Little Issues

Fucking interviews. I'm not kidding. I felt such a part of the
intense filth of the last century that I truly bought into the idea
that things would change when the clocks ticked round; that the
millennium would offer a hope of redemption just by allowing me to feel
distanced from my own past. I thought it would be enough that there
would be a physical removal from the clutches of the twentieth century
- that things would be better. Or at least different.

Now I'm not so sure. Here I am, already two years past the seminal Y2K,
and everything is exactly the same as it was before. I still wake up on
a Monday morning feeling the same way, thinking the same things and
looking the same godawful look. Apart from some new grey hairs I found
recently, but that's an entirely different problem that I don't even
want to go into right now.

The point is that I'm still taking sick days off work to attend
interviews for new, different and, dare I believe it, exciting jobs,
and I still come out of them every time wondering why the hell I
bother. The excuses to my boss get more and more ridiculous and yet the
end result is still the same. I leave my flat in the morning, get the
bus, and hope to God that no one from my office will see me because
they'd all have about five orgasms apiece if they ever caught me in the
act of job hunting - not that they ever would, they're too anally
retentive to even ask for extra stationary, never mind sneak out of the
building to follow me around.

There are people in my office who can tire you out just by looking at
them. Take this guy I know called Marcus for example. He's not even
twenty yet but he's already found his spot in life. Yes this is
definitely for him. We all start doing the same thing, but we don't all
continue along the same paths. They tell you things like "you get out
what you put in"; "If you work hard, you'll be rewarded and progress";
a meritocracy they say (that old chestnut). I know differently though.
Sometimes it may be that there was nobody else that could do it,
sometimes you may just fluke an opportunity. Kissing arse definitely
helps. Whatever the real reason you can always bet that someone was not
put there on merit, wherever 'there' actually is.

Anyway, as I say, Marcus has definitely found his niche in life. You
see him wandering around bumping into colleagues, exchanging
pleasantries, attending little meetings in the canteen or a soft
seating area. He talks with such care and sincerity, in a way I could
never be bothered to. Dare I say it, but he actually looks as if he
feels like he belongs in this open plan microcosm. It is definitely
important to him. When he first joined he was a typical eighteen year
old - confrontational, aggressive, arrogant. That soon changed when
they gave him a purpose. A little step up, nothing much, but more than
just filing. Since then you hear people say things like "he's grown
up", but what does that actually mean?

Of course, it basically means that he consciously makes himself calm
and amenable as if he's at your house meeting your mother for the first
time. The worrying thing is that he has chosen to do this. I've been
out on the beers with him, I know what he's really like. If you ever
want to know what someone is really like, don't apply some pointless
theory or waste time trying to analyse them, just get them straight out
on the loopy juice. All the guards will come down and that will be the
real them.

I mean we all do it. Go out, get hammered, speak the most ridiculous
words you would never want to consciously hear yourself say and then
blame it on the drink. The problem is that it was the truth, and no
matter how hard you try and kid yourself otherwise, you know it. And
the person you told it to, well they know it too.

But there are battle grounds all over the city. You don't need to be in
an office or a relationship to have to fight your way through life. For
me, it starts the minute I get within a hundred yards of my building.
Every day, there he is. The guy who sells the Big Issue. I always have
a ton of change on me and when I fob him off from actually buying the
magazine itself, I have to clutch my pocket when the requests for money
come as I know the tell-tale jangle of coins will give me away.

See, he probably thinks I'm rich or something. I have this long,
impressive dark coat and wear a suit underneath that gives the
impression I actually do something for a living that earns me enough
cash to go spreading it all over the place. He can probably hear my
change a mile away, with some kind of homeless radar built into his
head. He sees the coat, the suit, the tie - he hears the jangle - and
he avoids the woman pushing the pram right by him and turns straight to
me. "Big Issue sir?"

Now I've always hated being called "sir" anyway. I'm only 23 and as far
as I know, have never entered into the Queen's mind once when the New
Year comes around. I don't look like a sir - except maybe to some real
helpless cases. He doesn't look too shabby though, he's clever that
way. That would scare the punters off. He's got old, faded jeans on
with big, army-style boots sticking out from underneath and a red,
hairy lumberjack shirt opened so you can see a grimy white T-shirt.
Just enough and not too much. A thick woollen coat completes the
impression that this guy has to try hard to keep warm.

