8. Tracking II
"McClain? Ah, I remember him. There was a fellow by that name who worked at our shop for a few months."
A car mechanic spoke, beads of sweat forming along his sideburns as he diligently inspected an engine bay.
"Was it about six months ago? The mechanic who worked as a middle manager quit to open his own shop back in his hometown. That was right when five Dyna-sa models hit a massive recall. Since the official service centers were backed up with recall cases, all the regular repair work came flooding into our shop. We worked from dawn until late into the night, but the line of cars never ended. The queue stretched past the entrance and three lanes deep into the road. We were desperate for hands—posting ads on job apps, calling kids on their days off, begging them to come work for daily wages… it was pure chaos."
The mechanic pulled out the oil dipstick, wiped it clean with a white cloth, and thrust it back deep into its sheath. A moment later, he pulled it out again, checked the oil level at the tip of the metal rod, and slid it back in.
"A small guy showed up, saying he got a call. I guess the office reached out to him. I asked if he had any experience with car maintenance, and he said none at all. I asked if he knew how to park, and he couldn't even do that. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't have taken him, but the situation was what it was, so I told him to just shadow me for the day."
The mechanic walked to the driver's seat and started the engine. The sound of a belt spinning echoed from the engine bay. He leaned in, listening intently to the sounds leaking from between the belts. When he caught a faint chirping sound, he marked a checkbox on the inspection board.
"I started by teaching him the basics of inspection. It seemed he had learned how to work somewhere because his attitude was solid. I'd explain things using the status chart, and usually, no one understands everything on the first try. We don't expect them to, either; you learn by doing. But he pulled a tiny notebook out of his pocket and began scribbling down everything I said in minute detail. And then, he actually did the work quite well."
As the lift was activated, the vehicle supports hidden in the floor pressed against the undercarriage, slowly rising. The heavy mass of iron was lifted as easily as a small child.
"For about three months, we worked like mad. We were so busy we'd only eat sporadically, so there wasn't much chance to get close. Then, once the recall volume died down, the official centers started taking regular repairs again. One day, the boss came by and gave us money for a company dinner, saying the engineers had worked hard. The boss has good sense—when he treats, he treats well. So, everyone, including the part-timers, went out for barbecue. The atmosphere was great that day. Everyone was calling each other 'brother.' On top of that, the boss said even the part-timers could stay on if they wanted to. Why? Because revenue had jumped. People who don't know much about cars usually only go to official centers. There's a strong perception that private shops use fake parts or scam people. But when they visit a place like this once or twice due to a situation, their perception changes. Honestly, we're much cheaper and quite good. We don't sell parts that are completely unusable. So, the number of regulars grew, sales went up, and things were better than before. Since we suffered together, it stays in your memory as something special. Anyway, the guys were excited and were all offering drinks to the boss... but that guy. He didn't seem to understand what was going on."
O'Brien perked up at this new piece of information.
"At first, I thought he was just introverted, so I told him to relax and praised him for his hard work. He seemed to like it. He smiled a lot and looked very kind. But when you asked him something, he couldn't speak well. If I asked what he did before coming here, a normal person would just say 'this and that,' but he would ponder for a long time and then recite a whole list—how he worked at a certain buffet for a few months, then was sent to a construction site by a labor agency for a few months, and so on. Listening to it, I realized he had worked a lot. But honestly, no one is that curious. So, at first, I just thought he was trying to emphasize how much he'd suffered."
As they spotted rust on the vehicle's undercarriage, the sphere robot flew in and began snapping photos. When the flash went off in the dark corners, sticky, brown grease stains became visible.
"By the fourth month, things at the shop had mellowed out. It was hot, so we'd go out for a coffee in the afternoon. It's no fun just washing off grease all day. So, on the way to the coffee shop, we'd check out the ladies and get some fresh air. But even though he smiled, he was silent. If you said something, he'd nod and smile, but there was no reaction afterward. I mean, it takes two to tango, right? You have to trade words to get closer. But since he just listened and said nothing, things got awkward fast. When he wasn't talking, he looked hollow and exhausted. I let it go at first, but over time, it became… uncomfortable. If I asked if he was tired, he'd say no. It was like… like he was forcing the conversation. Honestly, when you get to our age, you can tell if someone is doing something because they want to or because they have to. It felt like he found hanging out with people incredibly draining."
The car slowly descended as the lift was lowered. The mechanic walked outside, filled out the inspection sheet, handed it to the office, and came back out to light a cigarette.
"He quit a few weeks later. We didn't really need the extra hands anymore anyway. He worked hard and was diligent, but how should I put it… he was frustrating to work with. And since he said he wanted to leave on his own, no one really tried to stop him. Since then… well… I don't think we've heard from him. Did he get into some kind of trouble?"
At the mechanic's question, O'Brien shook his head as if it were nothing special. The thick cigarette smoke exhaled by the mechanic drifted toward the clear sky and vanished.
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"We call it Borderline Intellectual Functioning."
