I am not a morning person. I think my body’s internal clock has some kind of strong visceral repulsion to any time before 8 AM. It just knows that it’s too early.  And no, the amount of hours slept never really seems to help.

“Oh, were you trying to wake up?” My body might ask with a hint of sarcasm. It is not happy to have been rudely awoken up by my phone’s alarm.

“Yes, you see, I have to wake for training. It’s the first day; god forbid I show up late.” I reply to no one in particular, recalling the stern warning of our HR director the previous evening regarding tardiness. “I need to be energized and ready to focus. I’m a goddamn salaryman now!” I make a feeble attempt at motivating myself. I have never been too good at that whole motivation thing either, but that’s another story.

“Yeah, well, good luck with that then. But can’t say I’ll be able to help you out, buddy.” My body quips, choosing to abandon me in my time of great need. A wave of exhaustion rushes over my body. My blanket suddenly feels twice as warm; the previously uncomfortable hard hotel mattress transforms into a soft gentle cushion…

…And three snooze alarms later, I finally drag my semi-conscious body out of bed.

I check my provided “training manual” for guidance on where to go next. I notice that I remembered to scribble an important message in the margin: “eat breakfast while wearing suit.” Heeding the wise words, I put on my dark navy blue suit and white shirt I strategically hung up the previous night in a meager attempt at preventing wrinkles. A peak at the bathroom mirror reveals that the wrinkle strategy was ineffective. But no matter, it’s time to head down for breakfast.

The hotel dining room is laid out in long rows of tables, with signs on the tables every few seats marking a different class letter. The first eight seats or so belong to “Class A”, followed by “Class B”, and so on. I take my seat at the “Class C” section of the long table. The entire hotel has been rented out for our training program, so there are no other guests to be confused by the meticulously planned seating arrangement.

Everyone around me seems to be unusually energetic and talkative as they take their seats, rushing to distribute utensils and evenly-portioned amounts of food to the people sitting around them. It almost seems like a contest to see who can be the most “helpful” in passing out forks and bowls of miso soup. I quickly understand why: at each table sits one of the instructors involved in our training program, watching us as we file into the dining area. As a new recruit with no real job skills, the only way to appeal to the higher-ups at this point is to show off impeccable manners and concern for others, the more over-the-top the better. Without thinking, I reach for the tongs to grab myself a handful of salad from a large communal bowl in the center of the table, but I am beaten to the punch; the young salaryman with a buzzcut sitting next to me exclaims that he will be handling the salad, and yanks the tongs from my hand. With deliberate speed, he distributes the salad in equal portions to the other three people sitting around him, making sure each portion contains at least a single cherry tomato. He serves himself last. The instructor appears pleased.

Upset that I have been beaten in this early-morning show of manners, but still too tired to feel like doing anything about it, I try to make conversation with the people around me. I receive the usual barrage of questions. Where are you from? Really, where in America? I’ve never heard of that place. Your Japanese is so good. How did you study it? Why did you want to join this company? I answer straightforwardly but without much thought; after all, I’ve fielded these kinds of questions many times before. Besides, I certainly do not dislike the feeling of being the “interesting” person at the table everyone want to learn more about. It is only after breakfast do I realize that in my rush to answer all of their questions, I had little chance to learn anything about my surrounding interviewers in return. Damn, what were their names again?

We file from the dining area to the largest conference room in the hotel. The HR person in charge of the new recruit training program takes the stage. The usual greetings are made, followed by an overview of the training program that we will all be following for the next few months. I jot barely-legible notes down here and there in the margins of my training manual and schedule; others are using rulers and multi-colored highlighters to create detailed outlines in separate leather-bound notebooks. At one point in his introductory remarks, the HR director stops to remind us of the speeches that the CEO and Chairman gave us during the entrance ceremony we attended the previous week before training began.

“What were the three pieces of advice that the CEO gave in his speech?” The HR director asks in what I initially believe to be a hypothetical manner. “Nakata Ryouhei, stand up and answer.” The HR director continues, reading the name off from a list. It quickly dawns on me the question was not hypothetical. Nakata slowly stands, I assume feeling the weight of literally hundreds of eyes bearing down on him.

“I…” He stammers. “I do not remember.” Nakata looks embarrassed. Took the words right out of my mouth, I think to myself.

“Ridiculous. Sit down. Who here remembers?” The HR director asks, looking annoyed. A number of hands go up and the HR director motions to someone from a table on the other side of the room.

“Okubo Kenta. Keio University graduate.” He prefaces importantly. “The CEO said we should always exceed customer expectations, that we should not be afraid of new challenges, and that we should always admit if we have made mistakes.”

“Good. You may sit down.” The HR director replies without smiling. “However, I assume that Nakata was not the only person here who did not remember what the CEO said. You are being paid to be here in training. Do you think it is excusable to not be taking notes on what is being said, especially if it is the CEO of the company who is speaking? Right now, remembering what is being said here in training is your job. If you are not taking notes, why should we be paying you?”

The rustling sounds of notebooks and pens being pulled out of freshly-purchased business bags instantly reverberates throughout the conference room. Something about the tone of the HR director and his unsmiling face makes my heart sink. At the end of the HR director’s speech–and after the room full of new recruits have now filled a page or two with detailed notes–we are asked to put everything except our pens away. The request reminds me of school. And it is at that point I remember that we are about to take a test…