He's maybe 28. If that. He's not quite a skinhead, but he's getting
there, and he's clean shaven. That's always got me - where the hell
does he go to have a shave if he doesn't have a home? The old, drunken
Irish scroungers who smell of piss and whisky and have bits of day-old
burger in their straggly beards I can understand, but this guy? He
could walk into any jobcentre anywhere and find work no problem. But he
doesn't, he stands on this corner and is given money by people who no
doubt earn too much anyway and try to ease their guilty consciences
with their weekly charitable efforts.

Well not me. I've got problems of my own. Maybe it's not his fault -
maybe he was thrown out of his house when he was a kid - maybe the
money I give him really won't go into his veins or down his throat. I
don't care. The little I've got I'm not about to give to anybody.

One major problem is that I've never been too good with outright
"no's", so I never know what to say. I mean, I'm not a rude bastard or
anything. Then I hit on the amazing "I've already got one" formula. It
worked like a charm. The bloke always thanked me whenever I said it, as
though I was this big charity-worker. It made him feel better, it made
me feel better. Everybody's happy.

No one's happy for long though. Now, following the gratitude, comes the
next request. "Can you spare a bit of change then?" I just look away
and keep on walking, the coins jangling my guilt with every step. Now I
hold onto my pockets the moment I turn onto the street I know he'll be
standing on, making sure I've got something else important to look at
the second he steps forward.

What he doesn't know is that I'm not rich. Not even nearly. Like
everyone else I know who lives in our gloriously ostentatious capital,
I'm barely getting by. The change in my pocket is a dead giveaway and
is just that, change. Rich people don't jingle when they walk down the
street, they clip-clop with real leather on pavements. Coppers and
little else, that's what I have, knocking against my leg noisily. He
thinks that a bit here, a bit there and he can get by - it's no skin
off my nose. But I don't want the disapproving look when I hand over
5p, his face screwed up in an uncertain frown, like a waiter accepting
a bad tip. I don't need that.

I do need the money though. I need every last penny and that's the
problem. Hence the interview. New job, new money, new prospects, new
life - great stuff. I don't think many people could, with any kind of
honesty, say that they like going to interviews. Except perhaps those
annoying people that are always positive about absolutely everything.
Or those even more annoying ones that are so unbelievably arrogant and
out of touch with reality that a series of ten of the most crushing
interviews could not penetrate their thick protective bubbles and give
them that much needed and utterly deserved smack in the face.

And once again, after spending less than twenty minutes sweating in an
air conditioning free room, trying to convince some bored looking exec
that I can actually do the job I'm applying for, he says he'll let me
know. He won't. He already has. I know this, and he knows this, and yet
we shake hands at the end when all I want to do is poke him in the eye.
I fucking hate interviews. This is not because I lack confidence or
that I am shy or even that I am incompetent in any way; I firmly
believe that given the chance I could be successful in any job, as I
believe most people could. That's the real thing though isn't it? Being
given the chance.

Personally, I'd rather undergo a series of tests, take part in a debate
or even be given a task to do. In fact, anything but just sit there and
answer mundane questions about myself. The problem with me is that I am
too honest. I don't mean this in the polish your halo and never tell
lies kind of way, rather I just call things as I see them and am
therefore transparent to any prospective employer.

Those "Why do you want this job?" kind of questions or that classic
invitation to "tell us a bit about yourself" irritate me beyond belief.
It's worse than writing a CV, how do you talk yourself up without
sounding like a pretentious dick? Nevertheless, I put myself in this
position time and time again, dispossessed once more of any integrity,
trying my best to fake sincerity. I could go to classes, read books and
study for a hundred years to become an expert on the subject of
interviews, but I'd never be any good at them

I'm going to have to get good though. As if the humiliation of the
sweaty palmed waste of time I'd had to sit through wasn't bad enough, I
got sacked as well, just for good measure. For taking sick days to go
on interviews and get myself away from the hellish circle of half-life
I have become embroiled in? Of course not. For being sexist, no less.
I'm in the kitchen at the end of the day and there are no clean cups so
I have to wash one out. There are welded on lipstick smudges around the
rim and disgusting bits of coffee scum all over the place and I got to
thinking how much I dislike lipstick, especially when you see it
pressed onto a coffee cup or wrapped around a cigarette butt, which
elevated my already dismal state of mind into a crested rage within my
head.

Anyway, I'm not in the most female friendly mood when this bimbo from
marketing, one who actually gets paid just to read the newspapers all
day - seriously - comes in and looks with distaste at all the dirty
cups mounted in the sink. Then she looks at the one in my hands and
says, "All the cups are dirty, can I have that one?" I can't believe
this, I mean, I'm literally fucking stunned. And because I'm in a bad
mood anyway, I think right, there's no way I'm taking that. So I say,
"If you haven't had enough experience washing up yet darling, it's
about time you got some practice in." And I walk out, thinking what a
clever retort I've just made.

