The Marlon Show

The cicadas screamed like the world was ending. No one paid them any mind.

Nagoya Station buzzed, a collective hum of travellers transferring to towns they’d rather be in, salarymen on flip phones arranging meetings to arrange future meetings, a cult chanting their tired hymn of purity, purity, purity, and the unmistakable universal female cry of KAWAII.

Eager to escape that word, Aaron jumped into the stream, soon swallowed by the all-consuming crowd. The feet all marched to a perfect beat. All except Aaron’s. Always a step behind. He knew he couldn’t stay in the crowd forever; he’d have to get out sooner or later. They walked with purpose. But they never went anywhere. Not Aaron, he was going places.

The sun bore down relentlessly, reflecting off the rows of glass buildings. The street shimmered, the pavement sizzled, and people flitted from shadow to shadow, oblivious to one another, like fish skimming below the water’s surface.

Today was a big day. He had dug out the only suit he owned for the occasion. A dull grey number he had bought for a wedding five years ago, and as far as he could remember, that was the last time he’d worn it. It had only dulled with age. Since then, he’d put on a few pounds: the jacket barely fastened, the trousers dug into his pelvis, and the button looked ready to pop at any moment.

The company’s Nagoya office rose in front of him, a nine-story gleaming tower. A place where dreams were to be strictly left outside to wither and die in the heat.

Recent days and weeks had led to a nagging feeling that the universe was conspiring to make his life just a little worse day by day. Taken individually, each mishap might have seemed minor. Aaron did not see them individually. He saw a pattern. He was like Nicolas Cage in that one movie, something about patterns, maybe about aliens. To him, all these small disasters were combining into one massive meteor of shit. A meteor ready to tear through everything in its path. Today, everything would change. Forget Nic Cage. He was like Bruce Willis, about to have his Armageddon moment. He would destroy the meteor. He would get a promotion. To cap it off, Aerosmith would play him off into the sunset.

The promotion would not be given to him because of his ability or his ten years of commitment; it would be purely out of necessity. A month ago, his area manager, Veronica, had vanished without a word. One day, she was texting him regarding something important she needed to tell him in person, and the next day, she was gone. Aaron didn’t think about that. He didn’t care. He thought about the glaring gap in experience in the area. He thought about promotion. The two percent pay raise and one extra holiday were more than enough to make him forget all about her vanishing.

The meeting with his manager, Randall, was set for ten sharp. The earliest time they could make it. Aaron wanted to be able to bask in the good news the whole day. The doors opened half an hour early, and eager to make an impression, Aaron slipped in. He took the elevator to the fourth floor and dropped onto a leather sofa that hissed beneath him.

Across from him, a six-foot portrait of the company president loomed down upon him. Now in his seventies, he wore an expression of disapproval. Carefully cultivated and crafted over four decades of the company. Aaron had met him once at a school opening. He wasn’t as bad as everyone made him out to be. After all, it was only natural that he’d forbid foreign staff to speak to him or look him in the eye.

The room was near silent, just the squeaking of shoes, the beeps of a fax machine, and the grinding of what might have been a dot-matrix printer. If those things were still alive anywhere, it would be here.

The AC had just booted up, fighting the heat that held on to the room. Aaron peeled off his jacket. Sweat spread dark across his shirt. He rolled up his sleeves. The leather stuck to his arms like a second skin. The seat would offer no mercy; it would be an uncomfortable wait.

Gradually, the office began to move. The rhythm of formality beating to the exchange of polite ‘good mornings’. Randall appeared right on time, the heat having had its way with him, too. A towel, soaked and stained, wrapped around his neck, Miffy’s eyes already faded from it.

Randall was in his late fifties, a Canadian who came after university and had never gone back. The love of a Japanese wife had kept him. Followed by the love of three more. He had started as a teacher back when the company was a fledgling start-up. When it still meant something. When there was still a soul. Before it became a business of squeezing as much cash out of the parents as possible. Before, it was more than just a panda mascot. What the hell did a panda have to do with English anyway? He had risen up the ranks over the years by systematically kissing every ass of importance. Now he was a regional manager, the Shogun of the second-largest district.

He flicked on a dusty fan in the corner. It spun weakly. Aaron sat stiff, knees locked, hands folded tight in his lap. The button on his trousers held on for dear life. Randall leaned in, elbows on the desk, fingers laced together.

“So, Malcolm, how have you been? It’s been a while. Probably the start-of-year workshop in March, eh?”

Aaron searched his memory. Three years? Maybe four. And who was Malcolm?

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” he said. “I’ve been okay. Some days are better than others. The heat never gets easier. Feels worse every summer.”

“Well, climate change and all that jazz.” Randall rolled his eyes, not clear whether at climate change or at people who believed it to be real. “And the wife and kids doing alright, Malcolm?”

“Actually, I’m not married. Don’t have any kids either. Also, sorry, but my name is…”

Randall cut him off with a half-laugh, shuffling his papers. “Yeah, they’ll do that. Anyway, I’m sure you’re wondering why I called you in today. Not just to lollygag and chitchat about the weather.” He leaned back and cracked his knuckles one at a time.

Aaron winced after each snap. His toes curled, gripping into his imitation leather loafers.

“I figured it must have something to do with Veronica leaving,” Aaron said, keeping his voice calm.

“Right, exactly.” Randall leaned back farther. “You must’ve seen it coming. Had an inkling. A lot of inexperienced teachers in your area. Bit of a gong show, eh? You’re what, seven, eight years older than the rest, eh? Now Veronica’s gone, you’re the last of the old guard. You really stand out. What do you think of this current crop we have?”

