Look At That (Inspiration Point)

Larry is my boss. I was predisposed to like him because he’s Scottish, like my Dad, but you can overcome prejudices for people as well as against them.

It is a point of honour for all workers to regard their managers as plonkers, but now again you come across one that actually fits the bill, and Larry is it. When I first joined the firm he had me into his office and talked to me earnestly about partnership, communication and his ever open door. When I got back down to my floor Andrea said to me: ‘So you’ve had the talk, then? Partnership, communication and his ever open door?’
I nodded. ‘It’s a good philosophy,’ I said seriously.
‘It’s a load of bollocks,’ said Andrea.

Office blocks are like ant farms. One day you will look out of the window of yours and see a great big eye gazing with interest at you and all the other little organisms running around, doing everything from photocopying to changing your life by forwarding this e-mail to eight people you really value. The big eye will find all this incomprehensible but entrancing. To it, all floors of an office building look the same. Carpets, desks, wall coverings, the recessed fluorescent lighting, even the goddam people, look the same. But they are not. Each floor has its own atmosphere, its own zeitgeist, and its own person who must be kept happy.

On our floor, Larry is that person. His own office is on a different floor, of course, as befits management, and as the Greeks raised their eyes to Olympus, so we raise ours to The Fourth. Beyond that we do not dare to gaze.

Larry is a minor god in the pantheon, but his origins are suitably mysterious. Rumour is that he was head hunted by a disgruntled executive as a parting shot, and given excellent references by an previous employer desperate to be rid. No-one can imagine that he would have got through interview. So, the legend goes, as the remaining executives do not want people to think they were stupid enough to be hoodwinked, Larry’s job is safe as long as he does not actually stick his hand in the till or up the wrong person’s skirt.

Larry will never do either of these things, because Larry does not actually do anything at all. Larry attends meetings and presents reports written by other people, whose work he acknowledges by banging on about inclusivity and listening to the ‘front line‘, thus turning his presentation of other people’s work into an act of supreme generosity. Larry forwards other people’s e-mails to people he people he hardly knows, let alone values, and then forwards on the replies to the original sender. Larry pops his head round the door on his way up to The Fourth and says, ‘All right, people?’ before vanishing before anyone can reply. When our floor meets its monthly targets, Larry comes down and says, ‘Well, people, I’m happy. I am really happy. You should all be proud of yourselves. And that’s the whole idea. That all of the people in this department should be happy, as happy as…’ He looks round expectantly but no-one, ever, takes the bait. ‘As happy as Larry!’ he finishes, with triumph.

A senior manager did once try to take Larry to task. Word filtered down from The Fourth, and we waited, expectantly, for reason finally to reassert itself. But after several weeks Larry was still popping his head round the door and forwarding e-mails, and a couple of months later the senior manager resigned. Once a new employee on our floor complained about Larry to someone on The Third, on the understanding the complaint would bypass The Fourth and go straight to The Fifth, if not The Sixth or Seventh. At the end of her probationary period her contract was not confirmed, and leakage from The Fourth pointed to anomalies in her statistics.

So, we have learned to live with Larry.

Today is the first day of spring. When I caught the bus this morning everybody looked brighter, and the driver smiled at me. I actually got off the bus a stop early, to savour the scent of the air and the feel of the breeze. I did not want to go in through the big revolving doors and take the lift up to my floor. I flirted, briefly, with the idea of walking past and phoning in sick. I looked up at the sun glancing off the sheets of smoked glass that climb all the way up to unknown and unimaginable floors, and knew that someone was watching me. I was still outside the courtyard with the fountain and the piece of modern sculpture, but I didn’t know how far the CCTV cameras could see.

I am often the first one in the office, but today Andrea beat me to it. I was not surprised. Andrea is a seasonal creature who has flirted with Wicca, and the spring usually gives her a freshness and new resolve. This morning, however, she was stony-faced.
‘Read your e-mail,’ she said in reply to my greeting.
I logged in and scanned the new messages. I stared. ‘Larry’s going up to The Fifth!’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Larry’s going up to The Fifth. Piss-useless, shit-brained, fart-faced Larry is going up to The Fifth. On the strength of consistent target performances. Up to The Fifth, with a salary to match and a parking space two rows nearer the back entrance.’
I knew why she was so angry. Andrea has her eye on The Third, and she’s worked her backside off to ensure we achieved the last few monthly targets. Her reports have been a model of clarity and concision, her statistics have been presented in some of the most elegant graphs I have ever seen, and last month, when it was her turn to produce the PowerPoint presentation, it was simply a joy to sit through.

