It’s cliché, but physically, I am in the best shape of my life. Unfortunately, I will be out of work in six weeks because I will turn 65.
With more than a month of paid holidays coming to me, today will be my last shift at the day job. No more translating, no more checking, done.
The bucho threw me a farewell party Thursday and it was fun but weird. He’s a sweet guy, and my colleagues are kind, but there’s a non-zero chance I may be back, which makes it even stranger.
I had hoped to be able to continue in some capacity at a reduced salary. Our small union within the company that represents annually contracted staff negotiated an opening to allow the company to keep us on after 65.
But the kind bucho told me 10 days ago it would not happen, because we are downsizing. Experienced English-language writers and editors who can read and speak Japanese and know the system and are willing to work cheap are apparently a dime a dozen. Who knew?
With no work left, and the world hardly besieging my inbox, the only thing left at the office is taking part in official negotiations as the union pushes to get the company to face up to the merits of its decision or lack thereof.
