are
not allowed in the canteen,’ he said. ‘You got away with it today without the
uniform.’
‘Not allowed?’
The canteen is divided into two, with a glass partition separating the
sections. The private smaller section is for senior management only. The glass
partition is to prevent the ordinary minions from eavesdropping on their
mission-critical lunch meetings. But there’s a tier even lower than the
minions, and I belong to it. I’m one of the underclass expected to bring in
their own lunch and eat it in whatever filthy corner is most endurable.
‘Jaysus, no. You
might be used to all that white collar stuff, with the college degrees and the
fine big office and all that, but forget all that if you want to work here.
Len’ll tell you that, won’t you Len?’
Len was perched
glumly at the far end of the D-5 wall. ‘Yeah.’ Dead-voiced and uninterested.
I got chatting
later in the afternoon to Len, while Al was sent away on some errand. He hates
Al as much as I anticipate that I’m going to.
‘Never mind him,’
he said, looking around in case the man himself should come bursting through
the door. ‘Don’t even listen to his shite. That’s how I deal with him.’
Len has a slight
stutter. He looks about 50, but something about him makes me suspect that he’s
more like 38. The slope of the spine, the inclination of the jaw, these speak
of existential defeat. Wrong to make such assumptions about people. Ill-founded
ideas about someone can imprint on your brain, colour the way you see them,
deal with them. But something about Len invites disrespect.
‘Where were you
before?’ he asked me, turning away slightly as though the answer might hurt
him.
I gave him a
rundown of the Boehm-Adler situation, which he found satisfactory.
‘I went to
college myself,’ he said, apropos of nothing in particular, ‘but I never finished.’
‘How long have
you been here?’
‘Three years.
Before that I was a van driver, but when the economy went bust, that was it. No
more driving. No more nothing. Sure you know what I’m talking about.’
I suppose I do
know what he was talking about, but I hated having to agree.
Helen is not
hugely interested in this admission. ‘The main thing is that they want you back
tomorrow,’ she says.
True enough.
They want me back. My first day was a success. After I got back from the D-3
run, Candy said: ‘You’re back very quick.’ She looked at the cart suspiciously,
as though she suspected I had skipped some stops. A little later I saw her
making a discreet phone call, the outcome of which seemed to please her.
‘Any trouble
getting here this morning?’ she asked me late in the day.
‘Not really,’ I
said.
‘That’s good.
Make sure you’re in on time tomorrow.’
So I had made it
through the first day. I felt a little bit annoyed at Helen’s jubilation when I
got home and told her they hadn’t sacked me. Seems to me that the implication
is that she thought I couldn’t hack it. Best to keep quiet, though, enjoy the
moment.
Which doesn’t
last long. Here’s Heathshade bursting through the front door.
‘Alright,
George. The employed man.’
‘Someone’s got
to be.’
He gets my
insinuation well enough. ‘Yeah, well. That sort of thing suits some people,
don’t it? Not others. I’m made for different sort of stuff. Soldiering, that’s
my game. If the Irish Army would take me in, I’d be there, fighting the
terrorists. But they won’t have me, will they?’
Later, when we
have time to ourselves again, she asks me: ‘Are you sad? You look a bit down or
something.’
‘Me? No, I’m
just tired.’
‘Yeah, well, I
hope you know I’m proud of you.’
Hits me right in
the gut, this does. All the frustrations and the guilt and all the rest of it
come to the surface at once, and now, out of nowhere, like a fool I’m crying.
Trying to resist it only makes it worse. She looks at me maternally and cups my
face in her hands, holds onto me. When the
not allowed in the canteen,’ he said. ‘You got away with it today without the
uniform.’
‘Not allowed?’
The canteen is divided into two, with a glass partition separating the
sections. The private smaller section is for senior management only. The glass
partition is to prevent the ordinary minions from eavesdropping on their
mission-critical lunch meetings. But there’s a tier even lower than the
minions, and I belong to it. I’m one of the underclass expected to bring in
their own lunch and eat it in whatever filthy corner is most endurable.
‘Jaysus, no. You
might be used to all that white collar stuff, with the college degrees and the
fine big office and all that, but forget all that if you want to work here.
Len’ll tell you that, won’t you Len?’
Len was perched
glumly at the far end of the D-5 wall. ‘Yeah.’ Dead-voiced and uninterested.
I got chatting
later in the afternoon to Len, while Al was sent away on some errand. He hates
Al as much as I anticipate that I’m going to.
‘Never mind him,’
he said, looking around in case the man himself should come bursting through
the door. ‘Don’t even listen to his shite. That’s how I deal with him.’
Len has a slight
stutter. He looks about 50, but something about him makes me suspect that he’s
more like 38. The slope of the spine, the inclination of the jaw, these speak
of existential defeat. Wrong to make such assumptions about people. Ill-founded
ideas about someone can imprint on your brain, colour the way you see them,
deal with them. But something about Len invites disrespect.
‘Where were you
before?’ he asked me, turning away slightly as though the answer might hurt
him.
I gave him a
rundown of the Boehm-Adler situation, which he found satisfactory.
‘I went to
college myself,’ he said, apropos of nothing in particular, ‘but I never finished.’
‘How long have
you been here?’
‘Three years.
Before that I was a van driver, but when the economy went bust, that was it. No
more driving. No more nothing. Sure you know what I’m talking about.’
I suppose I do
know what he was talking about, but I hated having to agree.
Helen is not
hugely interested in this admission. ‘The main thing is that they want you back
tomorrow,’ she says.
True enough.
They want me back. My first day was a success. After I got back from the D-3
run, Candy said: ‘You’re back very quick.’ She looked at the cart suspiciously,
as though she suspected I had skipped some stops. A little later I saw her
making a discreet phone call, the outcome of which seemed to please her.
‘Any trouble
getting here this morning?’ she asked me late in the day.
‘Not really,’ I
said.
‘That’s good.
Make sure you’re in on time tomorrow.’
So I had made it
through the first day. I felt a little bit annoyed at Helen’s jubilation when I
got home and told her they hadn’t sacked me. Seems to me that the implication
is that she thought I couldn’t hack it. Best to keep quiet, though, enjoy the
moment.
Which doesn’t
last long. Here’s Heathshade bursting through the front door.
‘Alright,
George. The employed man.’
‘Someone’s got
to be.’
He gets my
insinuation well enough. ‘Yeah, well. That sort of thing suits some people,
don’t it? Not others. I’m made for different sort of stuff. Soldiering, that’s
my game. If the Irish Army would take me in, I’d be there, fighting the
terrorists. But they won’t have me, will they?’
Later, when we
have time to ourselves again, she asks me: ‘Are you sad? You look a bit down or
something.’
‘Me? No, I’m
just tired.’
‘Yeah, well, I
hope you know I’m proud of you.’
Hits me right in
the gut, this does. All the frustrations and the guilt and all the rest of it
come to the surface at once, and now, out of nowhere, like a fool I’m crying.
Trying to resist it only makes it worse. She looks at me maternally and cups my
face in her hands, holds onto me. When the
Similar Books