And now Larry is going up to The Fifth.

‘At least he won’t be our Manager any more,’ I said. ‘Surely it’s worth it just for that.’
‘Read on,’ she said.

In order to preserve continuity, said the rest of the e-mail from The Eighth, and in recognition of the bond between this particular Manager and his team, Larry would continue to be our Manager ‘for the time being’. On the grounds, said the e-mail, ‘that if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it!’
‘Christ,’ said Andrea. ‘He’s written the frigging thing himself.’
‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘Even Larry wouldn’t be allowed to write e-mails for The Eighth.’
‘Shit,’ said Andrea. ‘That means there’s another one like him up there.’ She fumbled in her bag.
‘Andrea,’ I said. ‘You know it’s not allowed anywhere in the building now.’
She made a sign that wasn’t V for Victory, and lit up. I felt guilty, even though I gave up two years ago. I was sure we were being watched. The Eighth have always denied there are cameras on each floor, but I’ve never been convinced.

Andrea’s foot was making angry circles in the air, while her left arm pressed tautly across her stomach, supporting the right elbow that remained rigid as she flicked the cigarette between her lips.
‘I’ve had enough,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m going to ask to see someone from the Sixth.’
‘Don’t,’ I said. I looked outside. The smoked glass stole the light from the beautiful spring day, and out of the corner of my eye I saw an even darker shadow hovering , waiting to crush every last ounce of the optimism I felt earlier. ‘Don’t, Andrea. You can’t win. Just hang on. No-one from The Fifth ever stays Manager of a team down here for long. It’ll just be until they get someone to replace him.’
‘Larry can’t afford not to be our manager,’ she said. ‘He hides behind us. He’ll cling onto this bloody team for ever.’
‘Even Larry…’ I stopped, seeing her face. She was looking beyond me, and I knew he was there.
‘Hi, people! Everything okay down here?’
The ‘down here’ seemed to have a particular edge.
Andrea stood up. ‘I gather congratulations are in order.’
He beamed. ‘Oh. You’ve read it. Well, you know, it’s for the team, really. It’s a tribute to everybody’s work.’
Don’t say it, Andrea, I prayed.
Larry’s face changed. ‘Are you smoking down here, Andrea?’
Andrea walked across to the window and threw her cigarette out. ‘No.’
A variety of emotions passed across Larry’s face. Anxiety, fear, concern, helplessness, petulance…and then the beam returned.
‘Oh, Andrea, I know what it’s like. I gave up myself five years ago, but I still get the odd craving. I know what it’s like. Look, I’ll say nothing this time, but let’s not have it again, eh? Today of all days, I want everybody to be…’ the beam got broader as he waited, in vain. ‘Happy as Larry!’
Andrea was still standing by the window. The darker shadow seemed to be growing, and I could feel all the warmth being sucked out of the day. I felt helpless and manipulated. Anger was not even an option.
Andrea looked out through the darkened glass. ‘Next stop The Eighth, eh Larry?’
He giggled. ‘Only if I can take you all with me.’
She turned, and I was astonished to see a silky smile on her lips. ‘You can take me up to The Eighth any time, Larry. Or The Fifth. Or,’ she pouted, ‘however high you would like to go.’

I am sure my face was a picture.

Larry’s was a block of stone.

‘What is it they say?’ Andrea breathed. ‘That thing about power being the greatest aphrodisiac?’
Larry’s eyes started to bulge.
‘Wouldn’t you really like to make me happy, Larry?’

Okay, I thought. So you get him up to the toilets on The Fifth, or The Eighth, or the bloody roof, and then what happens? Am I supposed to burst through the door with a Disposable Flash, there’s the evidence, Larry, resign or else? Hand up the wrong skirt at last.

He was still standing with his stone face. Only his eyes showed any sign of frantic, disturbed life.

He’s terrified, I realised.

We’ve got him.

And then Andrea laughed.

