It's Friday, almost five, you clocked out of work in your head sometime just after lunch, a cheese and pickle baguette from the supermarket, some crisps you picked up to just try and fill the hole, a smoothie, a coffee, and a chocolate bar, you've gotta treat yourself, haven't you, and now you're listlessly scouring the internet for some form of distraction, because nobody can see your monitor, nobody knows whether you're actually doing any work or not, and - most likely - they're not doing any work either, so wouldn't grass you up if they saw you window shopping the internet for fear of retribution, I mean, who knows what you know about them.
There. Your eyes are drawn to an advert in the bottom right corner of a social media site, its dark black background giving way to a well lit photograph of a thin, emaciated body, translucent flesh bathed in an amber light that moves to teal, perhaps - you think - suggesting the passage from health to death, and you look into their eyes, cartoonishly weak and sunken, thick dark outline, might just be make-up to make the show look more attractive, they always dress up this premium stuff.
You check the listing, they're going in for an operation at 8pm, good slot, wonder who the surgeon is, hope it's Clementine, he knows how to work the insides for the camera, likes to step back, give you a moment to savour it, really drink up what's working on their innards, makes you itchy, like it's happening to you too, and he makes little observations, quips, you've got a t-shirt at home with "I've never seen that INSIDE a person before!" written on it, that was a funny one, just a stomach tightening but there was a miniature toy horse drifting around in there, maybe it had been there for years or maybe they just swallowed it for the broadcast, funny shit though, made you spit out your beer.
So, you think, looks like a last ditch operation, it's this one and then they're fucked, it's always nice booking a subscription to the post-op deterioration, and you get offered a cheaper rate if you watch to the end of the surgery, but this looks like a premium gig, might be costly and there's always a bunch of cheap streams of similar stuff, might not be as well produced but, y'know, ticks the boxes, right? Though that brain surgery you paid to watch last month, the stupid doctor kept moving right in front of the shot and nobody seemed to be monitoring the feed or the chat room, you were all-capsing your frustration, shit, everyone was and nobody did a damn thing. Still, was only a couple of quid, you pay for bronze you get bronze.
You click on the advert, proceed to the payment page and weigh it up, £70 for the night, that includes any pre and post operation stuff, broadcast beginning at 6pm, maybe you can convince some friends to come round and watch with you, split the cost or they can bring the beers, seems a bit cheeky charging so much if this might be their last operation, I mean, it's not like they're going to need the money to pay for future operations, right? In a way it feels more worthwhile to you to go and fund the smaller, grubbier streams because then at least you're helping them financially to go ahead and get more of the care they need, although they can always go to a bargain basement backstreet place, and you can watch pre-recorded uploads of that at Surgery Store, though there's something a bit tingly about watching it live.
Fuck it, you fill in your details, you pay for the night's stream and you resolve to yourself that you'll subscribe to the post-op stuff as well, because, chances are with this kind of condition they're not going to make it, and you've never watched anyone die on the stream before, that'd be something, and it's kind of nice to think that whatever comforts they might have, a nice bed and the like, they've got that thanks to your subscription fees, like you're looking out for them a bit.
It's pretty much half five now, might as well shut down and head home, get some snacks and text some people, your computer fades to black and you stand up, there's a pain in your stomach, but you don't want to think about it, this job doesn't pay so well and there's no health insurance, surgery costs are always rising, and you really don't want to have people watching some quack cut you up online, it's probably nothing, you'd know if it was something right, probably something you ate, that baguette seemed a bit stale, you hope it's just indigestion.
You hope it's just indigestion.
Showing posts with label work. Show all posts
Showing posts with label work. Show all posts
Monday, 23 May 2016
Wednesday, 19 February 2014
Exformation
There was a note on his desk that read 'Late'. It was written in stodgy red felt tip, double-underlined so he assumed it was serious, but they'd used a post-it hastily grabbed from the pile beside his monitor. Surely if this was a really serious matter they'd have written a formal letter or, at least, just emailed. No, this move, passing by his desk, noticing he wasn't present, but, moreso, investigating to make sure he wasn't in the break room or the kitchen, and then returning to leave a statement like this, a confirmation that - yes - his absence had been acknowledged, this was a more concerning degree of seriousness. It was passive aggressive.
He balled up the note in his hand but didn't want to throw it away, he wanted whoever wrote it to know that it had been read, and it had not been tolerated. So, he placed the little scrunch onto his desk, nearest to the aisle, and slumped into his booth.
Sure, he thought, he had been late, he'd been late every single day this week, but that was one week out of hundreds, and he'd had problems with the trains. Admittedly he'd sauntered to the station quite lackadasically, but they weren't to know that, he'd sent a text ahead to say that there were delays and he'd be in by half past.
He called down to the reception desk, Julian answered.
"Good morning, reception."
"Hi Julian, did you get my text this morning?"
"Um..."
"About the train delays."
"Oh, that, yes. Yes."
"And did you let anyone know about it?"
"Er," the sound of a biro hollow tapping on the side of pouting cheek, "I don't think so, nobody asked."
"Ok."
He hung up, irritated that his boss hadn't thought to call in with reception for any news of his arrival time. He sneered, shook his head, opened his emails, expecting some sort of continuation of the debacle, but there was nothing. Just a few spam messages and a request for him to proof some copy.
Frustrated he picked up the stained coffee cup that the cleaner had ignored, and trudged to the kitchen.
Michael was in there talking to Hattie, they were giggling over the personal ads in the free paper, but their shared chuckle halted almost immediately when he walked in and switched the kettle on, its boil erupting the cosy, quiet of the small sterile room.
Michael folded up the paper, "Well, I'll leave you guys to it."
He watched him slip out of the door, giving one last lingering look to Hattie before he left. She was staring down at the tabletop, at her own empty cup, waiting for something that he couldn't quite fathom.
"Well, I'm having a shit day," he announced.
After an uncomfortable silence the kettle clicked off, he poured his tea and grabbed the milk from the fridge, giving it a quick sniff before adding it to his brew.
She set her cup down with an audible clink.
"Sometimes, y'know," he shook his head, weighing his thoughts and curling his lip, "I just want to walk into that big office, go up to her and just, I don't know, give her a piece of my mind. Don't you?"
She sighed, "Yeah."
"What?" He could tell she wasn't really paying attention, her eyes seem fixed on a point on the floor, but there was nothing there, nothing at all. He shrugged to himself, glancing around the room, his eyes lost, before he deflated and finally leant over to her; "What's wrong with you?"
She looked up at him, her brow furrowed, confused.
"Didn't you get my note?"
He balled up the note in his hand but didn't want to throw it away, he wanted whoever wrote it to know that it had been read, and it had not been tolerated. So, he placed the little scrunch onto his desk, nearest to the aisle, and slumped into his booth.
Sure, he thought, he had been late, he'd been late every single day this week, but that was one week out of hundreds, and he'd had problems with the trains. Admittedly he'd sauntered to the station quite lackadasically, but they weren't to know that, he'd sent a text ahead to say that there were delays and he'd be in by half past.
He called down to the reception desk, Julian answered.
"Good morning, reception."
"Hi Julian, did you get my text this morning?"
"Um..."
"About the train delays."
"Oh, that, yes. Yes."
"And did you let anyone know about it?"
"Er," the sound of a biro hollow tapping on the side of pouting cheek, "I don't think so, nobody asked."
"Ok."
He hung up, irritated that his boss hadn't thought to call in with reception for any news of his arrival time. He sneered, shook his head, opened his emails, expecting some sort of continuation of the debacle, but there was nothing. Just a few spam messages and a request for him to proof some copy.
Frustrated he picked up the stained coffee cup that the cleaner had ignored, and trudged to the kitchen.
Michael was in there talking to Hattie, they were giggling over the personal ads in the free paper, but their shared chuckle halted almost immediately when he walked in and switched the kettle on, its boil erupting the cosy, quiet of the small sterile room.
Michael folded up the paper, "Well, I'll leave you guys to it."
He watched him slip out of the door, giving one last lingering look to Hattie before he left. She was staring down at the tabletop, at her own empty cup, waiting for something that he couldn't quite fathom.
"Well, I'm having a shit day," he announced.
After an uncomfortable silence the kettle clicked off, he poured his tea and grabbed the milk from the fridge, giving it a quick sniff before adding it to his brew.
She set her cup down with an audible clink.
"Sometimes, y'know," he shook his head, weighing his thoughts and curling his lip, "I just want to walk into that big office, go up to her and just, I don't know, give her a piece of my mind. Don't you?"
She sighed, "Yeah."
"What?" He could tell she wasn't really paying attention, her eyes seem fixed on a point on the floor, but there was nothing there, nothing at all. He shrugged to himself, glancing around the room, his eyes lost, before he deflated and finally leant over to her; "What's wrong with you?"
She looked up at him, her brow furrowed, confused.
"Didn't you get my note?"
Friday, 7 February 2014
Nudge
Her eyes flickered open, prompted by the gradual illumination of her room. Despite facing to the south west, her apartment glowed with morning light generated by a meticulously "randomized" pattern of LEDs across the walls. With a contented, yet slumberous, sigh she shifted out of bed and walked down the hall, her bare feet padding on the easy-wipe linoleum.
"You are ovulating. Excess caffeine detected," said the toilet.
The spray from the bidet feature made her jump a little, as it always did, and she nestled into the warm air that followed, drying her off.
The dispenser buzzed harshly, she clapped her hand frustratedly on the side, but it continued to refuse. Defeated she continued to dress, checked the time, and left for work.
On her tab a travel alert popped up, she stretched it to fill the screen, two lines were down, but she didn't want to get the bus. As she left her building and walked onto the high street, she gradually moved herself into the yellow line, on the far left, for quicker pedestrians.
She clipped the tab to her inVision unit and caught up on the end of the film she had fallen asleep to last night. In it the plucky heroes had finally broken into the capital and were about to bring down the evil empire.
