Cowboys and Dinosaurs - Chapter 4

4. We're All Completely Nutty At The Madhouse

He couldn't believe the evidence of his eyes.

The opening sentence of the letter said it all. I am pleased to inform you, not I regret that we have been unable. Steve, standing in nothing but finely-aged pants in the building's hallway, his hair like a snapshot of an explosion in a goat factory, nevertheless felt his blood turn to pure molten gold. I can pay off my overdraft. I can afford all the drink I've been drinking, as well as luxuries like rent, electricity and food. I can cripple myself with a reasonably-priced loan on a car. I can buy her flowers. I can get her back -

He realized for the first time that he did not want her back.

A foot creaking on the staircase was, in the stillness, like a machine gun going off. He looked up. Looking down at him was an immensely tall, slender woman in striped stockings, legwarmers, an immense fur coat, mittens and moonboots. At first, Steve suspected he was looking at a cross-dressing skinhead, until he noticed the lack of any obvious race hate tattoos and a definite, if severe female beauty to the face.

The woman descended the stairs, keeping Steve in sight as if he might suddenly dart into a hole in the wainscoting and put himself out of reach.

"Hello", said Steve. "I live downstairs."

The woman walked round Steve, looking him up and down with velociraptor grace. "Mammalian", she said in contempt. "Mostly", she added. "It burns excessive amounts of energy to stay warm, when it could use its Dave-given intelligence to wear clothes." She wrinkled her nose in distaste. "It also sweats." She stared critically at the front of Steve's pants. "It appears to have a penis."

She swept out of the front door, leaving room for an imaginary tail. "It is not appropriate breeding material."

Steve stood nonplussed as the door banged to, still holding his now somehow devalued letter of acceptance.

"Appears?" he said indignantly.

***

"Good morning. Welcome to the madhouse! I'm Julie from Human Resources, it'll be my job to guide you through the joining process. Have you completed a New Employee Starter Form? Oh dear, one should have been sent to you in the post. Could you have a look for it at home, but just in case you can't find it, here's one to fill out here. We do operate a non-smoking policy at all our sites, Crouch End, Hartlepool, and Narvik. We are an equal opportunities employer, and do not discriminate on grounds of colour, sex, race, nationality, religion, or sexual preference, the fire exits are here, here, here, and here, your assembly point is area Blue Seven, just next to the acetylene storage tank in the car park. Casual dress is operated on Fridays, but the following are not permitted, jeans, trainers, T shirts, baseball caps, puffer jackets, hoodies, heelies, pixie boots, cowboy boots, wellington boots, shell suits, denim, spats, flares, platforms, winkle pickers, VPH, anything bearing the logo of the Third Reich of Germany and indeed anything apart from slacks, presentable office shoes, and nice polo shirts. Wearing a suit and tie to the office on Fridays is not permitted as it lowers staff morale."

Julie From Human Resources inhaled like a breaching whale.

Steve stirred his coffee pensively. A lifetime of having little money to pay for anything had led to him always saying yes when offered free coffee. Due to a long wait in Reception when he had arrived, he'd now had three. His waters were about to break.

"So I'll have to buy a whole new set of clothes", he said, "to comply with Casual Day."

"Many people do", reassured Julie. "You'll be working in Customer Experience with Sjöwall Thorwaldt. A correct telephone manner is expected at all times, you will be expected to read the Anne Sommers Telephone Manner Procedure Manual." A sheaf of papers that could have crushed Steve beneath it quite badly had any part of him been resting on the tabletop slammed down onto the tabletop. "You will be expected to re-read this material every three months as part of your Hey! We're Fit For Business! checklist."

Steve flicked through the version control pages of the manual. "This hasn't changed since 1998."

Julie smiled sweetly. "You will be expected to re-read this material every three months. Beginning now."

"You want it to re-read it now", said Steve.

"And the Fire Safety, Equality And Racial Harmony, Hot Liquids In The Workplace, HMSO Biological Letterbomb Detection Guide, Sarbanes-Oxley, Data Protection, ISO, SCHMISO, Inappropriate Employee Facial Hair, and Use Of Company Parking Spaces procedures."

"Gosh. How many pages is that altogether?"

"Two hundred and twenty." Julie looked at her Mickey Mouse watch. "I'll be back at half past, shall I?"

Steve smiled and nodded. "Be my guest."

