Form 27-B

I turned thirty-three today.

Only upon seeing the printed date on my paycheck receipt did I notice.

It had been exactly one year since my procedure. I still have a nasty scar.

I couldn't remember anything. That wasn’t a side effect of a surgery gone wrong, rather, it was very much the point of it.

On my thirty-second birthday, I had my memories voluntarily wiped. Of course, I don’t know why. Perhaps I was running away from something I’d done. Something too shameful to live with. I don't know. 

It doesn't matter. Many others had their memories wiped upon reaching adulthood. Some wanted to forget an embarrassing school festival, or a brutal breakup; others, like myself, opted to wipe it all and be reborn. 

Memories were our wisdom teeth, and wisdom teeth were painful. 

After the procedure, I'd been adamant about returning to work, fearing I’d lose my bonus if I didn’t. The doctors refused, however, suggesting I stay for a while longer so they could observe me for any further symptoms. They called it the recovery period.

For three weeks, I lay in a cold hospital bed, surrounded by four sterile white walls and one meticulously polished linoleum floor.

And for three weeks, the only color in the room was the red spider lilies that Mother had sent. By day three of my stay, their color had already faded to brown as they curled up and withered away in their unwatered vase.

I would write poems to keep my mind occupied—

## /kohei/notes/kohei_recovery.md

"Kuramoto Kohei couldn’t remember when his lease paperwork had to be filed.
He couldn’t remember what his favorite food tasted like.
Or what his handwriting was supposed to look like.
He couldn’t remember his middle school best friend’s name.
Or the way back to his childhood home.
Kuramoto Kohei couldn’t. He couldn't remember at all."

# saved @ 12:08 JST  

And aside from a few migraines and Supervisor Tanaka’s increasingly frustrated emails, which I promptly answered using my cellphone, my procedure and my stay at the hospital had been quite uneventful.

Just then, my cellphone buzzed, jolting me from my reverie. A text:

“Kuramoto-san, I noticed you have not yet arrived. Please confirm your estimated arrival time as soon as possible. We need those forms by 10.
—Tanaka, Supervisor”

I glanced up at the hanging clock—

7:09.

I was late.

If I left now, I could catch the 7:50 Yamanote Line, provided I could squeeze past the sardine-like crowd.

I grabbed my suitcase and bolted out the door, my navy blue tie dangling lazily in a loose knot.

*

Walking to the station felt like ritualistic déjà vu.

Every day, I passed the same small kissaten at the corner of my street. The aroma of pastries, too expensive for my pocket and too tempting to my hunger.

The morning kei trucks idling by Boss vending machines, workers filling them up with today’s cold meals.

The karaoke place, whose owner kindly bowed as I passed each day, even though I couldn’t remember his name. I wondered if I’d known him before the procedure.

The same Shibuya River crossing, plastic bags floating like islands on the water surface below.

I briefly picked up some frozen onigiri at my favorite Lawson before persisting onwards with my journey though the busy streets.

Shibuya represented the two sides of society.

The first society… the brightly lit façade. The department stores whose fashion commercials glared over Hachiko, proclaiming eternal youth and seasonal trends. Anemic Internet influencers and rowdy Western tourists posed for selfies next to those very same glowing neon advertisements that their money had paid for. Their arrogance, in truth, made me envious. They had no shame in it. Snapping photos with complete strangers who just so happened to walk that dreaded crosswalk. As if the idea that these strangers had places to be, deadlines to complete, families to feed, lives to live, had never once crossed their idle minds.

And the other society… slumped under the same flashing advertisements, in various positions, vomit dripping down their unconscious faces. Some were missing ties. Some shoes. Some, I thought, looked entirely dead. Some were old. Some middle-aged. Some were even younger than I, but they all had that same faceless, nameless, hopeless composition. The broken salarymen always occupied the most ridiculous of places—leaning legs-up on a lamp post, or lying horizontally on the step of a busy subway staircase, or perhaps asleep at the bottom of a child’s playground slide. Almost like a sort of social rule that their pathetic lives at the very least provide entertainment to passing vloggers. Or maybe it was a quiet warning to the school children who happened to walk by them; a sort of real-life street performance for those who've yet to meet the same fate.

Today, I came across one lying face-down in a public planter box, half-consumed by monkey grass, white shirt stained with black dirt. I gently placed my Pocari Sweat down on the ledge next to his feet before hurrying on with my own life. Our unspoken shrine.

*

“Fill out these forms.”

A thick stack of papers slammed onto my desk, causing my stapler to fall onto the floor. Each one watermarked in printer ink—Tōyō Systems, A Marunouchi™ Business.

“Stamp the 27-A ’s, sign the 27-B’s, both for the 19-R’s, but review the signature beforehand, and make sure you double stamp the 44-K’s…”

Supervisor Tanaka was a big man.

In other words, he was overweight. His elephantine structure caused the floor to creak beneath his loafers, making his presence known well in advance as he weaved through the maze of cubicles. His inhales were heavy, and by the end of the workday, the underarms of his shirt would be darkened with sweat. I figured if I didn’t see him at least once per hour, he was probably dead at his desk from a heart attack. If I were lucky, I'd be able to leave early if that happened. 