Aaron saw where this was going. He eased back, legs spreading, one arm draped across the chair. “As you said, they’re green, but it’s one of the stronger groups we’ve had. With the right mentorship, they could be good. Real good. An experienced head could take them a long way.” Arrogance crept into his voice.

Randall stretched his arms across the birch veneer desk, tapping his knuckles against the surface “Sounds like we’re on the same page. Good. Let’s talk about your next steps.”

Aaron felt the smile coming before he could stop it. He tried to keep it in check. “That’s great. I’ve been thinking about it. A lot actually. Got a few ideas.”

“I didn’t realise it was on your mind like this. You know you could’ve come to me earlier, eh?”

“I thought it best to wait until Veronica left,” Aaron said. “Didn’t want to cause her any stress.”

Randall nodded, knuckles tapping lightly against his teeth. “I’ve got to hand it to you, Mark. You’ve always been a great team player… which makes it all the more of a shame that you’ve decided to leave us.”

“I’m sorry? I decided to leave?” Aaron choked trying to get the words out.

Randall lowered his hands beneath the desk, knuckles knocking together. “That isn’t what you decided? I thought you said you wanted to leave. Just didn’t want Veronica to be the last of the old guard.”

Aaron shook his head once, slowly. “No. I wanted to be the manager. But Veronica already had that job.”

“You wanted to be the manager?”

“Obviously. I thought that’s what this was about.”

Randall’s mouth twitched. “You thought I was going to make you the manager?”

“Is that so crazy? I’ve been here ten years. You can’t make any of the others manager. They’re all useless idiots. They can barely wipe their own asses without me holding their hands.”

Randall straightened back up in his chair. His lips were pursed. Years of ass-kissing had taken its toll.

“You’re reliable, Mike. I’ll give you that. I’d even say you’re adequate. I’ll write you a glowing reference. But right now? You don’t fit. The team is young, energised, and meets our diversity quota… You don’t check those boxes. You talk too much. You rub people the wrong way. You go off script in your lessons. Children don’t need to learn things outside of our textbooks. Otherwise, what reason do they have for buying them from us in the first place? You’ve been here long enough to know these things. We don’t want some radical trying to change everything. Bread was just fine before someone had the pointless idea to slice it up. The only way forward is acceptance.”

Aaron felt his throat tighten. “It’s like living in The Truman Show. Everyone is stuck in the same routine, the same rhythm, pretending to be happy. And I’m Truman. I’m the one trying to break out.”

Randall shook his head. “You’re not Truman.”

“I’m Truman, and you’re that asshole living in the moon wearing a beret!”

Randall rose from his chair, settling onto the corner of the desk like a coach addressing his team pre-game. His voice softened into something rehearsed. “You're not Truman. You never will be Truman. You’re just… part of the system. You’re Truman’s friend, Marlon. We are all Marlons. Nothing to be ashamed of. The world needs Marlons. Fighting it won’t change anything. What you need to do is start aligning yourself. Start saying yes instead of no. If someone zigs, you zig. Don’t zigzag. It confuses people. Harmony is what creates fulfilment. It’s what makes things work. Say yes, zig when they zig. If you start zigzigging then you’ll find life suddenly feels much more meaningful, eh?”

Aaron stared at the carpet, wondering if it was one of those patterns that hid vomit stains. Then came the hand of the beret-wearing moon God landing hard on his shoulder.

“Look, this is a chance for us to reset with a younger team. We’re bringing Stu in from Gifu. Twenty-five, been here four years, and just a better fit. Different kind of energy. And, not to mention…” Randall scanned around his cramped office to make sure no one else was listening. He leaned in and whispered, “gay,” tracing a tiny check mark in the air.

He leaned back, satisfied with himself. “As I said, I’ll give you a glowing reference. You won’t have trouble finding another job. English teachers are always in demand. Just try to be more positive. More open. More Marlon.”

Aaron managed to lift his head just to drop it down in a nod. More out of surrender than agreement.

“The only thing is,” Randall went on, lowering his voice, “we’ll need you to resign. There’s no cause to fire you, and we’d rather keep it clean. Be that famous team player one last time. If you resign now, you can take August off on full pay. Think of it as a month’s vacation. Take your kids on that trip they keep yammering about. Not too bad, eh?” He flashed a wide, encouraging smile.

Aaron forced a weak imitation in return, shook Randall’s hand, and turned to the door.

“Wait, Marlon.”

Aaron turned back, the last flicker of hope already dying in his eyes.

“You’re not…” Randall gave another sweep of his office. Then whispered, “gay? Are you?” He drew the little check mark again, with a raised eyebrow.

Aaron shook his head.

“Right. Well, no need to come back again. Just email your resignation. Close the door on your way out.” Randall was already lowering himself into his chair, done.

Aaron retreated with his shoulders slumped, his steps dragging through the hall. His quiet humiliation was broken by the sound of laughter from the office next to Randall’s. A group of women were workshopping ideas for a sister to the company’s panda mascot. KAWAII.

Aaron stared at his reflection in the office door’s glass. Ten years of regret looked back. He waited for the doors to open again. To let him back in. They did not. They never would. Illusions of Nic Cage and Bruce Willis slithered away to wither in the heat with the rest of the dreams lost in this place. The crowd around him fell into silence. The travellers. The salarymen. The cults. The kawaii girls. All fading away.

The reflection faded with them. Swallowed by the glass, entombed for eternity.

The cicadas screamed like the world was ending. No one paid them any mind.