Stumbling suddenly, she glanced back and down, wheeled luggage being pulled tentatively across the lanes of commuter traffic by a wide-eyed young man, staring down at the map displayed on his phone. Having regained her footing, and with little time to spare, she picks up momentum and continues onwards, looking back to see another commuter - a tall man wearing a suit with trainers - berating the boy who seems to be lost in his words.
Into the coffee shop, she stares bewildered at her options, the touch-pad having deliberately filtered out any caffeine products. She turns, desperately, to the customer queuing behind her, but his eyes are impossible to meet as they deliberately dart from left to right, and he jabbers away at whoever's on the other end of his head-set.
Frustrated, huffing to herself, she presses for a banana muffin and a decaf caramel latte and proceeds to the collection point.
Back outside, taking her first sip, she realises that the caramel shot hasn't been added.
"Excuse me," she lightly pats the shoulder of the next in line to the service point, "do you mind if I cut in? I've just bought this and they haven't added my syrup."
The customer looks down the line, as if asking permission, or - at least - judging the mood, and, buoyed on by nervous energy, apologises and sends her to the back of the queue. Her thanks are sarcastic, but the passive aggressive intent goes unnoticed.
Three arduous minutes later she's back at the front of the line, the touchpad recognises her and beams: 'Welcome back, Katherine!'
She pushes the button marked 'Help' and can hear the customer behind her sigh with deliberate volume.
Having prodded the screen repeatedly, nudging through the tree of options, she finally finds herself at a window headed: 'Complaint'. With no specific button to press for her particular issue she chooses: 'Wrong item dispensed.' However, she's instantly informed - via a recording of the shop's doorway showing her leaving - that items cannot be returned once a customer has left the premises.
Beaten, she orders another decaf caramel latte and makes sure she loiters around for it to cool so she can take a sip for certainty.
Reaching the terminal she throws her arms up, discovering that four lines are now experiencing severe delays.
"Someone under a train," another commuter says.
"Oh, for fuh-" mutters someone laden with shopping bags.
She decides to take her chances, hoping others have been put off by the chaos. She takes a free paper from the stand and is beeped through the gates. The escalator down is packed, but, craning her neck, she can see that someone about ten steps down is standing on the left and wonders why nobody's asked them to move over.
Once they reach the bottom she can pick up speed, and, over-taking, she notices that the person who was standing on the left is blind and she feels bad about having tapped her foot, groaned quietly and wanted for someone to give them a little nudge to move.
The platform is quite quiet, she moves down to the area where the second from last carriage arrives, there are suggestions on the floor to encourage passengers to use certain carriages for certain stops. She always feels a little pleased with this addition, having signed an online petition for it about seven months back, now it's going through a trial on this line.
On the first attempt to leave the automated voice comes on over the speakers; "Please keep personal items and belongings clear of the doors."
There's a second attempt, a repetition of the annoucement, and then, when the doors finally close - no thanks to whatever obstruction it was - the voice adds: "Obstructing the doors causes delays. Respect your fellow passengers and keep the doors clear. If you see any unattended items or suspicious behavior please alert a member of staff or a police officer. Thank you for travelling with London Underground. The next station is Pimlico, alight here for the Tate Britain. Doors will open on the right hand side. In hot weather it is advised to bring a bottle of water with you on London Underground services. If you feel ill do not press the emergency alarm button, as this will cause delays. Instead, alight the train at the next station stop. We are now apporaching Pimlico. Delays are reported on the Victoria, Bakerloo, Northern and Piccadilly lines. There is a good service on all other lines. This is Pimlico..."
And, as the doors opened, another automated voice joined in, adding a harmony of; "Please mind the gap between the train and the platform edge. Allow passengers to alight before boarding the train. Please keep personal items and belongings clear of the doors..."
She never really took much notice of the announcements, they seemed to register on some level, as she would keep an ear out for further disruptions which often seemed to be slipped in, almost subliminally, amongst the barrage of information. Sometimes though, especially at the weekends or during the early hours, you'd find yourself walking towards a closed tube line without even knowing it, there being no indication anywhere that the trains weren't running until you found yourself up against a partition wall emblazoned with the words: 'Line closed.'
Almost as soon as she thought this the train came to a halt, somewhere in the tunnels between Pimlico and Victoria. The lights dimmed a little, then there was nothing, not even the distant rumble of other stock moving along the tracks. Usually, the policy was for announcements about a delay within 15 seconds of stopping, but the voice wasn't there.
She tried to check the service update, but her connection was out. Wireless was usually patchy during peak hours thanks to a rush on the service provider, the computer would just cut it if traffic got too high, and with all these delays it's not surprising.
It was getting hot, the last splash of her coffee had cooled, but the caramel syrup had grown tart and unpleasant on the tongue. She wished she hadn't got it, but she was in a rush, she wanted something to start her day, and it looked so nice on the screen, she felt like she deserved a treat. The banana muffin had grown warm, squashy, and unappetising in her bag. She clawed out a chunk but it was dry and flavourless, she needed something hot to balance it out.
To kill time she flicked through the paper, not reading anything in detail, just getting an overview of the news. Nothing much happening, nothing that really grabbed her attention, some conference of world leaders was taking place later that month and house prices were falling by the coast, otherwise it was the usual mix of human tragedy and celebrity gossip. She skipped ahead to the sports section, read the football results from yesterday and let the paper fall onto the vacant seat next to her.
Someone got up, began pacing, he was dressed in jogging bottoms, but had a pressed shirt, perhaps on his way from the gym to the office. He went over to a panel by the door, hit the button marked 'Assistance'.
"This service is currently unavailable," came the automated response.
He dropped heavily back into his seat and asked if she was done with the paper.
"Sure, it's all yours," she said, and he reached across to take it from next to her.
Twenty minutes passed before the train began to move again, crawling slowly into Victoria station, where they were herded off by police officers.
"Out of service," they barked, waving passengers out of the carriages and onto the platform. There was no indication of when the next train was due, the overhead screens were blank, and once the train was clear and closed it was sent on its way, vacant.
"Is there a problem with the line?" the man in jogging bottoms asked a police officer.
"Technical difficulties," she responded, before turning away and speaking into her communicator.
"Technical difficulties," he reiterated, nodding at Katherine. "Engineering works I think, those workers always leave something to fuck things up on a Monday morning."
She nodded, people at the office had complained about similar things, so it must be.
"Where do you work?" he asked.
"Just down from Warren Street."
"Me too, fancy spliting a cab? Might be quicker."
He hailed a taxi, having found where an available one would be via an app. He had designed it, his team worked in mobile technology, with a focus on solutions to make the everyday easier. She told him about her company, branding and market recognition. They exchanged information.
They shared the cost, selecting the highest percentage to tip the driver, who had remained entirely anonymous behind their screen for the journey.
"Well," he smiled, "have a good day. Hope, after all this, the elevator makes it to your floor."
She laughed, shook his hand, they parted.
Inside the building she was beeped through the security gates - knowing that her presence would be alerted to her P.A. who, hopefully, would start brewing her a coffee - she stepped into the elevator, the doors closed, and it began to ascend.
"You are ovulating. Excess caffeine detected," said the toilet.
The spray from the bidet feature made her jump a little, as it always did, and she nestled into the warm air that followed, drying her off.
The dispenser buzzed harshly, she clapped her hand frustratedly on the side, but it continued to refuse. Defeated she continued to dress, checked the time, and left for work.
On her tab a travel alert popped up, she stretched it to fill the screen, two lines were down, but she didn't want to get the bus. As she left her building and walked onto the high street, she gradually moved herself into the yellow line, on the far left, for quicker pedestrians.
She clipped the tab to her inVision unit and caught up on the end of the film she had fallen asleep to last night. In it the plucky heroes had finally broken into the capital and were about to bring down the evil empire.
Stumbling suddenly, she glanced back and down, wheeled luggage being pulled tentatively across the lanes of commuter traffic by a wide-eyed young man, staring down at the map displayed on his phone. Having regained her footing, and with little time to spare, she picks up momentum and continues onwards, looking back to see another commuter - a tall man wearing a suit with trainers - berating the boy who seems to be lost in his words.
Into the coffee shop, she stares bewildered at her options, the touch-pad having deliberately filtered out any caffeine products. She turns, desperately, to the customer queuing behind her, but his eyes are impossible to meet as they deliberately dart from left to right, and he jabbers away at whoever's on the other end of his head-set.
Frustrated, huffing to herself, she presses for a banana muffin and a decaf caramel latte and proceeds to the collection point.
Back outside, taking her first sip, she realises that the caramel shot hasn't been added.
"Excuse me," she lightly pats the shoulder of the next in line to the service point, "do you mind if I cut in? I've just bought this and they haven't added my syrup."
The customer looks down the line, as if asking permission, or - at least - judging the mood, and, buoyed on by nervous energy, apologises and sends her to the back of the queue. Her thanks are sarcastic, but the passive aggressive intent goes unnoticed.
Three arduous minutes later she's back at the front of the line, the touchpad recognises her and beams: 'Welcome back, Katherine!'
She pushes the button marked 'Help' and can hear the customer behind her sigh with deliberate volume.
Having prodded the screen repeatedly, nudging through the tree of options, she finally finds herself at a window headed: 'Complaint'. With no specific button to press for her particular issue she chooses: 'Wrong item dispensed.' However, she's instantly informed - via a recording of the shop's doorway showing her leaving - that items cannot be returned once a customer has left the premises.
Beaten, she orders another decaf caramel latte and makes sure she loiters around for it to cool so she can take a sip for certainty.
Reaching the terminal she throws her arms up, discovering that four lines are now experiencing severe delays.
"Someone under a train," another commuter says.
"Oh, for fuh-" mutters someone laden with shopping bags.
She decides to take her chances, hoping others have been put off by the chaos. She takes a free paper from the stand and is beeped through the gates. The escalator down is packed, but, craning her neck, she can see that someone about ten steps down is standing on the left and wonders why nobody's asked them to move over.
