The Elusive Success

I am Mark, time-killing expert. I am currently sat at my desk, which will not be my desk for much longer, refreshing my email Inbox as I await an important memo. I am about to become senior vice-president of Fixture inc. (I don’t think you’ll care what we do, I’ll let you make up your own mind). I deserve the promotion, I dream of the promotion, and I will get the promotion, there’s nothing and no one that could stop me. Switching off my desktop screen, I use the blank temporary-mirror to see my reflection. Brown, poorly-styled hair covers an average-looking face that some might find attractive, whilst my blue, some say green, eyes glare back at me, three lines clearly underneath tired eyes that suggest I need a better sleeping pattern.

2 Months have passed, and I ruffle my hair in frustration, as I recall this same moment 56 days ago (I have a day countdown app on my phone), when I refreshed my email inbox in search of that message. It doesn’t come.

Our Manager, Brock, surveys the room with eyes filled of money, and little compassion. We are in the staff meeting where my promotion is soon to be announced. I survey the room, as though I am as managerial as Brock, who is an old man with spectacles, seeking out any who might challenge me at this point. Charlie, who stands next to me, shares a joke with another colleague, which I have not been included in. Charlie is my oldest friend, and I have known him since we met at a University open day, 23 years ago.

“You all know why I’ve called you in here” Barks Brock. I prepare.

“I know you’ve all been kept waiting slightly longer than perhaps you should have, but I was keen to make the right choice.” Dollar signs burst from his green eyes.

“Charlie Withastall, you are the next Senior Vice President of Fixture!” Brock says the words almost at me, tauntingly robbing me of my job.

I don’t know where it is I should look. I refuse to clap for Charlie, the layabout. He accepts the plaudits, ruffling his luscious blonde hair back. He had always been the more attractive of our friendship circle. He looks excited, arrogant, inconsiderate and embarrassed. You don’t want me to document his victory speech, and I don’t want to write it down, so we’ll move on.

The next morning I have the opportunity to speak to Charlie in the stationary cupboard on the second floor of a 24-storey building just outside of Derby, a place I hate.

“Congratulations” I say in such an obviously sarcastic manner I almost laugh at myself.

“What is your problem exactly?” Charlie replies unreasonably, pathetically not recognizing my issue with his most recent achievement. “You didn’t clap yesterday.” He brings up as though it is hard evidence in a murder trial, which I would unsurprisingly be the defendant.

“Oh me? Nothing, Nothing.” I lie obviously, hoping that he will put me in a conversational position where I can tell him that he is in a job he doesn’t deserve.

“You’re not seriously suggesting you were in for the promotion are you?”

I lash out. Three red lines stain Charlie’s face, and even I’m surprised at the amount of blood I draw from his face with my fingernails. There is various shouting in response to my “attack” on his face. His arrogantly attractive face.

Seeking solitude, I leave the office early. I drive to a quiet spot in the Derbyshire hills, where I would come with family. I sit on the car’s bonnet, drinking foul whisky that hurts more than soothes. I cry, for the first time since I was 9. This is no longer about the promotion. This is me. I try and recall my last achievement, and this search fails me entirely, as I throw the empty bottle (which I bought half an hour earlier) over the hill’s edge into what is now the night’s sky. I move closer to the edge, stones fall beneath my feet as I do, and I look over to see a beck, around 200 metres or so, underneath where my self-pity goes on. I imagine who I would be missed by.

I don’t go into work the next week, using my holiday allowance which I was reserving to visit my Mother and Father’s graves, in Austria. I dial the only number in my phone, my friend Harriett, whom I speak to, well talk at, for two hours and 48 minutes. She understands. She always did.

“It feels like there’s very little talent within me.” I complain to Harriett.

“Rubbish. You’ve just bee unlucky so far, that’s all.” Her tone is soothing, like a cold drink on a hot summer’s day calming my body to a temperature acceptable at any time.

“It’s important to call Charlie first.” She advises.

“That might be a bit tricky, I don’t think he’ll pick up, I’ve tried him three times already.” I reply, squashing her hopes of ever being a life coach.

“Well try again” She says. I would usually find this a pointless addition of advice, but its Harriett, so I do.

That call was a difficult one, so I think it’d best if I don’t write it all down for now.

“I’ve rejected it.” Charlie forgives me. “I’ve told Brock you deserved it far more than me. There’s not much more I can do.”

Guilt wrenches into the pit of my stomach like a Charlie-shaped dagger. ‘What a tit you’ve been’ I blame myself. Guilt and embarrassment are two disgusting feelings, which combine to form the ashamed person who now writes for you.

I’m back in work, refreshing my emails. I still haven’t had the position offered to me, and this feels particularly familiar.

Brock’s cash-eyes survey the room once more, this time slightly more compassionately, as I once again prepare myself for 30 pairs of eyes to be on me, and 30 pairs of hands to applaud the new senior vice-president, me.

“Now, this has been a strange turn of events.” Brock makes me nervous by not announcing my name immediately.

“But, since we’ve had to appoint our 2^nd rather than 1^st choice for the position…” This hurts. I didn’t like being described simply as ‘the 2^nd choice’.

“…we’ve had to wait slightly for this moment. Robert Quinn, you are the new senior vice-president of Fixture!”