Julie left the room. Steve stared at the wad of documentation.

"Might as well start as I mean to go on", he said. Professionally, he rose to his feet, walked over to the office plant in the corner, unzipped his fly, and stood looking impassively into the rubber plant while he unloaded himself into the ceramic graveloid nodules the plant was bedded in.

Eventually, he sighed, retracted his undercarriage, returned to his seat, and began pulling out sections from the middle of the Hot Liquids In The Workplace guide and folding and smoothing them into paper aeroplanes. By the time Julie From Human Resources had knocked on the door again, he had made five different designs, three of which he had managed to glide right across the room into the waste paper basket. His particular favourite was one requiring only ten folds, which had been made from the centre pages of the Data Protection Act. He had no idea whether the text of the Act was having any effect on its aerodynamic capabilities.

He had now cleared them all away. The sheaf of papers looked intact.

"All finished?" said Julie From Human Resources.

"Most interesting", said Steve. "I had no idea you weren't supposed to discriminate against people in wheelchairs."

"Lovely", said Julie From Human Resources. "Now we'll take you round the department. There's quite a lot of characters here. Some of them may seem a bit off the wall but they put everything they've got into the plant."

"I know how they feel", said Steve.

***

"Good morning. Welcome to the madhouse." The handshake was crushing. Steve suffered and tried not to show pain. "I'm Gary; I run this team. You'll be working on accounts in the West Country and Wales. Big gambling area, the West Country."

Gary's suit had huge white mafia-assassin pinstripes. His hair resembled a mop soaked in black treacle.

"I thought nobody had any money in the West Country", said Steve.

"Big gambling area, the West Country", said Gary. "First rule of this job; never contradict your Team Leader. You're on probation now, Dave, and don't you forget it."

"My name's Steve", said Steve. "And you're taking Dave's name in vain."

Gary's eyes drilled into Steve's. Steve suspected he was wearing aryan contact lenses.

"Do you want this job, Dave?" she said.

"Gary", said Steve, "Human Resources are standing right here."

Julie smiled sweetly.

"Well, I'll be off then, shall I?"

She left in a swirl of tasteful officewear.

"Do you want this job, Dave?" said Gary.

"If you can learn to call me by my name, yes", said Steve.

The stare did not waver. "We can easily re-interview, you know. There are plenty of people where you came from."

"There are plenty of places I can go to", lied Steve.

"I can see we're going to have to work this out", said Gary. "Your desk will be over here. You'll have to share a computer with Dean for the first week. This is Dean. He is a sales analyst approaching the end of his probationary period. He is what you aspire to be."

Dean had acne, a suit shiny in the elbows, and hair that made him a carbon copy of his master. He nodded sourly at Steve in acknowledgement.

"I'll be sitting right over there", indicated Gary. "I expect you to get through one hundred calls a day, and of those, ten should result in appointments made for field sales to visit. Every day, every week. Or you're out. You understand?"

Steve nodded, restraining the urge to smack a nearby monitor over Gary's head.

"I want to hear you say it. Do you understand?"

"I understand", said Steve.

"Say it like you mean it", said Gary, raising a finger.

"I understand", said Steve, like he meant it.

"You're useless", said Gary. "Bloody useless. You won't last the week. Sit down with Dave and learn the ropes. Dean, you've got one hour to teach him, then you're on your own time again. Understand?"

Dean nodded dumbly. Gary did not appear to feel the need to hear him say he understood out loud.

***

The ropes took about ten minutes to learn. The sales spiel was entirely scripted, took a minute to run through, and could be read directly from the manual. Dean, who seemed hardly capable of forming human speech, came alive only every time the phone hit his ear.

"Good morning, sorry to bother you, this is Dean Spink of Anne Sommers Gaming Systems UK. I wondered if you were aware we are operating a ten per cent discount for new customers on purchase, hire purchase and lease payments. We're aware you operate a number of machines, but we believe you'll be impressed at the significant advantages an Anne Sommers unit can offer."

To every script could be added the additional line: "No, it's just a coincidence, we're nothing to do with sex toys." Customers smaned. Customers had often also heard the script several times before, and became highly irritated on hearing it for the fifth or sixth time. Steve found it more effective to vary the script, and did so a number of times while Gary was absent from his desk. On those occasions, he entered into a longer conversation with the client, along the lines of 'Yes, the script is shit, but the machines are really quite good'. One of the clients agreed to an appointment-to-visit. The client ran a large site with over thirty machines. Steve, however, had still not made his quota of ten appointments-to-visit per day. Working through the lunch hour until six o'clock, he only managed two.

