NaNoWriMo – Day 12 (11/12/2005)
Glenn
“Let’s get a move on and get you out of here,” says Jim beside me. I’m still in shock and can’t think how to respond. Never in my twelve years working as a security guard here have I seen someone stand up to the Sirs like that. And to publicly humiliate him with the ‘pulled-back handshake’ gag … wow. “C’mon then,” Jim says, probably still in shock himself. “Let’s go—right now.”
The guy who just got fired, or quit, or whatever just happened—Simon—he’s just looking at Jim like he’s from another planet. Everyone else is watching Simon watch Jim, and vice versa. It’s like a tennis match … they look from one man to the next like they’re lobbing a ball back and forth. But neither of them is speaking and neither blinks. It reminds me of the staring contests we used to have as kids. No blinking and no smiling, those were the rules. Break either one of them and you lost.
“Jim,” I say lightly. “Simon here has five minutes to get his stuff together before we need to get on his case. He’s had a rough day and it’s only—” I check my watch, “—a quarter to eleven. Jim stares at Simon a moment longer and then breaks his gaze and turns it on me instead.
“Whatever you say ‘Fiddich.” Fiddich is the name the guys down at the APSG (Association of Professional Security Guards) gave me when the found out about my penchant for single malt scotch. Jim only uses it when we’re out for a drink together or if he’s trying to make a point. I’m guessing today it’s the latter. I give him a quick nod to let him know I got the point … or at least I got that he was trying to make a point. We’ll work it out afterwards but we need to stay solid right now.
Turning to Simon I say, “We’re going to need to make sure that we get you out of here as quickly as possible. I know you’re probably a little hot right now, and you’d probably like to make your point a few more times today if you can, but we’re all just working folk like you, okay? We’ve got our own jobs to do; this is your fight. Okay?”
He turns his gaze on me and I can feel the eyes of everyone else looking at me as well. I glance up to the executive offices and am not surprised to see both of the Sirs watching the scene as well. It’s like the Rupert Sheldrake book, magnified by about a hundred people. Looking back to Simon I reiterate, “Okay?” to which he gives a slight, almost imperceptible nod. I return the nod and we unlock our eyes.
“Will you help me pack the last of this stuff up?” he asks the young intern who has been watching him expectantly the entire time. She nods by way of an answer and together they move to the centre of the cubicle and begin sorting out the items on the floor and placing them deliberately into a cardboard box.
“Thank you for helping me,” I hear him say in a low voice to the girl.
She just looks at him; unsure what to say or unable to speak I cannot immediately tell. She, too, must be in some amount of shock having been dragged into the middle of a situation that is completely outside her expectations for the day. I’m sure she didn’t come to work today wanting to be involved in a row between one of the office staff and the Sirs. And I’m doubly sure that she didn’t come to work wanting to be seen as taking his side against theirs. Which, I have no doubt, is how she’s been judged, by the Sirs alone if by no one else in the crowd that has gathered. She’ll be lucky if she makes it through the afternoon without being fired herself. She’s only a temp anyway.
“It’s okay,” she says, “I’m just worried about finding a new job tomorrow. I don’t want the temp agency to think I’m gonna ruin everything for them.” She’s obviously gotten the same message I did … smart girl.
“I can call them if you want. If you give me their number, I’ll call them and tell them that you got pulled into this because of me; that you didn’t actively participate, that you were just trying to help me out; I can even tell them that I coerced you somehow, convinced you to help me. At least they’ll know that it wasn’t your idea.”
“I appreciate the thought, but I think I need to handle this one myself. I’ll call them as soon as you’re gone and let them know what’s happened so that it doesn’t come as a surprise to them. Maybe they’ll even call the Sirs themselves and arrange to have someone else brought in tomorrow morning instead of me, and they can reassign me somewhere else.”
Standing there, watching over them along with Jim and the crowd that is only now starting to disperse at the back where people can’t see now that Simon and the girl are packing his things, I feel like an intruder in someone else’s living room; like we’re there listening to an intensely private conversation between two people who have little to gain and everything to lose. I feel like an interloper.
“I’m sorry if I made your life more difficult than it needs to be,” he says to her, still talking in a low voice so that only the people closest to him—in a physical sense only—those of us who are inside the cubicle walls, can actually hear.
