Amie Barrodale - You Are Having a Good Time

“Come from samurai.”

“Samurai,” he said, “so then, like me, you are already dead.”

I understood his reference to the Hagakure , of course. For reasons I can’t name, the world inverted and I stood in a waking dream, Mr. Thibideaux himself a phantom.

“Don’t I look…” Mr. Thibideaux craned his neck to see himself in the mirror behind me. He had trouble finding the word, but I could tell from his tone of voice that he was making a joke, so I pretended to laugh, and I was surprised to see color come into his cheeks.

He removed the headpiece and said, “I’ve come today to ask you about a commission.”

“Actually, I’m sales manager, so mine is a salaried position.”

“I wanted to know if it would be possible to order another bowl like the one I bought before.”

“All Mr. Tatsusuke’s bowls are one of a kind.”

It took him a long time to explain what he wanted, which was a bowl like the one he bought before, in white, with the same gold inside. He wanted to order it as a commission, from Mr. Tatsusuke himself.

I told him we don’t ordinarily do sales by commission, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer, so I agreed to ask Mr. Seibu. That was probably not a wise decision.

* * *

Mr. Seibu and I have known each other a long time, and it’s generally our habit to address one another in familiar forms of Japanese. That’s why I didn’t stand on ceremony but simply explained the situation. Actually, I was surprised by Mr. Seibu’s response. He sat silently in his chair for a long time after I asked the question and didn’t even ask me if I wanted to take a seat. He keeps his office in the traditional style, without a lot of clutter or noise, or any kind of telephone or computer to distract him from his duties as store president, so when he was quiet for so long, it felt like a form of rebuke. In fact, it certainly was a rebuke. I couldn’t help fidgeting a little and trying to smooth my hair while he sat utterly still, with his hands folded on the slate-gray leather blotter before him.

More time passed. I began to think, Maybe he didn’t understand, so I started again, saying, “Mr. Seibu? We have a customer downsta—”

“I understand the question,” he barked, and held up one hand to tell me not to say it again.

“Of course, Mr. Seibu.” I felt myself nodding; also, I realized I’d slipped into formal address. I thought, Okay, this time I’m going to wait until he speaks.

After some time, Mr. Seibu took a deep breath and said, “Fumi, let me ask you a question — have a seat.”

“Yes, sir, thank you.” I took a seat in one of his leather chairs, and he said, “Fumi, I consider you a friend, and so I’m going to speak to you as a friend.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I’m very happy with your work on the floor, and I’m very happy with your administrative abilities in overseeing employees. All in all, your work has proved more than satisfactory.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“However, I see room for improvement in your…” He paused to seek the word and ultimately chose the English phrase “self-confidence.”

“Sir?”

“I don’t mean to suggest that your mannerisms betray any self-doubt,” he said, and at that, I felt an insult in the reference, however slight, to my fidgeting. “No, it is not a matter of presentation, but rather that I’ve observed in you some reluctance to take charge on the floor and make your own decisions. Do you understand?”

Actually, I did not understand. I figured out later what he meant, but at the time, I was shaken, and so I had a hard time seeing how this connected to the original question of the commission. What I thought at the time was, I have Mr. Thibideaux standing on the floor and likely causing some disruption, so I have to steer Mr. Seibu back to the original question, and then we can discuss this matter about my managerial style at a more appropriate time. I said, “Mr. Seibu, thank you. I will certainly evaluate my managerial…” Here I had trouble finding the word, and so after struggling a bit, I switched tack and said, “I’ll put this criticism into use.”

“It’s not a criticism, Fumi.”

“Naturally.”

When I said that, he looked irritated, and I could tell he was thinking, First she says it’s a criticism, then she says she knows it’s not a criticism. I didn’t know quite what to say, or why Mr. Seibu was so angry, so I said, “For the moment, however, maybe we can return to the original matter.”

Mr. Seibu’s nose turned purple. He has a problem with his heart, as well as unusually high blood pressure, with a high risk of stroke, so in moments like this, I worry that he will just explode and die. He said, “And what matter is that?”

“The small matter,” I said, “of the bowl, and this commission a customer has—”

This time he really flew through the ceiling. He said, “That’s up to you. That’s up to you to make your own decision. That’s up to you, Fumi. That’s up to you as manager.” I thanked him, and he said, “It’s up to you to make your own decision. That’s a decision for the sales manager.”

He was still repeating this refrain as I eased his door closed.

I know Mr. Seibu too well. He and my husband were friends before the untimely passing, and while Mr. Seibu is unfailingly polite to me, I can remember in the old days he would have something to drink and say about such-and-such employee, “Oh, he doesn’t know his ass from his elbow.”

* * *

I placed a call to Mr. Tatsusuke. He remembered me right away, and he asked after my son. I told him he was doing very well, and I thanked him for the gift he sent him on his wedding day. Then I told him the situation, and he did not hesitate to agree to the commission. “Anything for you, Fumi. If you ask it, I have no choice but to say yes. Yes, a white bowl for Fumi.” He didn’t even charge extra for the special request.

When I explained everything to Mr. Thibideaux, he didn’t hesitate. “Fantastic,” he said, and while I was ringing his deposit, he explained that the second bowl was also for his guru. I didn’t want to say anything, but somehow found myself saying, “He’s going to have a lot of bowls.”

Mr. Thibideaux didn’t have an answer for that, so I asked if he studied Buddhism in Japan.

“Study?” he said. “I lived six weeks in a zendo . I never would have left, but my mother is ill.”

Then he started to talk to me about his problems. Actually, this is something a lot of Western customers will do; we even receive training for it. It is best, when the customers do this, to seem neither embarrassed nor sympathetic. If you seem embarrassed, then the customer will realize he has been impolite. If you pretend to feel sympathy, the customer can sense your deception. And if you actually feel sympathy, then that is likely to create an unprofessional situation. I put my hands together, palms straight, just in front of my body and lowered my eyes.

However, Mr. Thibideaux’s credit-card charge was stuck in the machine, so while he spoke and I held my position, I worried that his $100 deposit was going to be declined. All this time he was explaining to me that his mother was suffering from syphilis, the sex disease. He said the two of them shared an apartment on the water, and then he started to talk about the great flood of 1992, and the mildew in the carpet.

I picked up the card machine and shook it. I looked to make sure the plugs had not come undone. Maybe that didn’t make sense to do, because the screen was all lit up. Then three beeps sounded, and the receipts came out the machine’s end.

“Can I just get you to sign here, please?”

Once Mr. Thibideaux had signed, I said, “And that’ll be it.”