kinda happy about that?"
"No, no! Just, if someone as talented as you hasn't debuted, I feel… relieved," Matsuoka said, flustered.
"You're not the type to get competitive in a marathon, sprinting to catch up, are you?" Takizawa grinned, biting a skewer. "Don't worry, I've got no special talent. Might need to lean on a pro like you."
"No way, my skills are nothing."
"Nah, teach me a thing or two."
"Hardly…"
"C'mon…"
"…"
Takizawa tore into a juicy piece of meat, raising his dew-covered glass in a toast.
"I believe hard work pays off—corny, but we're all ordinary folks. Being a hero's a kid's tale; forging steel through trials is our story. Cheers, mate, you've got this."
Matsuoka froze, then raised his glass with solemn force, clinking hard—almost shattering it. The owner shot them a look.
Takizawa dug into the food.
"These ribs are solid, but not spicy enough… Yo, it's cheap. Let's get some beef next."
"The fried chicken nuggets are a must—house specialty."
"Rice isn't greasy either. Good stuff. Back tomorrow?"
"Won't oily food mess with your voice…?"
"Ramen then?"
"I know a healthy ramen spot for late nights."
"How're you so plugged in?"
"I've worked these places a lot."
"Mate, hook me up… This waiter gig's killing me. My face is frozen from smiling."
"I'll ask around," Matsuoka said, his smile genuine.
In Tokyo's night streets, they joined other tables, unwinding after a long day.
Charcoal glowed red, glasses reflected star-like glints and youthful faces.
***
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