Once they reach the bottom she can pick up speed, and, over-taking, she notices that the person who was standing on the left is blind and she feels bad about having tapped her foot, groaned quietly and wanted for someone to give them a little nudge to move.
The platform is quite quiet, she moves down to the area where the second from last carriage arrives, there are suggestions on the floor to encourage passengers to use certain carriages for certain stops. She always feels a little pleased with this addition, having signed an online petition for it about seven months back, now it's going through a trial on this line.
On the first attempt to leave the automated voice comes on over the speakers; "Please keep personal items and belongings clear of the doors."
There's a second attempt, a repetition of the annoucement, and then, when the doors finally close - no thanks to whatever obstruction it was - the voice adds: "Obstructing the doors causes delays. Respect your fellow passengers and keep the doors clear. If you see any unattended items or suspicious behavior please alert a member of staff or a police officer. Thank you for travelling with London Underground. The next station is Pimlico, alight here for the Tate Britain. Doors will open on the right hand side. In hot weather it is advised to bring a bottle of water with you on London Underground services. If you feel ill do not press the emergency alarm button, as this will cause delays. Instead, alight the train at the next station stop. We are now apporaching Pimlico. Delays are reported on the Victoria, Bakerloo, Northern and Piccadilly lines. There is a good service on all other lines. This is Pimlico..."
And, as the doors opened, another automated voice joined in, adding a harmony of; "Please mind the gap between the train and the platform edge. Allow passengers to alight before boarding the train. Please keep personal items and belongings clear of the doors..."
She never really took much notice of the announcements, they seemed to register on some level, as she would keep an ear out for further disruptions which often seemed to be slipped in, almost subliminally, amongst the barrage of information. Sometimes though, especially at the weekends or during the early hours, you'd find yourself walking towards a closed tube line without even knowing it, there being no indication anywhere that the trains weren't running until you found yourself up against a partition wall emblazoned with the words: 'Line closed.'
Almost as soon as she thought this the train came to a halt, somewhere in the tunnels between Pimlico and Victoria. The lights dimmed a little, then there was nothing, not even the distant rumble of other stock moving along the tracks. Usually, the policy was for announcements about a delay within 15 seconds of stopping, but the voice wasn't there.
She tried to check the service update, but her connection was out. Wireless was usually patchy during peak hours thanks to a rush on the service provider, the computer would just cut it if traffic got too high, and with all these delays it's not surprising.
It was getting hot, the last splash of her coffee had cooled, but the caramel syrup had grown tart and unpleasant on the tongue. She wished she hadn't got it, but she was in a rush, she wanted something to start her day, and it looked so nice on the screen, she felt like she deserved a treat. The banana muffin had grown warm, squashy, and unappetising in her bag. She clawed out a chunk but it was dry and flavourless, she needed something hot to balance it out.
To kill time she flicked through the paper, not reading anything in detail, just getting an overview of the news. Nothing much happening, nothing that really grabbed her attention, some conference of world leaders was taking place later that month and house prices were falling by the coast, otherwise it was the usual mix of human tragedy and celebrity gossip. She skipped ahead to the sports section, read the football results from yesterday and let the paper fall onto the vacant seat next to her.
Someone got up, began pacing, he was dressed in jogging bottoms, but had a pressed shirt, perhaps on his way from the gym to the office. He went over to a panel by the door, hit the button marked 'Assistance'.
"This service is currently unavailable," came the automated response.
He dropped heavily back into his seat and asked if she was done with the paper.
"Sure, it's all yours," she said, and he reached across to take it from next to her.
Twenty minutes passed before the train began to move again, crawling slowly into Victoria station, where they were herded off by police officers.
"Out of service," they barked, waving passengers out of the carriages and onto the platform. There was no indication of when the next train was due, the overhead screens were blank, and once the train was clear and closed it was sent on its way, vacant.
"Is there a problem with the line?" the man in jogging bottoms asked a police officer.
"Technical difficulties," she responded, before turning away and speaking into her communicator.
"Technical difficulties," he reiterated, nodding at Katherine. "Engineering works I think, those workers always leave something to fuck things up on a Monday morning."
She nodded, people at the office had complained about similar things, so it must be.
"Where do you work?" he asked.
"Just down from Warren Street."
"Me too, fancy spliting a cab? Might be quicker."
He hailed a taxi, having found where an available one would be via an app. He had designed it, his team worked in mobile technology, with a focus on solutions to make the everyday easier. She told him about her company, branding and market recognition. They exchanged information.
They shared the cost, selecting the highest percentage to tip the driver, who had remained entirely anonymous behind their screen for the journey.
"Well," he smiled, "have a good day. Hope, after all this, the elevator makes it to your floor."
She laughed, shook his hand, they parted.
Inside the building she was beeped through the security gates - knowing that her presence would be alerted to her P.A. who, hopefully, would start brewing her a coffee - she stepped into the elevator, the doors closed, and it began to ascend.
Sunday, 1 December 2013
Flow
At the start of the day the data entry software would reward Masha when she completed 25 lines of information. A little bronze star would appear, a glittery sound would chime, and the star would drift into a little box called 'Achievements'. After about an hour, it would be for every 50 lines of information, then 100, 200, and so on with the colour of the star changing from bronze, to silver, gold, ruby, emerald with diamond as the ultimate - almost unattainable - crowning accomplishment if someone, somehow managed 12,800 lines of information in one working day. She'd known colleagues to arrive early and stay late in an effort to attain diamond star status.
Nobody had, and nobody knew what happened if you did.
That day she'd reached Blue Garnet (3,200) and didn't think Serendibite was within her reach. Colette, in stall 89, looked sleepless yet determined, when Masha glanced her way Colette yelled; "9,000!" A small crowd, Henry, Barnes, Petra, had gathered around her, cheering her on.
Masha rolled her eyes, smiling, and left the office.
On the way home she stopped into Cafe Zeno for a latte, she didn't really feel like a coffee, but she only had to get one more stamp on her card and she could have a free drink. She smiled as the clerk, whose nametag read 'Mikey: Caramel Latte with Chocolate & Two Sugars', under this he had two gold stars.
"What are the stars for?" Masha asked, as Mikey took her charge card.
"Customer service," Mikey smiled. "Could I take your name?"
"Masha."
And Mikey wrote Marsha on the paper cup, sliding it down to his colleague hidden behind the gargantuan hissing coffee machine. Masha smiled and followed her cup, reminding herself that - as far as her coffee was concerned - she was called Marsha.
At home, with her dinner on her lap, she opened up her TV Planner on the digibox and checked her completion levels on the shows she was watching. She was a little disgruntled to find that no new episodes had been uploaded, so she'd either have to find something new or just watch something again.
Then she thought about Alex, maybe she should send a text or call, they'd had three dates, kissed a little, it wasn't out of place to do such a thing. But she wasn't sure exactly what she'd say, I mean, she hadn't really done anything all day and couldn't exactly tell her about the stars at work or the coffee card. Maybe she should ask for a recommendation of something to watch? It'd make Alex feel good.
The text delivered, with a little notification saying 'Text sent 19:37', which Masha kept eyeballing until it changed to 'Text read 19:39'.
With a growing ire Masha - at 19:57 - began to wonder what exactly could be causing Alex to dither for so long. Was this a hint, a sign that perhaps she had been getting her hopes up and Alex didn't feel as strongly about her? Maybe Alex was busy compiling an exhaustive list of great television shows to really impress her? Maybe she'd just forgotten that Masha had sent her the text, insipid as it was.
Perhaps, Masha thought if she sent something better, something more enticing that would prompt Alex to respond. She began reminiscing about their dates, trying to happen upon some detail, some anecdote, that Masha could belatedly respond to. What music did Alex say she liked? Maybe one of her favourite bands has a gig coming up and she could suggest they go? Or a screening of a classic film?
Or is that too desperate?
Suddenly her phone buzzed, juddering excitedly upon her thigh, but it was a text from Barnes reading: 'Colette did it!'
Strangely this gave Masha a sense of optimism, that anything is possible, and she immediately composed a text for Alex that read: 'If you're stuck for something good to watch too, maybe we should put our heads together?' Masha enjoyed the innuendo, and hoped that Alex would pick up on it.
Afterward she replied to Barnes, 'What happened?'
'Big diamond star. Longer tune. Now all future stars are +1 level.'
'That it?'
'Think boss got a msg, so maybe more? Don't know, finished pretty l8.'
It was disappointing for Masha just to read, she can't really imagine how Colette must have felt at the end of all that anticipation just to get more of the same. Still, there's a strong chance that if the boss has heard of the achievement then she'll give Colette some sort of bonus or extra day off, some kind of recognition.
Masha's phone buzzed again, it was Alex: 'Sounds fun. Your place?'
Feeling good about herself Masha claimed her free coffee that morning, striding quite proudly up to the counter and holding out the completed card.
"Hi Mikey," she beamed.
"Morning, free coffee today, good for you!" he stapled the card to the receipt and slipped it into the till, handing her a new, empty card for her to continue on with. "What's your name?"
Walking into the office, holding a cup with the word 'Martha' scribbled on the side, she craned her neck to try and see if Colette was in. She wasn't, but there was a balloon tied to her desk. Curious, Masha approached and written on the stretched peach rubber were the words: 'Congratulations on your diamond day. Everyone at DataPro.'
"Hey," Masha called to Petra who was walking towards the break room, "did you get this for Col?"
"No, the boss did."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
Petra carried on her way leaving Masha to stare, quite judgmentally, at the hovering helium balloon jigging slightly in the air con's breeze.
Colette had, according to Barnes who texted from his stall, come in before Masha got there, she'd seen the balloon and immediately gone home, calling in to say she'd had a migraine come on suddenly. Barnes wasn't convinced, neither was Masha, and both didn't feel so enamoured by the star targets any more.
