Hard Copy, page 6
‘We were wondering if you’re happy here. If the work is challenging enough. How are you, are you good? What about your family?’
He knows nothing about my family. Are they good? I ask myself the same question. Is somebody dying, did I forget?
He’s growing more uneasy by the second. The sheets are struggling to escape from the printer.
‘…I can’t tell from the phone bill, you see, not that I ever check that closely, but it did come to my attention – and, besides, your tasks very rarely require use of the phone, so I assume that they’re personal calls.’
He looks at me for confirmation. I stare back blankly. I have no idea what he’s talking about. I rarely answer the phone, and I never call anyone. Phone calls are for people who like confrontation, and I am not one of those people.
‘A call every now and then is no problem, if it’s necessary, but you see, it’s just that we don’t want there to be any mistakes made in your performance of the job. It’s very important, of course, your task. We wouldn’t want our post to end up at the wrong address, would we?’
I’m completely baffled. I certainly don’t want the post to go to the wrong address, but I get the feeling that isn’t his point.
‘I’m not saying that’s the case, of course. We haven’t had any complaints so far’ (does he check the customer service inbox?), ‘but prevention is cheaper than cure, as they say, so perhaps it is time, it’s starting to be, it’s, um… time to consider the practical options. Just to make sure that you’re not always on the phone. I need to see you concentrating on your responsibilities.’
It’s quiet. I finally have the opportunity to respond. ‘I’m never, ever on the phone.’ Categorical denial. That’s an answer he did not see coming!
‘Ah, well.’ I get the feeling he’s annoyed. The expression ‘add insult to injury’ comes into my mind, maybe also into his. He tries to gather all of his empathy. ‘We can always talk it over, you know,’ he says, in a tone that makes it sound as if there is absolutely no way that we can ever talk this over.
‘There’s no need.’ I have to stand my ground against this dirty lie that, I now begin to realize, must have been cooked up by my two-faced co-workers. ‘I don’t know where the colleagues that told you are getting this from’ (who, I think to myself), ‘but I’m never on the phone. I don’t even like talking on the phone.’
‘Do you mean to say that all your colleagues are just imagining the conversations they overhear from your office, about Greek mythology and tennis and tax relief on mortgage interest rates? Are you suggesting they’ve made this up?’
Oh. ‘Uh, no, well, I don’t mean…’ Who snitched on me?
‘Because that would be an accusation of a whole different order.’ He’s desperate to pace up and down, I can see, but that would be impossible in this small room, especially since he wants to maintain his distance from me, so he stays trapped in his corner.
‘No, I mean… I never call anyone.’ It must be Marketing. I knew I had to be wary of his friendliness. And now look what’s happened.
‘But you do talk?’ He thinks he’s being lied to.
I have to do something. Quick, change the subject, say something positive. ‘Oh, by the way, I’ve got the package!’
‘Which package?’ I sense his patience is running out.
‘The package we’ve been waiting on.’ I point at the box.
He is visibly perplexed. He cautiously edges over to the box, staying as far away from me as possible. He tries to lift the lid but he can’t, since the package is wrapped in layers of tape. He turns the parcel over, looking for a sender, doesn’t find one. ‘This…’ He shakes his head, looks at me, looks back at the package. ‘We didn’t order this.’
I feel a sudden pressure on my chest. Does pressure on your chest mean that you’re having a heart attack? Can you have a heart attack at such a young age? But I guess I’m not that young. Do I have a pain in my arm? Now I feel a pain in my arm.
‘Well, anyway…’ He shakes it off, won’t be side-tracked. ‘About your phone usage…’
But it’s too late for that, my mind is on the package. If it’s not for work, then why has it been sent to me here? Does the sender know how much trouble it was to collect it? That I risked my life for it? I can hardly breathe. But then, in a flash, I realize: whoever it was, they knew. This is what they wanted. It must have been sent by someone from back then. Someone who is out to get me.