The psychotherapist, wearing a gray cardigan and a purple tie with a high forehead, folded his black-rimmed glasses and placed them on the table. He was a man of slight build with a very kind impression, but deep dark circles under his eyes suggested he was exhausted from continuous consultations.
"Are you saying he's disabled?"
"No. This is strictly a medical classification; it does not exist in the disability categories classified by the Ministry of Welfare. Therefore, one cannot receive disability benefits."
He read from the medical log projected by the Satellite (sphere robot). April also looked at the screen, but it was filled with so many medical terms that she struggled to understand even a single complete sentence.
"If we consider the average person's IQ to be 100 and the minimum IQ for a disability rating to be 70, this refers to the state in between. In cases of disability, it can be clearly distinguished because their speech is often identifiably difficult to understand, but borderline cases are different. Simply put, it's ambiguous. They speak far too well compared to those with a confirmed disability; in many ways, they appear close to normal. However..."
The therapist rolled his eyes, searching for an intuitive explanation before speaking.
"They are slow. Everything—responding, imitating, singing, laughing, chatting—it takes time for them to learn or react to all these behaviors. For instance, if I ask you to describe where you live in detail, most people would mention the name of the area and things that come to mind—maybe that it's a new city with spacious buildings or that it's crowded and complex. But they don't answer immediately. They hesitate. Of course, one can think. It takes time for anyone to refine their words to ensure they aren't misunderstood. But you don't need to do that for every question, do you? Yet, they are late with almost every question. It takes a considerable amount of time for them to even process the query."
The therapist opened his eyes wide, speaking as if this were a subject ordinary people could not easily comprehend.
"People say this about such slow learners: 'They are dim-witted.' Yes, that is an accurate expression. Being 'dim-witted' can be used in many ways, but its most basic meaning is the degree or speed at which one understands something. If understanding is slow, we say someone is dim-witted. But the problem lies in the mindset of the people perceiving it. They think being dim-witted is wrong. You think not? Do you really believe that? It's not a conclusion you can draw so easily. Of course, no fool would explicitly say that being dim-witted is a crime. That would be openly announcing to the world that they are a selfish person with not a shred of empathy. Then how can we tell? At what point can we be certain that someone judges a dim-witted person as something 'wrong' or 'dislikeable'? What did I say the definition of borderline functioning was? Slowness in understanding. Yes, that's it! The moment someone else fails to understand what they are saying, people's blatant attitudes emerge! They act all hypocritical, pretending to understand and care for the 'dim-witted,' but the moment a misunderstanding occurs, that attitude vanishes instantly! Isn't it amazing? The hypocrisy of people? They claim it isn't hypocrisy. Or they make excuses, saying they are only pushing the person for their own good."
His face turned red with agitation. If his bearded secretary hadn't opened the door to the consultation room and brought the tea ordered long ago, his eyeballs might have already escaped his skull and rolled across the table.
"Include borderline functioning in the welfare group? Don't be absurd. As I told you, the name itself comes from the fact that it is incredibly vague. What does 'vague' mean? It means that with current technology, we cannot definitively say, 'This is a disability.' If you place such a vague standard within the boundaries of the law, what do you think happens? The only people who would love it are the lawyers. Everyone would be flocking to law firms to prove they are 'disabled.' Why would people want to be disabled? Money, of course. What else? Once you're registered as disabled, you get a monthly paycheck for life without ever having to work; who wouldn't fight to get that? You ask who would go that far? You're truly naive. I've been practicing psychiatry for twenty years. I've seen countless patients, but how many do you think were actually mentally ill? Look at my fingers. The number fits right here. Truly mentally ill people don't come for consultations. They're already hospitalized in psychiatric wards before they even get here. The vast majority were liars who came just to get my medical opinion to prove they have a disability. Do you understand?"
As if his throat were parched, the therapist took a long, refreshing gulp of the iced coffee the secretary had brought.
"I have never once written a medical opinion for such liars. I'll have you know, I am a man who considers labor to be sacred. I can never cooperate with people who want a free lunch without working. Didn't Schopenhauer say it? Life is a series of sufferings. Avoiding that suffering is nothing more than being a cowardly craven!"
When asked if borderline functioning was something that also had to be accepted and overcome, he took an unmelted ice cube from the glass, placed it in his mouth, chewed it with a loud crunch, and spoke slowly.
"Personally, I believe everyone has their own use. Even if they are disabled. A disability shouldn't be something to be served and protected; rather, we should help them find a place where they can be of use in their own way. Unfortunately, the problem is that with current human technology, the world isn't yet a place where they can fully display their abilities. The task for people shouldn't be to treat them specially, but to help them function as ordinary people."
The therapist held his head high as if his grand and glorious speech were over, put on the glasses he had laid on the table, and soon stood up. He walked slowly to his desk behind him and sat down. Then, as if nothing had happened, he pulled out one of the documents on his desk and began flipping through the pages. He seemed to have nothing more to say.
When April asked if he had also visited to get a disability opinion, the therapist replied that he had just been an ordinary young man, and said there was nothing more he could do to help.