That afternoon though Ms. Radchec made an announcement, letting the team know that the rewards system was changing from stars to a leaderboard, with each employee's four weekly totals being totted up and averaged to see who was the most productive each month. The winner, Ms. Radchec said, would be rewarded. Barnes, under his breath, made a joke about her being full of gas, much like the reward would be, but it went largely unnoticed.
She'd felt a bit down all day, so had sent Alex a text seeing if she could come over after work, but Alex hadn't replied and, in an effort to stave off depression, Masha had picked up some ice-cream on the way home.
She was sat, with her dinner on her lap, pleased to see that one of her favourite series had two new episodes now - a double-bill had been on - so she could watch those tonight.
Her phone thrummed eagerly on the cushion beside her, she could see it was Alex calling, but she didn't answer, she didn't want to give Alex the satisfaction after she hadn't replied earlier. She kind of enjoyed this moment of being in control of the dispensation of happiness, besides she had her tv show and her dinner and her ice-cream.
Nobody had, and nobody knew what happened if you did.
That day she'd reached Blue Garnet (3,200) and didn't think Serendibite was within her reach. Colette, in stall 89, looked sleepless yet determined, when Masha glanced her way Colette yelled; "9,000!" A small crowd, Henry, Barnes, Petra, had gathered around her, cheering her on.
Masha rolled her eyes, smiling, and left the office.
On the way home she stopped into Cafe Zeno for a latte, she didn't really feel like a coffee, but she only had to get one more stamp on her card and she could have a free drink. She smiled as the clerk, whose nametag read 'Mikey: Caramel Latte with Chocolate & Two Sugars', under this he had two gold stars.
"What are the stars for?" Masha asked, as Mikey took her charge card.
"Customer service," Mikey smiled. "Could I take your name?"
"Masha."
And Mikey wrote Marsha on the paper cup, sliding it down to his colleague hidden behind the gargantuan hissing coffee machine. Masha smiled and followed her cup, reminding herself that - as far as her coffee was concerned - she was called Marsha.
At home, with her dinner on her lap, she opened up her TV Planner on the digibox and checked her completion levels on the shows she was watching. She was a little disgruntled to find that no new episodes had been uploaded, so she'd either have to find something new or just watch something again.
Then she thought about Alex, maybe she should send a text or call, they'd had three dates, kissed a little, it wasn't out of place to do such a thing. But she wasn't sure exactly what she'd say, I mean, she hadn't really done anything all day and couldn't exactly tell her about the stars at work or the coffee card. Maybe she should ask for a recommendation of something to watch? It'd make Alex feel good.
The text delivered, with a little notification saying 'Text sent 19:37', which Masha kept eyeballing until it changed to 'Text read 19:39'.
With a growing ire Masha - at 19:57 - began to wonder what exactly could be causing Alex to dither for so long. Was this a hint, a sign that perhaps she had been getting her hopes up and Alex didn't feel as strongly about her? Maybe Alex was busy compiling an exhaustive list of great television shows to really impress her? Maybe she'd just forgotten that Masha had sent her the text, insipid as it was.
Perhaps, Masha thought if she sent something better, something more enticing that would prompt Alex to respond. She began reminiscing about their dates, trying to happen upon some detail, some anecdote, that Masha could belatedly respond to. What music did Alex say she liked? Maybe one of her favourite bands has a gig coming up and she could suggest they go? Or a screening of a classic film?
Or is that too desperate?
Suddenly her phone buzzed, juddering excitedly upon her thigh, but it was a text from Barnes reading: 'Colette did it!'
Strangely this gave Masha a sense of optimism, that anything is possible, and she immediately composed a text for Alex that read: 'If you're stuck for something good to watch too, maybe we should put our heads together?' Masha enjoyed the innuendo, and hoped that Alex would pick up on it.
Afterward she replied to Barnes, 'What happened?'
'Big diamond star. Longer tune. Now all future stars are +1 level.'
'That it?'
'Think boss got a msg, so maybe more? Don't know, finished pretty l8.'
It was disappointing for Masha just to read, she can't really imagine how Colette must have felt at the end of all that anticipation just to get more of the same. Still, there's a strong chance that if the boss has heard of the achievement then she'll give Colette some sort of bonus or extra day off, some kind of recognition.
Masha's phone buzzed again, it was Alex: 'Sounds fun. Your place?'
Feeling good about herself Masha claimed her free coffee that morning, striding quite proudly up to the counter and holding out the completed card.
"Hi Mikey," she beamed.
"Morning, free coffee today, good for you!" he stapled the card to the receipt and slipped it into the till, handing her a new, empty card for her to continue on with. "What's your name?"
Walking into the office, holding a cup with the word 'Martha' scribbled on the side, she craned her neck to try and see if Colette was in. She wasn't, but there was a balloon tied to her desk. Curious, Masha approached and written on the stretched peach rubber were the words: 'Congratulations on your diamond day. Everyone at DataPro.'
"Hey," Masha called to Petra who was walking towards the break room, "did you get this for Col?"
"No, the boss did."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
Petra carried on her way leaving Masha to stare, quite judgmentally, at the hovering helium balloon jigging slightly in the air con's breeze.
Colette had, according to Barnes who texted from his stall, come in before Masha got there, she'd seen the balloon and immediately gone home, calling in to say she'd had a migraine come on suddenly. Barnes wasn't convinced, neither was Masha, and both didn't feel so enamoured by the star targets any more.
That afternoon though Ms. Radchec made an announcement, letting the team know that the rewards system was changing from stars to a leaderboard, with each employee's four weekly totals being totted up and averaged to see who was the most productive each month. The winner, Ms. Radchec said, would be rewarded. Barnes, under his breath, made a joke about her being full of gas, much like the reward would be, but it went largely unnoticed.
She'd felt a bit down all day, so had sent Alex a text seeing if she could come over after work, but Alex hadn't replied and, in an effort to stave off depression, Masha had picked up some ice-cream on the way home.
She was sat, with her dinner on her lap, pleased to see that one of her favourite series had two new episodes now - a double-bill had been on - so she could watch those tonight.
Her phone thrummed eagerly on the cushion beside her, she could see it was Alex calling, but she didn't answer, she didn't want to give Alex the satisfaction after she hadn't replied earlier. She kind of enjoyed this moment of being in control of the dispensation of happiness, besides she had her tv show and her dinner and her ice-cream.
Thursday, 3 October 2013
All Your Birthdays
"Is someone going to address the elephant in the room?"
My housemate couldn't resist saying it, though the reaction was muted due to the hyper-ventilating and panicked thoughts racing through our minds. But, regardless of its humour, it was the right thing to say, because thus far, none of us had addressed the elephant in the room.
To be precise, in case it's unclear, the elephant in the room was an elephant in the room.
Nobody knew where the elephant came from or how it had gained entry to our lounge, but, we all knew that one moment there wasn't an elephant in the room and the next second there was.
As we huddled outside in the hallway, a tentative hand keeping the door closed - as if that would stop an elephant - we were all rather thankful that the elephant, for the most part, seemed to be pretty placid.
"Should we call the RSPCA?" Molly wondered.
"I guess so," Supraj nodded retrieving his mobile.
"It's funny," Evie smiled, "On my ninth birthday, when I blew out the candles, I wished that I had a pet elephant."
"Do you want to go and befriend it?!" Molly exclaimed.
Supraj spluttered a laugh, then asked; "What was your pet elephant's name?"
"Bobo," Evie sheepishly grinned, and suddenly the elephant trumpeted.
Earlier that day, in the Birthdays department, on the 17th floor of WishCorp, the office manager lazily clicked the final card into place on a round of Spider Solitaire. He smiled contentedly at the pixelated fireworks display congratulating him on his achievement, even though he'd already witnessed the same ceremony seventeen times that morning.
A notification appeared, informing him that he had received an approved Birthday Wish from Steph in Approvals.
Clicking on the link another window popped up, the wish had been wished by Leigh aged 5, she'd blown out the candles on her chocolate ladybug cake and had wished, with all her little heart, for her teddys to come to life and play with her. He forwarded it to Boris in Granting.
He cosied back into his chair and started up his nineteenth game of Spider Solitaire.
Moments later the telephone rang, it took him a while to realise this is what was happening because the telephone had never rung before. Cautiously, as if it were a trick, he picked up the receiver.
"Hello?"
"Is that Colin?"
"Y-yes."
"Colin, this is Jeanie Esteban, I'm the -"
"The President of WishCorp, yes."
Colin shifted his posture, straightening his back and adjusting his tie, hair and tone.
"Colin, we've been looking at our qualitative and quantative reports from the last decade and noticed some troubling consistencies."
"Oh?"
"Whilst the other departments, Stars, Wells, Bones have a reasonably consistent wish to actualisation ratio, it seems Birthdays are, well, you're good at processing people's wishes, phenomenally efficient, you just haven't granted any in the last... well... forever..."
Colin was speechless.
"I'm speechless," said Colin.
"I was too, we all were," she was referring to the board and Colin hoped they weren't listening in. "What we want to know," she changed her tone as well, from stern/casual to stern/stern, "is what you're going to do about this?"
"What I'm...?"
"We want solutions, not problems. End of play today, Colin."
And with that she hung up.
Jimmy Pickle's face lit up, and not just because of the sudden arrival of seven candles illuminating the darkened room. His giddy smile grew even bigger once the glowing object was lowered and the cake, made by his mum, was revealed in all its wonder. In fact, Mark Gretton audibly gasped in amazement at the design. It was Sir Wildtooth, everyone's favourite Medieval Skateboarding Battlecat, and his claws had slashed three rich, red streaks down the cake.
Beaming, Jimmy leant forward and blew out the candles.
Filing a police report, a clearly shocked Mrs. Pickles tried to explain that a gigantic animal, perhaps a lynx or panther, had suddenly burst into the party riding - what she was nervous to describe as - a skateboard, shouted, in booming R.P., "To the Battlements!" and then taken her son, and his friends, upon its back before galloping out into the high street.