I realize my boss is still talking, ‘So, yes, I mean, about these conversations…’ He doesn’t know what the problem is, clearly, but he does know something’s not right. He’s suddenly decisive. ‘We’ll have to do something about it. You must know that. It would be best if you took a break. Perhaps a week, maybe two. So that we can get you back on top form.’ He leaves the room. Just as the door shuts behind him, the printer jams. I feel like I’m going to throw up. The package sits there on the desk, sinister. My machine is making ominous noises.
*
I left on Monday at the end of the day, after the conversation with my boss. HR told me to leave all work-related items at the office, and since the company’s name was on the package, I didn’t dare to take it with me. After I gathered my belongings, HR (unsuccessfully) tried to cheer me up by inviting me to Friday drinks. I don’t want to go, of course, but now I must take every chance I can get to see my printer. I owe him that. I’m worried about him. Who has been taking the paper out of the box while I’ve been away, running a thumb across the ream to fluff the pages and give them some air? Has anyone hugged the paper to their chest? Who’s switching the printer on and waiting patiently for his start-up noises, who is printing out our letters? Who’s been stroking the machine tenderly when he needs comfort? Who’s folding the letters into their envelopes, who’s stacking those envelopes into neat piles, who is tallying them up and putting them in the post? I pray that someone has been taking good care of my printer. I think of all the printers wasting away in cupboards, in storage units and attics, sometimes even out on the pavement with the rubbish in the drizzly rain. When I see one of those, I have to avert my eyes. And all because their owners have decided they’re broken and can’t be bothered to fix them. Of course, the sheet doesn’t have to get stuck in the feeder, the printed pages don’t all have to have a grey stripe running down the middle, there don’t have to be constant low ink alerts even if you’ve just inserted a fresh cartridge. You’ve just got to be attentive, show an interest in your machine, try to forge a bond with it. But most people don’t want to bond. Not with other people, and definitely not with a printer.
*
None of my colleagues look up from their computers as I walk into the building. Even the people who aren’t wearing headphones don’t nod or say hello. Days here are spent in silence, it’s a monastery, my austere co-workers like monks at their work. But Friday afternoon drinks: now that’s something the monks never had!
No one is logging off yet, even though it’s five o’clock on the dot, that’s what it said in the online invitation. But nobody wants to be the first to get up, that’s why they’re all still sitting at their computers pretending to be incredibly busy, just one last thing to finish off, can’t drag myself away. I go and sit in the office kitchen, pretend to look through a magazine. After what feels like forever, the kitchen starts to fill up. I have to clear my throat before it can produce any sound.
*
There are two cakes on the counter. It’s someone’s birthday and someone else is going on sabbatical. Nobody is eating the cake. Even though your co-workers may be the people you see the most of, you don’t really know them and they don’t know you. You hear them talking about organizational structures and key focus points, KPIs and blue-sky thinking, occasionally about a partner or child (what’s his baby’s name again? I forget, let’s keep it general, how’s the little one?). You only know when it’s your colleague’s birthday because they bring a cake in, send a group email: There’s cake and I’m another year older! The recipients Reply All: ‘The big 3-5! Haha!’ ‘Time to start thinking about pink or blue cupcakes! Haha!’ As if having children is some kind of joke.
The conversation isn’t exactly flowing. Right now someone’s talking about a podcast. People start recommending other podcasts. Nobody smokes. Everyone is straight. Two of the women are pregnant. They move awkwardly between topics: exercise classes, a new cookbook, the housing market, vegan substitutes for cow’s milk, all of it very serious. They all seem to be busy getting fit, listening to informative podcasts, saving money, preparing themselves for something I’ve not been made aware of.
