New Boy

New Boy
'So you're the new boy then?'
'That's right. Started this morning.'
'Excellent. If you need anything don't hesitate to ask my
secretary.'
'Thank-you.' It is the hundredth time I've had to say thank-you today
while thinking 'Fuck you' in my head. I'm not used to working in an
office. I'm not used to working. The views from the windows are of
other concrete buildings, the pictures on the walls are of faces as
anonymous as mine, the open plan office is full of people wearing grey
suits, pot plants which were bought years ago to 'brighten the place
up' by junior managers who'd read about it in their GCSE Business
Studies text books, but failed to read between the lines, that you need
to water them otherwise they wilt and die, reminding everyone of their
own mortality.
'So you're the new boy then?'
'That's right. Started this morning.'
'You appear to be doing nothing.'
'I was told to familiarise myself with my surroundings.'
'Oh right. Well, to stop you getting bored could you take these papers
to Accounts please? Do you know where that is?'
'Yeah.' I say, and get a severe look which suggests that we say 'Yes'
in this office rather than 'Yeah', in the same way as we say
'Thank-you' and not 'fuck you', and tell people we do know where
Accounts is when I don't have a clue. I stand up to start my Accounts
Department adventure, but only get as far as the managers door, which
I've been told 'is always open' which is lucky because it's also the
fire exit.
'Ah, the new boy. Just the chap. Leave whatever you're doing for now, I
want to have a chat with you, so we can get to know each other a bit
better. After all, I feel this is the start of a good working
relationship.'
I feel it isn't.
'I was your age when I started working here' says the silver haired
wrinkly hunchback who was clearly never my age. 'So I know what you're
going through. Everything's exciting, new things to learn, new people
to meet. Best time of my life was my first month here.'
I want to disagree with him on that point, the first month here will be
the worst of my life because unlike being unemployed you can't put the
telly on or go to the pub whenever you want, or spend all day in just
your boxer shorts. And if you could do according to the dress code
they'd have to be grey.
'I expect your enjoying every minute.' The manager continues while I
wonder how much further detached from reality he is going to reveal
himself to be. 'Tell me, what is your ambition?'
'I don't really know Sir.'
I don't really know if I should call him Sir or not but it seems
preferable to calling him wanker. As it's my first day.
'Well your ambition should be to run this place. I look at you and see
a young version of me. Ambitious, keen, enthusiastic.'
I look at him and see an older version of me, if I stay here for the
next fifty years, incentive, if any was needed to quit my job and go
back to the telly and pub. But I've promised myself, or more
significantly my girlfriend that I'll give it three months minimum. A
slightly different ambition to what my inspirational leader is
enforcing upon me.
'Let me show you something. The ink has only just dried. I've had my
special pen out for you this morning!' With a big smile on his face, he
takes out a leather bound book from a heavily stocked bookshelf on the
wall. He delicately dusts away barely visible particles from the spine
and front cover. Clearing space on the desk, adjusting photograph
frames and piles of paper so that nothing separates us, he gingerly
cradles the book in his hand, stands up and comes next to me, hunching
over so our heads are side by side. He brittley turns over pages and
feels the tops of the pages, partially removing a feathered
bookmark.
'Here it is.' he says, opening the book in front of me for the first
time. 'This book is my Bible. It contains all the information I will
ever need to know. Every employee who has ever worked here is sketched
out - their full names, the day they started, their date of birth and
family status. Then there is another column detailing their
achievements here at work. I'll chose one arbitrarily?'
He takes a pair of reading glasses from a case on the desk and tenderly
runs his index finger down the first column, written in a bolder, more
legible handwriting than the other columns.
'Here we go?Johnson, Paul. Born in Nottingham in 1952. He joined the
company on ?the 22nd of March 1970.' His finger runs across to the next
column, written using a finer tipped pen. 'Applied for promotion in
1975 and 1979, achieving it in 1979. Elected onto the accounting
committee in 1981. Married in 1978, two children, Emily and Joanna.
Left in 1996 due to stress.' He takes his glasses off and smiles. 'It
also contains irrelevant details such as addresses and contact details.
Would you like another example?Amelia Anderson, born in 1965?'
'No thank-you, I get the gist. Excuse me if this sounds impertinent,
but what does this have to do with me?'
'Ah, that's the attitude I like. That's why you got this job ahead of
the other candidates. Getting to the point, decisiveness. This book is
full of people just like you.' He raps his knuckles against the cover
of the book 'What has it got to do with you? Well, you have now joined
the allusive list. You are entry 451. I thought you would want to see
what an institution you are joining. I always show new employees their
names in this book. If a fire broke out it would be the one thing that
I would climb over burning beams and walk over scorching floorboards
inhaling lungfulls of smoke to retrieve. My predecessors predecessor
began the first ledger, dipping this same calligraphy pen into an ink
pot to write his own name. On my first day, my name was written just as
diligently as your name was this morning. My number is 260. Not a day
goes by when I don't peruse the names in these columns, look at the
statistics, correlate new information, write new figures, always taking
care that every digit and every letter is written with as much pain
staking care as it was that first day all those years ago. Look through
it, there is not one smudge. Not one ink stain, misspelling or crease.
Hours have been spent on this book, if I lost this I would have lost
everything. Is there one possession that you own which you value in the
same way. Treasure as much as I do this book?'
'Probably my signed Ziggy Stardust album, I met David Bowie after a gig
in Manchester.'
'Excuse me?'
'Ziggy Stardust -the greatest album ever made. It spend more time
bringing me up than my parents.'
'You won't get very far in life if all you appreciate is a signed
record.'
I look at him, hunched over, stinking of cigar smoke, his face as
pompous as it is wrinkled and I feel like walking out.
'You'll find more perspective in time here though. We'll teach you
what's important in life.' He affectionately taps the book with his
fist again, before replacing it on the shelf.
'Thank-you' I say and walk out the door, which I'd been edging nearer
ever since I first walked into the office. I feel my face burning up
with anger, at him, at the prospect of staying here and because he
dismissed everything I said while expecting everything he said to be
accepted as gospel. Without thinking I open a window and drop the
sheets for the accounts department out of it and watch them gently
float down the thirteen floors in the breeze, my only regret not having
a camera. I collect my coat, switch off my computer and walk onto the
street which is carpeted with A4 paper. I walk over it and catch the
next train home. There, I get out my signed Ziggy Stardust album and
play it full blast, while thanking it for ridding me of a life of pot
plants, open plan offices and bastard new boys who throw all your
accounting paperwork out of the window on their first day.