Her parents ran round in a panic, unsure of how to maintain control, the birthday party had been chaotic when it was just Leigh and all her friends, but now 37 teddy bears were romping around the garden, playfully at least, but causing twice as much mess as the assembled children. They'd all begun by skipping about, the boys and girls singing teddy bear's picnic, whilst the teddys made muffled noises due to having no actual mouths, and rapidly things had descended into screaming giggles as the picnic became a food fight.
Gary can't remember the last time he'd been this stoned, but it quickly transpired that the fire-breathing unicorn standing in his kitchen was generating flames of an all-too-real quality, and he had to run - bleary eyed - out into the street, trying, through his drug addled mind, to remember the number for the emergency services; he knew it had a 9 in it.
Stuart Dandridge was horrified to step into his garden to find himself plummeting into a swimming pool that hadn't been there the night before.
Harriet Lipsy was trying to recover from a hangover whilst her former favourite boyband Hi-Five performed their greatest hits in her bedsit.
Gita Virk was trying to find her car keys but kept pulling an infinite amount of cupcakes from her pockets instead.
At 5.30pm Colin carried a dull beige box down from the 17th floor to the parking level, where he loaded the salvaged Newton's Cradle and a five-fingered pack of highlighters into the boot of his car.
My housemate couldn't resist saying it, though the reaction was muted due to the hyper-ventilating and panicked thoughts racing through our minds. But, regardless of its humour, it was the right thing to say, because thus far, none of us had addressed the elephant in the room.
To be precise, in case it's unclear, the elephant in the room was an elephant in the room.
Nobody knew where the elephant came from or how it had gained entry to our lounge, but, we all knew that one moment there wasn't an elephant in the room and the next second there was.
As we huddled outside in the hallway, a tentative hand keeping the door closed - as if that would stop an elephant - we were all rather thankful that the elephant, for the most part, seemed to be pretty placid.
"Should we call the RSPCA?" Molly wondered.
"I guess so," Supraj nodded retrieving his mobile.
"It's funny," Evie smiled, "On my ninth birthday, when I blew out the candles, I wished that I had a pet elephant."
"Do you want to go and befriend it?!" Molly exclaimed.
Supraj spluttered a laugh, then asked; "What was your pet elephant's name?"
"Bobo," Evie sheepishly grinned, and suddenly the elephant trumpeted.
Earlier that day, in the Birthdays department, on the 17th floor of WishCorp, the office manager lazily clicked the final card into place on a round of Spider Solitaire. He smiled contentedly at the pixelated fireworks display congratulating him on his achievement, even though he'd already witnessed the same ceremony seventeen times that morning.
A notification appeared, informing him that he had received an approved Birthday Wish from Steph in Approvals.
Clicking on the link another window popped up, the wish had been wished by Leigh aged 5, she'd blown out the candles on her chocolate ladybug cake and had wished, with all her little heart, for her teddys to come to life and play with her. He forwarded it to Boris in Granting.
He cosied back into his chair and started up his nineteenth game of Spider Solitaire.
Moments later the telephone rang, it took him a while to realise this is what was happening because the telephone had never rung before. Cautiously, as if it were a trick, he picked up the receiver.
"Hello?"
"Is that Colin?"
"Y-yes."
"Colin, this is Jeanie Esteban, I'm the -"
"The President of WishCorp, yes."
Colin shifted his posture, straightening his back and adjusting his tie, hair and tone.
"Colin, we've been looking at our qualitative and quantative reports from the last decade and noticed some troubling consistencies."
"Oh?"
"Whilst the other departments, Stars, Wells, Bones have a reasonably consistent wish to actualisation ratio, it seems Birthdays are, well, you're good at processing people's wishes, phenomenally efficient, you just haven't granted any in the last... well... forever..."
Colin was speechless.
"I'm speechless," said Colin.
"I was too, we all were," she was referring to the board and Colin hoped they weren't listening in. "What we want to know," she changed her tone as well, from stern/casual to stern/stern, "is what you're going to do about this?"
"What I'm...?"
"We want solutions, not problems. End of play today, Colin."
And with that she hung up.
Jimmy Pickle's face lit up, and not just because of the sudden arrival of seven candles illuminating the darkened room. His giddy smile grew even bigger once the glowing object was lowered and the cake, made by his mum, was revealed in all its wonder. In fact, Mark Gretton audibly gasped in amazement at the design. It was Sir Wildtooth, everyone's favourite Medieval Skateboarding Battlecat, and his claws had slashed three rich, red streaks down the cake.
Beaming, Jimmy leant forward and blew out the candles.
Filing a police report, a clearly shocked Mrs. Pickles tried to explain that a gigantic animal, perhaps a lynx or panther, had suddenly burst into the party riding - what she was nervous to describe as - a skateboard, shouted, in booming R.P., "To the Battlements!" and then taken her son, and his friends, upon its back before galloping out into the high street.
Her parents ran round in a panic, unsure of how to maintain control, the birthday party had been chaotic when it was just Leigh and all her friends, but now 37 teddy bears were romping around the garden, playfully at least, but causing twice as much mess as the assembled children. They'd all begun by skipping about, the boys and girls singing teddy bear's picnic, whilst the teddys made muffled noises due to having no actual mouths, and rapidly things had descended into screaming giggles as the picnic became a food fight.
Gary can't remember the last time he'd been this stoned, but it quickly transpired that the fire-breathing unicorn standing in his kitchen was generating flames of an all-too-real quality, and he had to run - bleary eyed - out into the street, trying, through his drug addled mind, to remember the number for the emergency services; he knew it had a 9 in it.
Stuart Dandridge was horrified to step into his garden to find himself plummeting into a swimming pool that hadn't been there the night before.
Harriet Lipsy was trying to recover from a hangover whilst her former favourite boyband Hi-Five performed their greatest hits in her bedsit.
Gita Virk was trying to find her car keys but kept pulling an infinite amount of cupcakes from her pockets instead.
At 5.30pm Colin carried a dull beige box down from the 17th floor to the parking level, where he loaded the salvaged Newton's Cradle and a five-fingered pack of highlighters into the boot of his car.
Wednesday, 25 September 2013
Loophole
There's an unsatisfying lack of rhythm to the clatter of my fingers on the keys, it sounds like the tap-dancing equivalent of an orchestra tuning up. I look towards the blinds and try to angle my view in order to eek out a slither of obscured sunlight. I contemplate another amble over to the coffee pot, but I can see Gerry lurking nearby, he works in processing, he always talks down my top.
Still, my knees ache, I want to give them some respite from the swivel chair they've been hunched under for the last four hours, the occasional starfish-shaped stretch notwithstanding.
Making a deliberate zigzag past other cubicles, in order to avoid the break room, I decide to stroll, listlessly down an unfamiliar corridor; though all corridors look the same here, it's like a haunted house in a Scooby Doo cartoon.
As I track dully along the thinning beige carpet I hear a mechanical and repeating clunk, followed by a whirr, followed by a slithering, slide of automation. It's pleasingly rhythmic, and it's coming from behind a door marked 'Copying'.
Tentatively I press my fingers to the wood and the door, with eager ease, gives.
Inside is a dark little room, metal shelving on two walls burdened with boxes of A4 paper and card of various colours and gsms, whilst against the other wall stand two busy photocopiers, each one regurgitating anonymous pages of data. Curious I have a peek at one of the still warm pages; nothing but gibberish, actual nonsense, in fact it's the boilerplate placeholder text - Lorem Ipsum - that we use to fill areas of documents that we're still awaiting copy for.
Checking the second printer I can see it's the same.
For some reason I feel compelled to take a sheet of this filler text and place it under the third dormant printer, I key in '100' and hit the big green button to start copying.
Suddenly a peculiar rush hits me, like the crash of a wave over ones head, followed by the hollow sound and tinnitus whine of percussive ear damage. My vision feels tremulous, as if looking through a magic pool in a fairytale story. Nervously, remembering the paracetemol in my desk drawer, I hurry out of the copying room.
As I approach my desk an uncomfortable confusion overcomes me, somebody has planted themself in my seat, hunched their legs up under my swivel chair, and started fiddling with my PowerPoint presentation for the I.R. meeting tomorrow. I can feel my expression souring, that officious little voice that I despise myself for having starts climbing up from my chest towards my mouth as I prepare to give them a curt dressing down. Then, it gets worse, Gerry comes gallumphing over for a chat, but he drifts right past me and heads to this seat-thief. She turns to look at him and, of all the possibilities, she looks exactly like me!
He hands her a coffee, she accepts, thanks him, and they briefly talk about some report that just got emailed around the office, then Gerry waddles off.
For a minute I'm still, speechless, barely blinking, oblivious to everything but this doppelganger sat in my place. I approach her but she does not notice me, I wave my hands around her face, try yawping in her ear, but even the slightest reaction. So, I watch her work, and she makes every choice that I would have made, replies to a few emails in a fashion exactly alike to my own, even answers the phone with the same chirpy "Hi hi!" that I employ.
Then, all of a sudden, I'm standing back in the copying room.
I rush back into the office, keen to catch this imposter now that my senses have returned to complete normality, but all I find is an empty desk. However the work, the work I watched myself perform, remains done.
Keenly, curiously, I walk - as nonchalantly as I can - back to the copying room, the third printer is sat dormant once more, I key in '100' and push the button once more.
Sure enough, the same sounds, the same sights, and, when I get back to my desk, there is my double doing my work.
Wishing to test the boundaries of this peculiar occurence I head towards the elevator, out-stretch my hand - concerned that I may be a ghost - and press the button for the ground floor; it illuminates, the doors close, the lift descends.
I step outside, it's a crisp, cool day with bright, flat sunshine glinting off the towering office windows that surround me. I dash over the road to the Coffee Stop, grab a latte and a blueberry muffin, sit on a nearby bench beside a scrub of greenery, sigh deepy and contentedly and -
- find myself back in the copying room, empty-handed.
