How many people in the world find their dream job? We ask middle school students to talk about their dreams for the future, but how many of them actually make those dreams come true?
Work was over, and the second-to-last train of the day was nearly empty. Yoshirō slumped in his seat, staring vacantly at his own reflection in the glass of the window across from him. Exhaustion showed on his drained face, and his skin was oily with sweat. Have I become an old man already at thirty-three? he wondered. By this point in his life, he should have made great progress along the road toward fulfillment of his dreams. But the ideal self that he had pictured so many times in his young head was nowhere to be found.
In the window reflection, he suddenly saw an image of himself as a boy. He had been an unexceptional child. In every activity you cared to name, whether it was athletic or academic, his performance had always been unremarkable. He had an unassuming personality, with nothing to distinguish him throughout his school years. So he lacked confidence, and his catch-phrase became, “Me? I dunno…” But there was one thing that he was truly proud of, one dream that he believed would definitely come true. He wanted to become a manga illustrator, drawing comic books.
He had nurtured his dream since he was just a kid in fourth grade. Someday the world will be spellbound by my manga. He had won a few prizes for his artwork, and for as long as he could remember, wanted nothing but to sit in front of a sheet of drawing paper. It was his clear purpose in life: there was nothing else. More important than being selected for the track team, or coming first in his class, it was the thing that allowed him to be himself.
But his dreams hadn’t come true, not at all. Instead, he’d graduated from an ordinary high school, attended a run-of-the-mill college, and ended up working as a test prep instructor at the juku. Even that job was just something he fell into: someone had recommended him and he was hired, no more than that. Still, he didn’t intend to stay there forever. He continued to pursue his dream while he worked, and if he succeeded, he would quit without hesitation. Or that’s what he told himself.
Maybe I shouldn’t have been so half-hearted about it.
“Professor Kiriyama, why did you take this job?”
The words from about a half-hour ago echoed in his mind.
His lecture was over and he was seeing off his students, who were heading home as always. Yoshirō called out his farewells from behind as they climbed into shuttle buses and family cars, when several of the girls in his class approached and surrounded him. They exchanged glances among themselves, some of them smirking, and eventually one of them seemed to gather her courage and addressed him.
“This class is no fun at all, and you’re not even trying. It feels like you’re just here for the paycheck.”
Yoshirō understood what she was saying and yet, at the same time, the words didn’t sink in. The smile froze on his face. Looking at him, the girl continued. “I wouldn’t want to live like that, no matter what.”
The girls around her burst into laughter. Seeing their sincerely happy but somehow unpleasant smiles, he felt a chill running from the top of his head down to the tip of his toes. Yoshirō scratched his head and somehow managed an audible chuckle.
“Is that so?” he asked. “Sorry about that. I’ll try to be a little more careful in the future.” Looking a little uncomfortable, the girls dispersed to go home. He smiled at their backs as they left, but his legs were trembling.
Yoshirō had always intended to do his best at the test prep job. But when it came down to it, he thought of it as a stepping stone, and it was hard for him to take working with the children seriously. In the end, the students saw right through him.
Yoshirō took his phone from his pocket. Today they had announced the second round of cuts in a large manga competition. He called up the list of finalists, but his pen name wasn’t on it. How many times now had he failed to make the short list?
Maybe everything that had happened recently was a sign that enough was enough. It was time to let go of his dreams—actually, past time, so maybe it was a warning. Yoshirō put away his phone with a sigh. A middle-aged man who turned his back on reality to chase dreams that will never come true. A hopeless husk with nothing to show for his name. He hated to admit it, but that was who he was now. It was just too pitiful.
He was seized by a sudden impulse to pull the sketchbook from his bag and tear it to shreds, but another voice inside him called out to stop. He froze, hand halfway into the bag, unable to move an inch either way.
At Mojikō Station, a crowd of students in uniform and women in business clothes with tired faces, presumably on their way home from work, streamed out of the train. Yoshirō exited a little behind them and walked sluggishly down the platform. At the ticket gate, he glanced backward. The front of the train was directly behind him, its flattened red-and-black face staring right back at him.