At a crossing north of Yokohama Station, an overpass above and the Katabira River below, I scan a densely packed corner for a bar I’m hoping only to ever go to once. Tucked behind a buy-back shop with an irregular facade is a narrow set of stairs that lead to a wedge of a room just big enough for three.
February is hard enough; performance reviews loom, taxes are due and this year my rent went up as I slapped down an extra month to renew my lease. Then last week, The Washington Post cut one-third of its entire staff and I shared a shudder with the rest of the journalism industry. Is 11 a.m. too early for a highball?
From behind a curtain, a man in a black suit retrieves a little tray of bar snacks and pours out a drink, setting them down on a small black cloth-covered table. He sits down and leans back in his chair. I lay it all on him. “I see,” he says after listening for a moment. “Rather than wasting your life muddling through, I recommend changing jobs.”
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