But, more work has been done, in fact, there's an email from my supervisor praising the changes to the PowerPoint that I'd just emailed over. Good work me!
I hurry back to the copying room, not wishing to disturb my twin's run of good work, this time though I key in '10,000' and hit the green button.
Dabbing my lips with the napkin and resting a hand on my stuffed belly, I surveyed the near-licked-clean plates scattered across the restaurant table before me. I guzzled the last glug of wine in the glass and let out a long, pleasurable sigh.
Over the four years I'd worked in that office I'd always thought about coming to this restaurant on my lunch break, but there was never enough time. Afterwards I decided I would go to the park, another local attraction that I'd not yet taken a moment to appreciate, and then I'd amble around a few of the independent shops that I usually dash past on my way to and from the underground station.
I asked the waiter for the bill and -
- collapse onto the floor of the copying room, the chair suddenly having vanished from beneath me.
My first thought is concern that the furious restaurant manager will find where I work and come storming in, but I reason that I'll stop in and pay the bill on my way home, make some flimsy excuse about a family emergency.
My second thought is confusion, surely 10,000 pages would have given me more time than that, but the problem is obvious when I pick myself up and see the printer flashing a little red LED and a message indicating that I need to load more paper into the tray.
I open up a box of paper and fill the two empty trays inside the hulking machine, as soon as the drawers are closed it hungrily stops to gobble up and spit out the clean white sheets, and I plunge back into my diaphanous worldview.
Figuring I can return to the restaurant and settle the bill at any time I decide to stroll around the park, it's wonderfully peaceful during the early afternoon, lacking the clamour of the weekend it boasts a serenity that I experience all too fleetingly in this city. I take my time, appreciating nature in a way I don't think I have for many years, stopping to watch a squirrel frolic about for about twenty minutes.
Afterwards I go shopping, make a few purchases, and concerned that I might - at any moment - be transported back to the copying room decide the safest thing to do would be to head home.
My commute is pleasingly free of jostle and frotteurism, no papers unfurled across my back, armpits thrust into my face, heavy bags deposited onto my feet, no coughs, yawns, sneezes left uncovered by hands to particulate into my sinuses.
I get in, enjoying the feel of playing truant, my flat seems to have a certain luminous quality that is perhaps diluted by my own malaise when I trudge in after a long day at the office. I revel in today's discovery, this incredible freedom stretching before me, a chance to shrink from toil and pain and enjoy the charms of a pleasure of the moment, rather than the usual desperate rush for "fun" that I try to cram in of an evening or weekend. This, I think to myself, is how life should be.
I reach to set the bags down on the floor. I reach to set the bags down on the floor. I reach to set the bags down on the floor... I... reach to... set the...? My arm won't move... My limbs, my entire being seems caught, frozen in place, and I begin to feel seperate and suspended from my body, though I am undoubtedly housed within it. I struggle and shake, I kick and flail, but it's like being encased within a sculpture of oneself, I cannot move.
I remain here gradually watching the sun sink, seeing my flat return to the state I am used to experiencing it in and then - with a sombre clunk - hear the key in the lock, sense the door open behind me and watch as I - the other I - comes in, weary and downtrodden, from a long day at the office.
She walks past me, ignorant as ever of my presence, automatically - almost hypnotically - heading into the kitchen and switching on the kettle for a post-work cup of tea, kicking off her shoes, slumping her coat over a chair, snatching up the remote control and switching the television on.
I hang there, watching her entire evening pass by, she cooks a quick meal, switches from tea to wine, nods off in front of a dull movie, and slumps into the bedroom to sleep. I try to sleep, but I can't, there's a discomfort to my disanimation, and all I can do is be still as the night passes me by, gradually gradiating into morning and the irritatingly vibrant ditty of an alarm clock sounds from the bedroom.
I hear myself snooze the alarm a further three times before a hurried, dishevelled me comes racing out of the bedroom, dives into the bathroom, hops out half brushing her teeth and half getting changed from pajamas to work-wear, before finally cramming a slice of toast between her teeth and speeding out the door.
And there I am, still locked in motion, the shopping bags out-stretched toward the floor, waiting to be returned to life.
In the copy room are three printers, upon the third a little red LED light blinks and a message, as yet unanswered, hopes that somebody will come and fix the paper jam.
Still, my knees ache, I want to give them some respite from the swivel chair they've been hunched under for the last four hours, the occasional starfish-shaped stretch notwithstanding.
Making a deliberate zigzag past other cubicles, in order to avoid the break room, I decide to stroll, listlessly down an unfamiliar corridor; though all corridors look the same here, it's like a haunted house in a Scooby Doo cartoon.
As I track dully along the thinning beige carpet I hear a mechanical and repeating clunk, followed by a whirr, followed by a slithering, slide of automation. It's pleasingly rhythmic, and it's coming from behind a door marked 'Copying'.
Tentatively I press my fingers to the wood and the door, with eager ease, gives.
Inside is a dark little room, metal shelving on two walls burdened with boxes of A4 paper and card of various colours and gsms, whilst against the other wall stand two busy photocopiers, each one regurgitating anonymous pages of data. Curious I have a peek at one of the still warm pages; nothing but gibberish, actual nonsense, in fact it's the boilerplate placeholder text - Lorem Ipsum - that we use to fill areas of documents that we're still awaiting copy for.
Checking the second printer I can see it's the same.
For some reason I feel compelled to take a sheet of this filler text and place it under the third dormant printer, I key in '100' and hit the big green button to start copying.
Suddenly a peculiar rush hits me, like the crash of a wave over ones head, followed by the hollow sound and tinnitus whine of percussive ear damage. My vision feels tremulous, as if looking through a magic pool in a fairytale story. Nervously, remembering the paracetemol in my desk drawer, I hurry out of the copying room.
As I approach my desk an uncomfortable confusion overcomes me, somebody has planted themself in my seat, hunched their legs up under my swivel chair, and started fiddling with my PowerPoint presentation for the I.R. meeting tomorrow. I can feel my expression souring, that officious little voice that I despise myself for having starts climbing up from my chest towards my mouth as I prepare to give them a curt dressing down. Then, it gets worse, Gerry comes gallumphing over for a chat, but he drifts right past me and heads to this seat-thief. She turns to look at him and, of all the possibilities, she looks exactly like me!
He hands her a coffee, she accepts, thanks him, and they briefly talk about some report that just got emailed around the office, then Gerry waddles off.
For a minute I'm still, speechless, barely blinking, oblivious to everything but this doppelganger sat in my place. I approach her but she does not notice me, I wave my hands around her face, try yawping in her ear, but even the slightest reaction. So, I watch her work, and she makes every choice that I would have made, replies to a few emails in a fashion exactly alike to my own, even answers the phone with the same chirpy "Hi hi!" that I employ.
Then, all of a sudden, I'm standing back in the copying room.
I rush back into the office, keen to catch this imposter now that my senses have returned to complete normality, but all I find is an empty desk. However the work, the work I watched myself perform, remains done.
Keenly, curiously, I walk - as nonchalantly as I can - back to the copying room, the third printer is sat dormant once more, I key in '100' and push the button once more.
Sure enough, the same sounds, the same sights, and, when I get back to my desk, there is my double doing my work.
Wishing to test the boundaries of this peculiar occurence I head towards the elevator, out-stretch my hand - concerned that I may be a ghost - and press the button for the ground floor; it illuminates, the doors close, the lift descends.
I step outside, it's a crisp, cool day with bright, flat sunshine glinting off the towering office windows that surround me. I dash over the road to the Coffee Stop, grab a latte and a blueberry muffin, sit on a nearby bench beside a scrub of greenery, sigh deepy and contentedly and -
- find myself back in the copying room, empty-handed.
But, more work has been done, in fact, there's an email from my supervisor praising the changes to the PowerPoint that I'd just emailed over. Good work me!
I hurry back to the copying room, not wishing to disturb my twin's run of good work, this time though I key in '10,000' and hit the green button.
Dabbing my lips with the napkin and resting a hand on my stuffed belly, I surveyed the near-licked-clean plates scattered across the restaurant table before me. I guzzled the last glug of wine in the glass and let out a long, pleasurable sigh.
Over the four years I'd worked in that office I'd always thought about coming to this restaurant on my lunch break, but there was never enough time. Afterwards I decided I would go to the park, another local attraction that I'd not yet taken a moment to appreciate, and then I'd amble around a few of the independent shops that I usually dash past on my way to and from the underground station.
I asked the waiter for the bill and -
- collapse onto the floor of the copying room, the chair suddenly having vanished from beneath me.
My first thought is concern that the furious restaurant manager will find where I work and come storming in, but I reason that I'll stop in and pay the bill on my way home, make some flimsy excuse about a family emergency.
My second thought is confusion, surely 10,000 pages would have given me more time than that, but the problem is obvious when I pick myself up and see the printer flashing a little red LED and a message indicating that I need to load more paper into the tray.
I open up a box of paper and fill the two empty trays inside the hulking machine, as soon as the drawers are closed it hungrily stops to gobble up and spit out the clean white sheets, and I plunge back into my diaphanous worldview.
Figuring I can return to the restaurant and settle the bill at any time I decide to stroll around the park, it's wonderfully peaceful during the early afternoon, lacking the clamour of the weekend it boasts a serenity that I experience all too fleetingly in this city. I take my time, appreciating nature in a way I don't think I have for many years, stopping to watch a squirrel frolic about for about twenty minutes.
Afterwards I go shopping, make a few purchases, and concerned that I might - at any moment - be transported back to the copying room decide the safest thing to do would be to head home.
My commute is pleasingly free of jostle and frotteurism, no papers unfurled across my back, armpits thrust into my face, heavy bags deposited onto my feet, no coughs, yawns, sneezes left uncovered by hands to particulate into my sinuses.
