The Bad News Bears

My four-thirty headache has kicked in early today and I'm sitting
here encircled by din, the happy people to one side and Bolan yakking
away to the other. I'm listening to what he's saying but it is just
noise, he is not imparting information, he is moaning about problems I
am already aware of. He's moaning that management are incompetent, that
project timescales are ridiculous, that the department is so
disorganised half of us are wasting our time whilst the other half have
too much work to ever do in time. He has to moan because he has to
react and moaning is the only reaction available. I let it wash over
me. In a minute he will stop and I will moan about my head.

In the far corner of the office the happy people are gathered around
looking at something they got working. There is still part of me, a
little part of me, that wants to go other and look. I could as well, I
wrote a lot of the code that is now running so satisfactorily and
making the happy people happier, but I do not because I hate the happy
people. I hate them for being happy when I am not. I am ensconced now,
installed in the unhappy corner being unhappy with the unhappy Bolan
who moans at me about being unhappy.

Bolan stops moaning and I complain about the noise. Bolan shouts for
them to shut up. They take no notice but it makes me laugh. There is
camaraderie in unhappiness, it is what makes it worthwhile.

How are we supposed to work, he says. And he has a point, if either of
us were working the noise would put us off, but we are not, Bolan is
playing solitaire and I am reading something on the internet. Reading
the tiny writing on the monitor will only make my head hurt worse but
there is nothing else to do till lunchtime.

The girl at reception is called Jackie. Today she has a new picture of
Justin Timberlake, who she calls Justin Trowsersnake, on her monitor
which she shows to all the staff who stop and talk to her. Bolan sits
in reception from just before twelve waiting for lunch. He is sitting
there while I pass through on the way to the sandwich shop and Jackie
shows me her new picture of Justin Trowsersnake. As I walk out the door
a delivery man walks in. Jackie will smirk as she helps him whilst all
the time a half naked Justin Trowsersnake stares alluringly at
her.

I have not eaten in the canteen since I joined the ranks of the
unhappy. It helps to eat soggy sandwiches from the shop and tell myself
that it is because I do not want to partake of company food. That way
lays institutionalisation I say. Bolan is more secure in his
unhappiness, he relishes the chance to spread it around, he is an
unhappy moaning evangelist. Today I need to go to the shop anyway to
buy paracetamol.

Bolan and I have a bet, the sum of one pound sterling will go the
person who escapes first. There are rules, the bet is won on the day
the first person hands in his notice but they must have another job or
it us null and void. If either of us snap, and decide to just go, we do
not win.

Upstairs I dry swallow two tablets whilst waiting for the coffee
machine to finish spitting and gurgling out a cup of coffee. As I sniff
at the selection of plastic milk bottles I am thanked for all my hard
work by the happiest man in the building, our boss Conway.

Have you seen the demo? He asks.

I say I saw it was working and put my hands to my throat where I can
still feel the tablets.

He says it looks good.

I have perfected the art of doing just enough work. The principle cause
of my unhappiness, which I adopted perhaps six months ago, was boredom.
Always I was given work and would finish it nice and early. I would ask
for more and would be told there was none. So I sat there, for weeks
sometimes, with nothing to do. Seven hours a day. Five days a week.
Reading the internet and twiddling my thumbs. The inactivity makes you
bored, but after a while it becomes the norm and it makes you lazy, and
then, subtly, without you really noticing, it makes you stupider. The
next time you try and get your teeth into a problem you find your
attention span has shrunk and your brain has turned to porridge. So now
that I am lazy and stupid I eek out my work so I am not given too much
ever again, I do just enough to not get in trouble, and spend the rest
of the time playing games on my computer and reading the
internet.

I moan about this to the other unhappy and the semi-happy. They say
things like why don't you just get another job and I tell them I am
trying but in truth I am not trying that hard because I am lazy. I moan
that I just do not care anymore and sometimes they shrug and say they
never did. To some people it is just a job, you come in, do the work,
and get paid. Me, I used to really care, I used to love it. That is the
real problem, I miss caring.

When five o-clock finally arrives my headache is no better but I am
finally allowed to go home. This day Bolan is on the phone and I
gesture to him, tapping my watch, and tell him he is in bad danger of
staying past five.

He smiles and with his hand over the receiver says quickly, looks like
you owe me a pound.

I contemplate, briefly, life in the corner with nobody to moan at or
with, and walk home taking my headache with me but leaving my
unhappiness behind for tomorrow.