I thought that for about half an hour before I was called into my
boss's office, who said it was the last straw and fired me. I couldn't
believe it. If she'd just washed a cup and I walked in, I wouldn't even
dream of asking her for it - she does it to me and I'm being sexist.
Equal opportunities my arse. Women all want a gentleman doormat when it
suits them and no favours thank you when it doesn't. The way I feel at
the moment, I'd smash a door in a woman's face before I'd open it for
her.

So it's lucky I don't see my girlfriend straight away when I leave the
office. I have (or rather, had) a desk, but nothing to pack - I'm not
one of these morons who make a home-from-home with pictures and cuddly
toys all over the place - and I really don't feel like talking to any
of the fools working away and trying not to look at me. It all suddenly
seems like a ridiculous circus, the low ebb of conversation, the
tipetty tap of computer keyboards, the flirtation over the photocopier.
I walk out trying not to retch.

I go to a wine bar I know that's expensive as hell and buy the cheapest
bottle of beer they have and wait for happy hour to start. I think
about Heather, my girlfriend, about how she'll react when I tell her
about the job. I wish she'd laugh, tell me to sit down, make me some
coffee, but she won't. She'll be uptight after her day at work and
won't appreciate me giving her any extra problems. No matter how hard
up we think we are, there's always someone else who thinks they are
even deeper in the shit than us.

I think about the guy who sells the Big Issue and for once I think
maybe he's got a good thing going. Admittedly the English cold and that
kind of sloping rain you only get when its supposed to be summer are
depressing enough when you're just walking from place to place, never
mind standing in one spot all day, but at least in some ways he's his
own boss, a modern day hunter/gatherer, doing the basics to get food
and survive.

But then I think about the rejection. I've only ever seen a few people
here and there actually give him any money. I get rejected from
interview after interview and I take it hard, but I've never officially
needed to get the job before to keep the money, however meagre, coming
in. He needs the money, and from what I've seen, rarely gets it.

And maybe it's not all his fault, him being homeless. Maybe he's tried
to get jobs like I have, and maybe he never gets the breaks either. The
thing that grates me though are the words Big Issue. It's what his life
is about, but it's the little issues that matter as far as I can see.
There's no big issue, no all defining thing someone can aim for, just
varying degrees of sorrow and happiness.

My grandfather always used to say the most important thing in life is
to stay regular. I never understood his problem though, never having
been in his situation. I drink coffee and have a smoke first thing in
the morning and I'm on the toilet three or four times a day without
fail. Does it make me happier? Lighter, maybe. But then again, my
grandfather used to take great pleasure from playing dominoes, so most
of what he said can pretty much be discounted.

Like I said though, there are battle grounds absolutely everywhere.
Take me and Heather for example. We don't fight per se, but there are
little battles to be won and lost in the course of an evening together,
even if it's just watching telly. Of course I fell for the blow job
offensive immediately, as all men do. When we started out Heather used
to drop to her knees, take me in her mouth, humming with pleaure as
though it's what she wants to do, not that she's just doing to do it to
make me happy. Dirty bitch, you think, and then you're trapped.

It tails off with everyone. I've heard the stories and I've lived it
myself. Before you know it, there's no way out. When I get home now
there will be no hunger, no dirty look in her eye, just acceptance,
just a hello, a curry in front of the television, and then to bed.
There's no need to try anymore and so we don't.

And that's when I start thinking again about the guy selling the Big
Issue, about how he tries again and again, takes the knock backs and
gets on with it. I don't even wait for the cheap drinks I'm so
obssessed by him at this point, I go out looking for him instead. Of
course he's there, he's always there, and the hurrying of hometime is
far from over yet. I watch him for well over an hour, how he keeps on
going, scouring the streets for people to buy, a helping hand. I think
I'll follow him, maybe even talk to him and give him some money. I want
to know where he goes, what he does away from this life on the street,
what his version of normality is.

Finally he does give in and walk away. There are still people about so
I suppose maybe he's made enough money. I follow him into the
underground, observing him so intensely I don't even look at what line
we go on, or what stop we eventually alight at. Then back up the
escalators and out into the world again. I see him enter a house, nicer
than my flat by a million miles, with a light on inside.

I creep up to the window and look in, see him there with a woman and a
child. The child is crying, but he's smiling and so is the woman. He
empties his pockets onto the table and money goes everywhere, notes,
coins, everything, more than I've ever made in a day. He looks at the
money for barely a moment before going back to the baby and cradling it
in his arms.