I get in, enjoying the feel of playing truant, my flat seems to have a certain luminous quality that is perhaps diluted by my own malaise when I trudge in after a long day at the office. I revel in today's discovery, this incredible freedom stretching before me, a chance to shrink from toil and pain and enjoy the charms of a pleasure of the moment, rather than the usual desperate rush for "fun" that I try to cram in of an evening or weekend. This, I think to myself, is how life should be.
I reach to set the bags down on the floor. I reach to set the bags down on the floor. I reach to set the bags down on the floor... I... reach to... set the...? My arm won't move... My limbs, my entire being seems caught, frozen in place, and I begin to feel seperate and suspended from my body, though I am undoubtedly housed within it. I struggle and shake, I kick and flail, but it's like being encased within a sculpture of oneself, I cannot move.
I remain here gradually watching the sun sink, seeing my flat return to the state I am used to experiencing it in and then - with a sombre clunk - hear the key in the lock, sense the door open behind me and watch as I - the other I - comes in, weary and downtrodden, from a long day at the office.
She walks past me, ignorant as ever of my presence, automatically - almost hypnotically - heading into the kitchen and switching on the kettle for a post-work cup of tea, kicking off her shoes, slumping her coat over a chair, snatching up the remote control and switching the television on.
I hang there, watching her entire evening pass by, she cooks a quick meal, switches from tea to wine, nods off in front of a dull movie, and slumps into the bedroom to sleep. I try to sleep, but I can't, there's a discomfort to my disanimation, and all I can do is be still as the night passes me by, gradually gradiating into morning and the irritatingly vibrant ditty of an alarm clock sounds from the bedroom.
I hear myself snooze the alarm a further three times before a hurried, dishevelled me comes racing out of the bedroom, dives into the bathroom, hops out half brushing her teeth and half getting changed from pajamas to work-wear, before finally cramming a slice of toast between her teeth and speeding out the door.
And there I am, still locked in motion, the shopping bags out-stretched toward the floor, waiting to be returned to life.
In the copy room are three printers, upon the third a little red LED light blinks and a message, as yet unanswered, hopes that somebody will come and fix the paper jam.
Friday, 17 May 2013
Private Lives
She's such a perfect baby, a perfect weight, a perfect little face, radiant eyes - when you can glimpse them from under her blush pink eyelids, the world is still so bright and new to her. Her mother would be so proud, but it's not worth her mother knowing, and her mother doesn't really mind, she's received her money, it's the first thing she checked after the delivery. The baby is off to be incubated.
The mother is happy because there was a broker in the hospital who happened to work for Paragon Inc, and when she saw the stats on her baby, well, she put in an offer straight away.
'Who was the father?' the broker asked, ID-pad in hand.
The mother tapped his name in to the registered parents database, his photograph, medical history and a brief biography appeared on the screen.
The broker nodded her approval and presented the mother with her offer, the mother warmly accepted.
Returning to the waiting room the broker couldn't help but let a smile slip, she was congratulated by brokers from rival organisations, clapped on the back for such a successful acquisition.
'You might as well go home early!' one joked.
But she had the fire under her now, that purchase had given her a passion for the day, but like a gambler in Vegas she knew this hospital was dry, so best to move on to another location in the hopes of finding a similarly promising candidate.
It was a good purchase, the baby grew into a healthy toddler and began its education with a focus on core skills such as languages, mathematics and communication, ultimately pushing towards marketing, account management and retention, and sales.
By the age of 14 the baby, named Jo, was answering online queries, dealing with customers on a non-confrontational basis, but she showed such promise that she was moved into the call centre before her sixteenth birthday.
Jo had always been curious, it was a hard balance for any corporation to address, you want to inspire company loyalty but there is an inherent desire in human animals to question things, and despite years of research, and despite success in general, there are still newborns who grow up to want to know what else there is.
'Why do you ask?' the manager of floor 93 said to Jo one afternoon. 'Are you unhappy?'
'No, I enjoy my work,' but there was a shift in Jo's eyes, a response that suggested lingering doubt, the computer alerted the line manager to this.
'But...?' he lead.
'What's in it for me?'
'Good service is its own reward,' the line manager smiled, remembering hearing that in his training. 'Imagine, you've progressed in this company faster than anyone I've known, just think where you will be in five years.'
'Where will you be in five years?' Jo asked, as close to mischievious as would be tolerated.
'I will have left the business, I'm a lot older than you Jo.' Though he did not look his age, his skin had been stretched and de-aged in accordance with research that suggested people prefer to buy from younger, healthier faces, it gives them a sense of aspiration. 'I have saved enough for a buy out, and I will move to the town.'
'Congratulations,' Jo said, flatly, it was a nod of approval pre-programmed into conversation, most meant it, Jo didn't. 'It's a risk though.'
The line manager was dumbfounded, so was the computer, 'A risk?'
'Mmm,' she nodded, 'James, do you remember him? James was on this floor, he worked next to me, he worked as many hours as he could, saving as much as was possible and he bought himself back, remember, remember how young he was, it was uncommon for someone so young to be able to afford a buy out.
'I shook his hand, he smiled and left, off to live his own life, a public person.
'It was only five months until he returned, do you remember?'
'Yes, he asked for his position back.'
'But he didn't get it.'
'His company loyalty was compromised, it's policy.'
'The company wanted nothing to do with him, not without guarantees.'
'Of course.'
'So he sold himself back to the company.'
'Yes.'
'How much do you get for a secondhand man?'
The line manager smiled, endeared to the terminology, he made a mental note to use it in a future presentation to the board.
'Your price goes down, but your cost goes up,' Jo continued.
'But his quality of life...' the line manager cut in.
'Back in company accomodation, though he's in Block 4 now, works down in the Sub-Levels.'
'You've seen him?'
'I was told.'
'Who?'
Jo hesistated, without confession she'd be docked, but the computer read the pattern, the memory trigger.
'Adam,' the line manager nodded, Jo's expression was all the confirmation required. 'You have so much potential Jo, I am advised to recommend that you discontinue this line of inquiry, there are no benefits.'
She nodded, 'Understood.'
'Review is in one month, I think you have promise.'
'Thank you.'
'Just...' he placed his hands out in front of him, as if to clap, but instead slowly drew them towards one another, palm to palm, creating a narrow.
'I follow,' Jo nodded again.
A sea of voices, their intonations make waves of various pitches, each at different parts of a sale. Jo, travelling amongst them, found her station, took her seat, replaced the head-set and returned to work.
She had taken leave before and seen the consequences of buying yourself back. She'd taken a trip to the hills, but had snuck into a town one evening.
Buildings were lit up with activity, the sound of conversation, bawdy howling laughter, a sudden quiet when a glass smashed, there were people talking in small circles, each circle jostling for space with other circles, Jo imagined that from above it might resemble a bowl of oat loop cereal. They all wore suits of varying shades, or smart dresses, their hair seemed to be held in place by some invisible force, and their skin was clean and clear, but not taut and anxious like her line manager's. These were the people who bought and consumed that which Jo, and her colleagues, sold.
Elsewhere, in the doorways of closed shops she found people wrapped in blankets, trying to get to sleep. As she approached, one - tucked into their shiny bedsack like a cocoon, turned over to face her, their eyes were open, quickly examining Jo, trying to understand her intention. From the branding that peppered her clothes they knew she was not from the town, they knew she was privately owned.
'Hello,' she smiled.
'Evening,' the woman in the sleeping bag responded, cautiously, but sitting up and shuffling her back against the wall, welcoming Jo into a conversation.
'Are you...?' Jo stepped forward, crouching gingerly before perching on the edge of the step. 'Are you, um, your own person?'
The woman smiled, mulling the words over in her head, 'Yes, I guess you could put it like that.'
'How long have you owned yourself?'
'Oh, two years, something like that,' she retrieved a thermos flask from inside the sleeping bag, unscrewed the cup and poured out some weak smelling tea, offering the cup to Jo who obligingly accepted. 'Were you thinking of saving up?'
'I was, yes.'
'Hope I'm not too off-putting!' the woman grinned, revealling a few lost and chipped teeth.
'Are all those people,' Jo shifted her head in the direction of the gaggle outside a nearby restaurant and bar, 'are they their own people as well?'
'Hmm,' the woman pondered, 'in a way. Not like me though, they've always been their own people.'
'Really?' Jo gasped, not least of all because the tea was surprisingly acrid.
'Why would you want to go and do a thing like leave the company? Paragon, right?'
Jo followed the woman's gaze to one of the larger company logos emblazoned on the jumper she was wearing that evening, and then further down to the same logo vertically on each trouser leg, and then smaller idents on each shoe.
'How did you guess?' Jo laughed, somewhat embarrassed.
'I used to work for AllTech myself, saved up 700,000 credits and bought myself from the company, but I wasn't smart, you see, it's not just about having enough to buy yourself back, no, you need to make sure you can survive on your own. See, no company wants you to work for them, there's no call for free agents, they've got more than enough staff of their own. See, I can make things, simple things, preserves, jams and chutneys, things like that, but people didn't want them, they went to the company - KitchenGroup, DinDin - felt like they could trust their products. I sought distribution deals, thought I could use the company, but they played me, asked to have some samples for consideration, sent me a rejection a few weeks later and then, a month on from that, they launched their own line of preserves.
'I couldn't prove it, and I had no chance of fighting it, but I know they analysed my recipes, stole them somehow. I didn't want to sell myself back to them, I couldn't afford my rent, my bills, all things the company covers when you work for them, they make life so comfortable and easy, but at what cost? I didn't want to work in an office, I didn't want to live in a tower block, don't I deserve to be in control of my own life?
'If this is it,' she surveyed her doorway, 'then I'm fine with this.'
That's what Jo would repeat to herself on those difficult days, sat listlessly at her station, standing in the elevator, queuing for her meals, letting the mild shower water run over her, or lying awake in bed in the middle of the night; 'If this is it, then I'm fine with this.'