At the end of the day, when lights were switching off and computer screens locking, Steve suddenly became aware of Gary's suit standing in front of his desk, with Gary inside it.

"Young man", said Gary, "I feel we should have a little chat." He gestured at his desk. "Over to my office."

Feeling strangely ambivalent towards the whole having-a-job issue, Steve rose and walked woodenly over to the desk while Gary sat down and composed himself at the enormity of what he saw on his screen.

"Two appointments", said Gary. "Two."

"One of them was with a thirty-machine site", said Steve.

"That makes no difference", said Gary. "Two is not good enough."

"How many did Dean do today?" said Steve.

"That's not relevant; we're concentrating on you. Two is not good enough. It has to get better, or you and I are going to be parting company." He concentrated the Aryan power of his stare. "I have also heard that you have been deviating from the script."

"When I deviated from the script, I made two sales", said Steve.

"That's not the point. Deviating from the script is not permitted. You might make promises the company can't keep. I have even heard that you've been bad-mouthing the script itself, to a customer."

Steve could think of nothing to say.

"If I hear", said Gary, fixing Steve with his all-powerful finger, "of any repetition of this behaviour, you are out." He sank back into his chair. "I'm wondering whether or not to simply walk over to Human Resources and terminate you right now. You've been nothing but trouble since your arrival."

Gary's mobile phone sounded. He fished in his pocket for it. The time was one minute past six.

"Hello? Hi there, sweet cakes, I'm fine. Just disciplining some little tosser who hasn't got it into his head he's here to work...What time did you say? Tonight? Are you sure I said that? I'm not sure I did...look, to be honest, I've got rather a lot on at work tonight, can we take a rain check?

"...Oh, nothing, really, something's come up." Gary actually winked at Steve at this point. We're both lads, wor, eh? "How about Sunday night?...Yes, but Saturday night is for the boys. You know that's my rule...

"...Yes, I'm sure you do, baby. Ciao."

He flicked the phone off. Almost instantly, it rang again. The time was three minutes past six.

"Hello? Oh, hi...

"Of course I'm on for tonight. You just try and stop me.

"Who was I on the phone to? Just my mother." Gary winked at Steve again. "Are you on for tomorrow night too?

"No, I can't do Sunday. Sunday night is boys' night.

"...Well, it is this week. I said I'd go out with them.

"No, I don't know where we're going to go. Sean's driving. He's in charge.

"Yes, of course I love you, baby. Ciao."

He flicked the phone off and sat back with a cat-that-got-the-cream expression. When Steve didn't ask, he answered anyway.

"In case you're wondering, Number One is Casual Shag, on the rebound, easy meat. Her boyfriend lost his job, the waster, and she kicked him out the house. I'm telling you, she'll do anything. Up the arse, in the mouth, anything. Mad dirty bitch. If I'd known an estate agent could be so filthy, I'd have bought more houses than I have already."

The words 'estate agent' hit Steve like a slap across the face.

"...Number Two, meanwhile, is Hotter Than Dynamite. Vagina like an egg-eating snake." Gary rose from his desk. "Look after my phone a minute; I need a piss, then you're free to go."

Steve wished he were.

"I see you've been working with Gary", said a voice from behind Steve. He jumped, and turned to see Mr. Botham, wearing a U.S. cavalry hat. He was also wearing a badge marked SHERRIFF.

"I'm sorry", said Mr. Botham, noticing Steve's interest in his clothes. "Are my flies undone, perhaps?"

"No", said Steve. "I mean, I didn't notice whether they were or, um, weren't."

"Jolly good", said Mr. Botham, staring after Gary. "Gary's a vile little shit, isn't he?"

Steve grinned with an almost explosive release of tension. "Mr. Botham, you wear that cavalry hat well."

"Am I wearing a cavalry hat?"

"Unintentionally, I'm sure", reassured Steve.

Mr. Botham nodded.

"You know", said Mr. Botham, "there's an opening in my department. Visual concept marketing. The pretty pictures we put on the front of the machines."

Steve frowned. "Isn't that what you do?"