*
Drink in hand, I join a group of women. We seek one another out, that’s not unheard of in an office mainly filled with men. They’re very friendly. They’re planning another Girls’ Night (once every other month, recurring event in the office calendar). I’ve never gone. My female colleagues always look good. Their clothes look new and clean, they rarely wear the same outfit twice. You can always tell what’s on trend in this particular sub-group of society, the female young urban professional, by looking at my colleagues. (The men’s clothing is also new and clean, but they are less trend-sensitive, they wear the same thing practically every single day, all look just about the same.) My female colleagues get their hair blow-dried and their eyebrows done, their legs and bikini line waxed, I know all this because the best places to have those done are elaborately discussed even outside of Girls’ Night. They try the newest restaurants, they eat what they call ‘good food’, ‘I just enjoy good food’. I can tell from their habits and the way they look that they make more money than I do; I can’t afford any of this. They don’t eat very much, at least not in company.
Partnerships, a colleague who always looks very clean and put together, is telling us about her boyfriend. She says he has the heart of a true artist. I’ve seen her boyfriend before. He has a moustache and wears his slippers in public, goes out of his way to look eccentric. From other colleagues’ conversations I have gathered that his family is one of the wealthiest families in the country, has been so for generations, that his great-grandfather once owned almost all of the land in the two southernmost provinces. His family has so much money (they’re in the cattle feed industry) that they will never be able to spend it all in their lifetimes. The boyfriend with a true artist’s heart is having a gallery show. Charcoal sketches portraying the refugee crisis.
‘Yeah, it’s a cause we’re very involved with,’ says Partnerships. ‘We’d love for you all to come.’
In his free time her boyfriend is often away. He keeps a speedboat in Italy that he likes taking out on the water, his parents have a summer house there on a big lake. Yes, her parents also have a little house, that’s right, on a Greek island, they were there last summer, but it’s being renovated now, they’ve been working on it since the autumn. Yes, still at it, life is slower paced there, haha! Yes, she’s into art too, or, to be more specific, portrait photography, but nowhere near the level of her boyfriend, though she was recently invited to show her work at a coffee shop. Yeah, really, super cool. (Pesonally, I would like some things left in the world that were not for sale, but I know that’s wishful thinking.)
Being here with my colleagues gives me a stomach ache. It’s funny how one simple incident can transform the people you see every single day into strangers who make your chest tight whenever you have to face them. Strangers who make you self-conscious about the way you’re standing. Should I shift my weight onto one leg or the other? How much should I tilt my head? Do I look interested or crazed? Am I nodding too enthusiastically? Do I look bored?
Partnerships is the friendliest of the bunch, and that’s because she was launched into this world with a winner’s mentality. My least friendly colleague, in contrast, is my arch-enemy Marketing, of course. He comes from a religious community in a remote backwater where nothing ever happens except the silent procession of people heading for church. He’s had to uproot himself, leave his faith, had to fight for his place in this office, in this city, in this society. The only way he could do this was by mowing down other people. Not very Christian of him – naturally, the love of one’s fellow man is left out of the picture, but on the other hand, he left that doctrine behind for a reason.
PR tells Sales that her slacker brother has finally worked out what he wants to do with his life. He’s selling (‘Yeah, embarrassing to admit, but business is business!’) software to Colombian brothels that allows the women there to have webcam sex with several clients at once. He flies to Bogota every month, making deals with men who say they’re the brothels’ landlords.
‘Oh, OK…’ says Sales.
‘Yeah,’ says PR. ‘I didn’t quite know what to make of it either at first, and I do think it’s a bit weird, my little brother getting involved in the porn industry, but sex positivity and all that, you know, and sex work is work too, isn’t it.’
‘That’s true,’ says Sales. ‘Sex positivity.’
‘It’s a win-win, those ladies are making their money much more efficiently. He’s strengthening their economic position, in fact.’
‘Yes, that’s great.’
‘I’m just glad my brother has finally found a job that gives him some get-up and go.’
I mutter something about needing the toilet and run upstairs to my little office. I sit down next to the printer, snuggle my head on the desk beside him and fling my arms around him. If I allowed myself to, I’d start crying right here and now, but I keep it together.