Sometimes, if she could get away with it, she would procrastinate at work and try to formulate a spreadsheet of her income, how much she could save, how long it would take to earn enough to buy herself back from the company, but, heeding that woman's words, how much to save enough to survive on the outside, to afford her own rent, her own bills, food, clothes, travel, entertainment.
Of course, most buildings were company owned, most shops were company owned, ultimately she'd buy herself out of the company only to pay into the company for the rest of her life, and at a marked up price at that.
At least if you were with the company you got a discount, besides, she could stay with the company and apply for reduced hours, a property upgrade, her line manager did think she had prospects.
But Jo knew she would never be like those people she had seen in the town, the ones drinking and laughing, there was something about their manner that she could not associate with, and she was able to move amongst like a ghost, as if they could not see her at all. It was not envy she felt though, because she did not want to become them, she did not want to be accepted into their fold, but she wanted their freedom and she did not want to squander it - as she perceived them to be doing so.
Yet despite her training, her aptitude with numbers and accounting, she could not find a way to afford herself, not without the risk of either finding herself sleeping on the streets or selling herself back to the company, and, no matter what your abilities, they always treated re-sales with contempt and distrust.
It made sense for Jo to stay, so she closed the spreadsheet, clicking No when it prompted her to save, she put her headset on and took the next call.
The mother is happy because there was a broker in the hospital who happened to work for Paragon Inc, and when she saw the stats on her baby, well, she put in an offer straight away.
'Who was the father?' the broker asked, ID-pad in hand.
The mother tapped his name in to the registered parents database, his photograph, medical history and a brief biography appeared on the screen.
The broker nodded her approval and presented the mother with her offer, the mother warmly accepted.
Returning to the waiting room the broker couldn't help but let a smile slip, she was congratulated by brokers from rival organisations, clapped on the back for such a successful acquisition.
'You might as well go home early!' one joked.
But she had the fire under her now, that purchase had given her a passion for the day, but like a gambler in Vegas she knew this hospital was dry, so best to move on to another location in the hopes of finding a similarly promising candidate.
It was a good purchase, the baby grew into a healthy toddler and began its education with a focus on core skills such as languages, mathematics and communication, ultimately pushing towards marketing, account management and retention, and sales.
By the age of 14 the baby, named Jo, was answering online queries, dealing with customers on a non-confrontational basis, but she showed such promise that she was moved into the call centre before her sixteenth birthday.
Jo had always been curious, it was a hard balance for any corporation to address, you want to inspire company loyalty but there is an inherent desire in human animals to question things, and despite years of research, and despite success in general, there are still newborns who grow up to want to know what else there is.
'Why do you ask?' the manager of floor 93 said to Jo one afternoon. 'Are you unhappy?'
'No, I enjoy my work,' but there was a shift in Jo's eyes, a response that suggested lingering doubt, the computer alerted the line manager to this.
'But...?' he lead.
'What's in it for me?'
'Good service is its own reward,' the line manager smiled, remembering hearing that in his training. 'Imagine, you've progressed in this company faster than anyone I've known, just think where you will be in five years.'
'Where will you be in five years?' Jo asked, as close to mischievious as would be tolerated.
'I will have left the business, I'm a lot older than you Jo.' Though he did not look his age, his skin had been stretched and de-aged in accordance with research that suggested people prefer to buy from younger, healthier faces, it gives them a sense of aspiration. 'I have saved enough for a buy out, and I will move to the town.'
'Congratulations,' Jo said, flatly, it was a nod of approval pre-programmed into conversation, most meant it, Jo didn't. 'It's a risk though.'
The line manager was dumbfounded, so was the computer, 'A risk?'
'Mmm,' she nodded, 'James, do you remember him? James was on this floor, he worked next to me, he worked as many hours as he could, saving as much as was possible and he bought himself back, remember, remember how young he was, it was uncommon for someone so young to be able to afford a buy out.
'I shook his hand, he smiled and left, off to live his own life, a public person.
'It was only five months until he returned, do you remember?'
'Yes, he asked for his position back.'
'But he didn't get it.'
'His company loyalty was compromised, it's policy.'
'The company wanted nothing to do with him, not without guarantees.'
'Of course.'
'So he sold himself back to the company.'
'Yes.'
'How much do you get for a secondhand man?'
The line manager smiled, endeared to the terminology, he made a mental note to use it in a future presentation to the board.
'Your price goes down, but your cost goes up,' Jo continued.
'But his quality of life...' the line manager cut in.
'Back in company accomodation, though he's in Block 4 now, works down in the Sub-Levels.'
'You've seen him?'
'I was told.'
'Who?'
Jo hesistated, without confession she'd be docked, but the computer read the pattern, the memory trigger.
'Adam,' the line manager nodded, Jo's expression was all the confirmation required. 'You have so much potential Jo, I am advised to recommend that you discontinue this line of inquiry, there are no benefits.'
She nodded, 'Understood.'
'Review is in one month, I think you have promise.'
'Thank you.'
'Just...' he placed his hands out in front of him, as if to clap, but instead slowly drew them towards one another, palm to palm, creating a narrow.
'I follow,' Jo nodded again.
A sea of voices, their intonations make waves of various pitches, each at different parts of a sale. Jo, travelling amongst them, found her station, took her seat, replaced the head-set and returned to work.
She had taken leave before and seen the consequences of buying yourself back. She'd taken a trip to the hills, but had snuck into a town one evening.
Buildings were lit up with activity, the sound of conversation, bawdy howling laughter, a sudden quiet when a glass smashed, there were people talking in small circles, each circle jostling for space with other circles, Jo imagined that from above it might resemble a bowl of oat loop cereal. They all wore suits of varying shades, or smart dresses, their hair seemed to be held in place by some invisible force, and their skin was clean and clear, but not taut and anxious like her line manager's. These were the people who bought and consumed that which Jo, and her colleagues, sold.
Elsewhere, in the doorways of closed shops she found people wrapped in blankets, trying to get to sleep. As she approached, one - tucked into their shiny bedsack like a cocoon, turned over to face her, their eyes were open, quickly examining Jo, trying to understand her intention. From the branding that peppered her clothes they knew she was not from the town, they knew she was privately owned.
'Hello,' she smiled.
'Evening,' the woman in the sleeping bag responded, cautiously, but sitting up and shuffling her back against the wall, welcoming Jo into a conversation.
'Are you...?' Jo stepped forward, crouching gingerly before perching on the edge of the step. 'Are you, um, your own person?'
The woman smiled, mulling the words over in her head, 'Yes, I guess you could put it like that.'
'How long have you owned yourself?'
'Oh, two years, something like that,' she retrieved a thermos flask from inside the sleeping bag, unscrewed the cup and poured out some weak smelling tea, offering the cup to Jo who obligingly accepted. 'Were you thinking of saving up?'
'I was, yes.'
'Hope I'm not too off-putting!' the woman grinned, revealling a few lost and chipped teeth.
'Are all those people,' Jo shifted her head in the direction of the gaggle outside a nearby restaurant and bar, 'are they their own people as well?'
'Hmm,' the woman pondered, 'in a way. Not like me though, they've always been their own people.'
'Really?' Jo gasped, not least of all because the tea was surprisingly acrid.
'Why would you want to go and do a thing like leave the company? Paragon, right?'
Jo followed the woman's gaze to one of the larger company logos emblazoned on the jumper she was wearing that evening, and then further down to the same logo vertically on each trouser leg, and then smaller idents on each shoe.
'How did you guess?' Jo laughed, somewhat embarrassed.
'I used to work for AllTech myself, saved up 700,000 credits and bought myself from the company, but I wasn't smart, you see, it's not just about having enough to buy yourself back, no, you need to make sure you can survive on your own. See, no company wants you to work for them, there's no call for free agents, they've got more than enough staff of their own. See, I can make things, simple things, preserves, jams and chutneys, things like that, but people didn't want them, they went to the company - KitchenGroup, DinDin - felt like they could trust their products. I sought distribution deals, thought I could use the company, but they played me, asked to have some samples for consideration, sent me a rejection a few weeks later and then, a month on from that, they launched their own line of preserves.
'I couldn't prove it, and I had no chance of fighting it, but I know they analysed my recipes, stole them somehow. I didn't want to sell myself back to them, I couldn't afford my rent, my bills, all things the company covers when you work for them, they make life so comfortable and easy, but at what cost? I didn't want to work in an office, I didn't want to live in a tower block, don't I deserve to be in control of my own life?
'If this is it,' she surveyed her doorway, 'then I'm fine with this.'
That's what Jo would repeat to herself on those difficult days, sat listlessly at her station, standing in the elevator, queuing for her meals, letting the mild shower water run over her, or lying awake in bed in the middle of the night; 'If this is it, then I'm fine with this.'
Sometimes, if she could get away with it, she would procrastinate at work and try to formulate a spreadsheet of her income, how much she could save, how long it would take to earn enough to buy herself back from the company, but, heeding that woman's words, how much to save enough to survive on the outside, to afford her own rent, her own bills, food, clothes, travel, entertainment.
Of course, most buildings were company owned, most shops were company owned, ultimately she'd buy herself out of the company only to pay into the company for the rest of her life, and at a marked up price at that.
At least if you were with the company you got a discount, besides, she could stay with the company and apply for reduced hours, a property upgrade, her line manager did think she had prospects.
But Jo knew she would never be like those people she had seen in the town, the ones drinking and laughing, there was something about their manner that she could not associate with, and she was able to move amongst like a ghost, as if they could not see her at all. It was not envy she felt though, because she did not want to become them, she did not want to be accepted into their fold, but she wanted their freedom and she did not want to squander it - as she perceived them to be doing so.
Yet despite her training, her aptitude with numbers and accounting, she could not find a way to afford herself, not without the risk of either finding herself sleeping on the streets or selling herself back to the company, and, no matter what your abilities, they always treated re-sales with contempt and distrust.
It made sense for Jo to stay, so she closed the spreadsheet, clicking No when it prompted her to save, she put her headset on and took the next call.
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