Today, he had a soy sauce stain on his office shirt, and his breath reeked of cup ramen and cigarettes.

“I expect them on my desk before lunch break,” he said, violently tapping my desk, which caused the stapler to fall a second time.

“Yes, sir,” I answered, bending down to pick up the now-broken stapler. A yellowish fluorescent ceiling light flickered above us.

“Good,” he announced loudly. "Oh, and here..." 

He handed me a crumpled card. "Happy Birthday." 

I opened it. My name was spelt wrong on the inside. 

"Okay!" He gave me a hardy pat on the back with his sweaty palm, then hobbled off to the next cubicle.

He resided in Office 4B, which, unfortunately for me, was situated directly in front of my cubicle. It had one of those one-way mirrored walls, so I had no idea if or when he was watching. I could only lower my head and fill out the forms.

I picked up the hanko and began my fruitless obligation.

*

Lunchtime came far too late.

Lunchroom was normally on the 8th floor, but due to a sudden cicada infestation, it was temporarily moved to the 14th. 

I followed the others down the corridor. We moved slowly and silently. I watched the employee in front of me unknowingly step only on the blue floor tiles. 

I pressed for the elevator, but every time one opened, it was already packed with employees. None of whom moved aside, nor stepped out.

So, I begrudgingly trudged up the stairs, lunch in hand. Every floor looked the same: gray carpet, beige doors, signs pointing to corridors you couldn’t see. 

“Over here, Kuramoto!” a voice called as I arrived at the lunchroom.

Yoshida stood before me.

I sat down in the chair facing him and unpacked my homemade bento. Sticky rice and one lonely tamagoyaki. Today, the rice was unintentionally shaped like the company logo. I smothered it with my soy sauce packet.

“Same as yesterday?” Yoshida asked, peeling the lid off his half-empty miso soup.

“Yup,” I answered.

“And the day before,” Yoshida nodded with a faint grin. “And the day before that...”

Yoshida and I usually had small talk during lunch. It was expected.

“So, my granddaughter had her first violin competition yesterday,” he said, sipping his soup from the container. “She practiced so much, but didn’t make the finalists. Cried for hours. I’m thinking of taking her to get taiyaki later.”

“That’s nice,” I replied.

“She wanted chocolate filling, but the stand by the station only has red bean.”

“Oh.”

“I told her red bean’s traditional.”

“Mm,” I nodded, stuffing the tamagoyaki into my mouth.

“And you know what she said? She said that’s boring,” Yoshida chuckled. “…In any case, did you manage to send out the forms?”

“Thankfully,” I replied. “If I hadn’t, I was sure Tanaka would’ve bashed my head in this time.”

“You did remember to do the JP-144’s right?”

“Huh? Tanaka only mentioned the A-Bs and R-Ks…”

“Ahh, that fat old fool doesn’t know a damn thing,” Yoshida waved dramatically. “Word from the top, they’re replacing the old R-Ks with the new J-Ps. You know, the ones with the blue watermark instead of the gray? You did receive the memo in your inbox this morning, right?”

“I must've missed it,” I muttered, trying my best to remain casual. “Well… I guess it’s overtime for me.” 

“Ahh, that sucks,” Yoshida said, giving my shoulder a single weak pat. “Sorry, buddy.”

Maybe it was because I knew I’d face consequences for my unforgivable mistake, or maybe it was because of my lack of proper sleep this week, but at that moment I felt a terrible migraine develop.

During recovery period, doctors warned that migraines were likely to last a while, although they never mentioned exactly for how long. I’d still get one or two occasionally, but this time felt especially painful. I instinctively leaned forward in my seat and rubbed my temples. The veins in my skull pulsed along with my heartbeat.

“You alright, Kuramoto?” Yoshida asked.

“I—I’m fine…” I managed to muster through my discomfort.

“Are you sure? I’ve seen a colleague collapse dead from a hemorrhage. I wouldn’t be too careful… You should go to the company nurse.”

I sat hunched forward, nauseously awaiting for the migraine to subside, but it didn’t. I decided it would be best to depart the lunchroom lest I vomited. 

I stood up and headed for the nurses’ office.

Yoshida sipped on his soup. “Get well soon, Kuramoto.”

The 8th floor elevators were also packed, so I made my way down the stairs to the 2nd floor where the company nurses were located.

“Take this,” the nurse said, handing me a single aspirin pill and a cold towel. “You need to sleep more. Have you consulted your Liaison about this?”

“No,” I said. “I didn’t have time.”

“Well, people have died that way,” she replied, writing something down on a pink form and placing it in a filing cabinet folder labled ‘Kuramoto, Kohei’. “Hemorrhages aren’t fun. I’ll inform your supervisor that you’re taking the rest of the day off.”

“N—No,” I blurted. “It’s fine. It’s already going away.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I lied.

“Ok, then,” she said, walking off. “And make sure you don’t take that until you’re at your desk. Company policy.”

I walked out of the nurse’s office, still holding the single pill of aspirin in my hand, and climbed up six flights of stairs to my cubicle on the 7th.