*
All the people back there are ignorant and racist. They don’t know any better, they’re provincials. What province? I’m not telling you, it doesn’t matter. They are vicious peasants even without pitchforks in their fists: they’re ardent champions of racist caricatures at children’s parties, they ram their tractors into the town hall on a weekly basis, and on the news their rants have to be subtitled because nobody understands their accents. These people still need to be enlightened, a worldview the people in the city (not the provincial towns, but the big cities in the West) have mastered. The provincials don’t understand the city dwellers, they’re much too stupid. The people in the city, on the other hand, are progressive, intelligent and sensitive. They always know how to strike the right chord. They speak in an acceptable accent (which they claim is not an accent at all), and before going to university they spent a year travelling round Southeast Asia, so they definitely know what poverty is.
*
I’m so relieved to see my machine, but I know I have to get out of here before someone finds me. I give him one last stroke and head back downstairs. On my way I pass the conference room where we all gathered once for a session about the company’s vision and its mission. Customer service and support staff were also asked to participate. (Your input is welcome! We want to involve everyone in the process.) Customer service and support staff are allowed to furnish their desk to their own taste too, of course. That’s how you give people a sense of autonomy.
The vision and mission session began with an ‘energizer’, which meant that we all had to run a lap round the conference table, ‘to get our creative juices flowing’. When we sat down I was on the verge of a panic attack. I could only breathe in, not out. There was a stack of coloured Post-its on the table. We were asked to imagine the company as it would be if it were a person: what qualities would that person have? I had to use my elbows to prop myself up on the table, otherwise I’d have slipped down, down, off my chair and onto the floor under the table. I didn’t write anything, but nobody noticed. I saw mouths move, heard words being spoken, saw my co-workers nodding sincerely at one another, but I was struggling to attach meaning to any of it. People were writing core concepts on a whiteboard. Then suddenly the room fell silent. The moderator looked at each of us in turn, trying to catch our eye. Had we been given an assignment? Had he asked a question? Did the others know what they were supposed to be doing? The coffee in my mug was cold, I felt myself shivering, and I could form only one thought: the office is the perfect place to destroy thoughts and ideas.
The drinks end promptly at half past six. Everyone leaves at the same time. They all know I won’t be back at the office for the foreseeable future, but no one mentions that as we say goodbye.
Part 2
On Leave
The note is light blue. It’s about the size of a postcard. Am I at the wrong door? On further examination I see that this is definitely my door. The note is addressed to me. The message, which has been written in dark blue ink, feels like a threat. It’s only been a minute since I left to take my rubbish to the bin, but in that minute my reality has been reconfigured. That’s how quickly it can happen.
I live in a block of flats that once had another function, maybe as a care home, though I’m not exactly sure. It’s a building of long corridors, with a concrete stairwell, a lift and many small, identical studio flats, each with the same particle-board kitchen cabinets. There’s always a funny smell. You can’t just wander into the building off the street, or at least that’s what I used to think, back before someone put this note on my door.
There is a concierge in the building who uses little blue notes to communicate with the tenants. He sticks them on things that are blocking the corridor, all in the name of safety, of course. The concierge once told me about another building he used to work at. He was always insisting it was only a matter of time before it burnt down. Then a few months later it went up in flames. ‘Burnt to the ground!’ He looks you straight in the eye as he bellows this at you. Then he pauses. ‘Nobody dead or injured,’ he’ll always add, but only at the very end of the story, when you haven’t quite recovered from the shock. Anyway, what this story told me was that the concierge is always right. He takes his work very seriously, hence the notes. If you run into him he’ll remind you of any notes he’s left for you, and he won’t leave you alone until you’ve fixed the problem. He cares so deeply about the building that every breach of house rules feels like an insult, as if it’s his life you are endangering by leaving a chest of drawers in the hallway. He’s quite old, so it’s too late to talk him out of these egocentric convictions. He’d be a suffocatingly intrusive janitor if it wasn’t so sad.