"Good gracious, no. Gaudy cartoon pictures of men and women wearing very few clothes are just so boring. I design the internal mathematics, the payout algorithms. It used to be more fun before things went digital, but it's still a rewarding job, and I think it would suit you. Bear it in mind. Ask Human Resources for a job spec."

Steve nodded. "Thank you. I'll do that."

"I can discuss it with you on the way home if you like."

"I'd like that. Just a second, I believe I have something to do."

"I believe you do."

Steve walked over to Gary's desk, picked up the phone, turned it over. Although a shiny, new-model Nokia with an inbuilt video camera, it was still a Nokia; the menu structure was similar to that on Steve's own phone. He flicked down to RECEIVED CALLS. Received Call One read KIM. Received Call Two read HUBBA HUBBA.

Carefully, he picked up a biro and wrote down the number for HUBBA HUBBA. He was reasonably certain he already knew the number for KIM. Maintaining calmness under pressure, he typed in that number and texted A NUMBER U MAY B INTERESTED IN - A FRIEND to it, along with the number for HUBBA HUBBA.

Then he laid the phone back on the desk, opened the door for Mr. Botham, and left.

***

"So you're aiming your new product at the Chinese market?"

Mr. Botham nodded. "Growth market, cultural gambling fixation, very big. Our principal problems are the adherence of Chinese business barons to old-style coin-operated systems rather than ticket-in-ticket-out, along with the woefully low value of the Chinese renminbi. We've had some success recently with Krugerrand-operated machines - Chinese gamblers like walking around with a literal pocketful of gold. We have several designs for the casing, of course, most of them involving crouching tigers entering hidden dragons, kung fu chop sockey sort of stuff..."

"That won't work", said Steve suddenly.

"Oh?" said Mr. Botham, pushing his way through the Underground turnstile. "Your reasoning being?" A small boy passed Mr. Botham yelling "BANG BANG! YOU'RE DEAD, COWBOY!"

"Chinese people are Chinese", said Steve.

"This much I know already."

"I mean, Chinese people can get kung fu any day they like. You probably see some little guy fighting off thirty armed attackers while you're waiting for the bus in China. What you need is something non-Chinese."

"Such as?"

Steve shrugged. "Cowboys", he said, and instantly regretted it. However, when Botham failed to react, he pressed forward and added, "or pirates, spacemen, sword and sorcery, cops and robbers, cavemen and dinosaurs."

He thought a moment longer, then said, struck by inspiration like a shaft of light from heaven:

"Cowboys and dinosaurs."

Mr. Botham stopped dead and turned to face him in the middle of the street. Cars and taxis roared past them, horns blaring.

"What?"

"Exactly!" Steve's eyes glowed with messianic fervour. "You just stopped dead in the middle of a busy street because I said that one thing. Cowboys and dinosaurs. If you saw a game like that on the other side of the street, you'd cross the room to look at it. You'd play it out of sheer curiosity."

Mr. Botham stared at Steve as if he had laid a golden egg. Hindu schoolchildren on both sides of the street screamed at Mr. Botham, yelling "THE ONLY GOOD INJUN IS A DEAD INJUN!"

"Would I?" said Mr. Botham.

"You would", said Steve. "Trust me."

He turned Mr. Botham around to propel him off the Queen's highway.

***

"We could make it paleontologically accurate", said Mr. Botham. "Every scale, every serration on T Rex's teeth." His eyes were now on full beam too. Passers-by in the street outside GERMAN'S HIDE FOOD were blinded by the glare of his enthusiasm.

"Or", said Steve, "or, we could just get the same toss-off artist we use to draw pictures of Count Dracula, Robin Hood and the Invading Saucer Men to draw a big green lizard biting off Billy the Kid and General Custer's heads."

"Billy the Kid and General Custer would never have met", said Mr. Botham. "Custer died at the Little Bighorn in 1876; Billy the Kid only came of age in 1877. And dinosaurs aren't lizards", he added hastily.

"But it would make a great picture", said Steve, as they stood on the top step of the building.

"Undeniably." Mr. Botham looked up the building. "Do you like living here?"

"It's okay. Might ask the landlord to do something about the damp. I'm getting on well with Gonoroid."

Mr. Botham peered round the front door, checking for whatever Steve was referring to. "Gonoroid?"

"The sci-fi fan on the first floor. Sometimes wears a space helmet."

"Oh, him." Mr. Botham walked tall into the hall. "I never talk to him. He's a weirdo."