The tension dispersed. The moment was gone. Andrea’s laugh wasn’t one of triumph, or derision. It was the laugh of someone laughing at themselves, at a part of themselves they had just met and taken an instant dislike to.

The stone cracked and Larry’s giggle squeezed out. ‘Oh, she’s a wicked woman. Isn’t she a wicked woman? You’re a wicked woman, Andrea!’

Other people started arriving in the office. Larry was off with a ‘Hi, people! Bye, people!’ Andrea went back to her desk and started on her latest batch of statistics.

I glanced out of the window, at what had been the beautiful spring day. The darker shadow had retreated again, back to the corner of my eye.

During the morning there were muffled shrieks and groans as the e-mail from The Eighth was read, digested and discussed. Andrea kept her head down, refusing to participate. At ten o’clock she got a phone call.

She passed my desk on her way to the door. ‘I’ve been summoned, to the Meeting Room,’ she said. ‘Someone from The Sixth is coming down to see me.’
‘The PowerPoint,’ I said. ‘I knew it. It was brilliant. Andrea, this could mean The Third.’
‘Nah,’ she said.
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Hey, suppose…suppose they want you for The Fourth? Suppose you’re going to be the new Larry? In time. Not right away, but in time.’
She pursed her lips. ‘Nah.’
‘Yeah,’ I said.

She was half an hour. When she walked in her face was expressionless.
‘Andrea?’
‘I’ve got an official warning. Written. On my file.’
‘What?’
‘For flagrantly flouting the No Smoking rule.’ She perched on the corner of my desk. ‘If I get another official warning in the next three months, I’m on probation. After that it’s pack your pot plant and don’t bother to ask for a reference.’
‘The bastard,’ I said. ‘The fucking bastard.’
‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t Larry. He was there too, and I think he was as surprised as I was. No, they made a great point of his loyalty to his staff, and although they said it was misguided this time, they didn’t feel it outweighed any of the sterling work and qualities which had got him up to The Fifth.’
‘CCTV,’ I said.
She nodded. ‘They wouldn’t definitely say, but obviously it has to be.’ She glanced around the room. ‘Big Manager is watching us.’
I shivered, remembering how I’d felt that morning, when I’d thought about walking past the door. ‘Can they hear what we’re saying?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. Video only. Otherwise they’d probably have had a few things to say about that, too.’
‘I’m sorry, Andrea,’ I said. With a written warning on her file, it would be a long, long time, if ever, before Andrea would see The Third.
She stood up. ‘Sod it. Sod him.’
‘Yeah.’

The atmosphere in the office remained subdued. I found it hard to concentrate on my statistics, knowing I was being watched. A tune from a few years previously kept running through my head, at once soothing and annoying.

At half past four Larry came down. Heads turned to look at him as he stood, blinking and beaming, in the doorway.
‘Well, people. I think today is a recognition of everybody’s work.’ He did not look across at Andrea. ’Hey, drinks on Friday, after work? Yeah?’
There was a ripple of uncommitted sound.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Finish the week on a high, eh? Everyone happy, happy as…’
‘Larry,’ said Andrea, her voice cutting across the room. She smiled. ‘Happy as Larry, Larry.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Exactly. Well said, Andrea. Well said.’ He looked round the office, the beam fixed like a rictus on his face. ‘Well, hi and goodbye, people! We’ll do it all again tomorrow!’
We watched him back out of the door.

Andrea and I were among the last to leave. I logged off, switched off the computer, and gave another glance round at the invisible eyes watching us. I looked across at the darkened glass. That darker shadow was still there, hovering, almost within sight.
‘Drink?’ I said to Andrea.
‘Why not? I’m certainly not going with Mr Fucking Teflon Man on Friday.’

She didn’t say much on the way down in the lift, but when we had gone through the revolving doors into the courtyard she asked, ‘What is that bloody tune you’ve been humming all afternoon?’
I blushed. ‘Sorry. I didn’t realise I was singing out loud.’
‘So what is it? I think I know it.’
‘It’s ‘Smooth Criminal’.’
‘I knew I knew it. Michael Jackson.’
‘The original was. I’ve got a really good cover version from a few years back.’
‘Who’s that by, then?’ Andrea asked.
‘Band called Alien Ant Farm.’
‘Oh,’ said Andrea, looking up at the sky.