“Oh hey,” she says, “easy is overrated anyway. It’s when things are difficult that we actually learn and grow, right? So, you’ve actually done me a favour.” She gives him a little smile and goes back to packing. I can’t help but wonder if she’s trying to convince him that easy is overrated or herself. Personally, I don’t think there’s any such think as an easy life.
I notice Jim looking pointedly at me and when I give him my attention he glances at his wristwatch and then gives a backward shake of his head up towards where the Sirs can still be seen in the windows of the executive offices, looking down on the scene. ‘We’ve gotta get this guy outta here,’ his eyes are telling me, ‘or we might be next on the block.’ I get the message and give him a quick nod.
“Simon,” I say gently but, I hope, firmly, “it’s time for you to leave.”
He looks at the girl first and gives a small smile, then looks up at me. “Give me a hand up?” he asks, reaching up to me. I grasp his arm around the wrist and feel his hand close around mine. Loading my weight backwards slightly I give a quick tug and hoist him to his feet. We release each other’s arms and he turns to offer his own hand to the girl, which she accepts. He pulls her to her feet and, for a moment, they stand there facing each other, looking at each other.
“Thank you, Julia.”
“You’re welcome. And thank you, too,” she says, reaching up on her toes and giving him a light kiss on the cheek. I might be mistaken, but it looked to me like she caught him just on the corner of the mouth too. I wonder if that was intentional or not.
Blushing, he asks, “What was that for?”
“It’s not important,” she answers cryptically. “But thank you all the same.”
“Then you’re welcome, even if I’m not sure what for.” That small smile plays at the corner of his mouth again as he reaches down and picks up the box full of his belongings.
Turning to look first at me and then at Jim, he says, “All right everyone. It looks like my escort has arrived. Mustn’t dawdle now, off we go,” and turns to leave the cubicle. We are just about to leave the desk area when another employee steps out of the crowd and stands directly in front of Simon.
“Gonna leave without saying goodbye?” he asks, pretending to dab at tears in the corners of his eyes. He draws a laugh from the crowd still standing around to see what, if anything else will happen. It has certainly been an eventful day so far.
“Hey Charlie. I guess it was more than just a review of my work, huh?”
“Looks that way, doesn’t it?”
“Sure does. But, as I just learned from Julia here, ‘easy is overrated.’ I’m about to start growing again, Charlie. Enough of this place … this was long overdue.”
“I know it, buddy. I know it.”
“All too well, eh? You thought about joining me?”
“Thought about it, considered it, decided against it. I’ve got a family at home, Simon. Wife; kids. I can’t just up and quit.”
“Just think about what’s going to be better for them in the long run Charlie. You keep working here you’re gonna lose your soul. Then what good will you be to your family?”
“Yer more than just another pretty face, you know that?”
Simon puts his box of belongings down on the table beside him and gives the newcomer, Charlie, a big hug. “Take care of yourself, Charlie. Don’t let this place knock the wind outta your sails, okay?”
“Simon, just ‘cause you quit your job doesn’t mean we’re not gonna see each other. Jesus, man, I’ve gotta stay here and keep working and you’re giving me hugs in public?” This elicits another laugh from the crowd. “What’re you trying to do … ruin my reputation?”
I smile with the others while Simon picks up his box and resumes his march to the front door. Charlie steps aside and lets us pass and I notice that he doesn’t follow. It seems he’s got piece of dirt or something stuck in his eye, which is causing it to water.
Simon leads Jim and I on a long, winding tour of the office. It is fully five minutes more before we come into the reception and lobby area. Jim walks straight to the front door, opens it for Simon and stands there waiting expectantly. I start to wonder if Jim is a little more invested in this job than I had thought. As Simon makes to walk through the door, I put my hand on his shoulder and whisper, “Hey, man. Way to go.”
He looks over his shoulder at me, gives me that small smile, and walks through the open door.
Harold
Hey, here comes that guy from earlier this morning; the one who chatted while he rooted for his change. 70 cents, if I remember it right … and I usually remember things like that. He’s carrying a cardboard box, which can’t be good. From my experience, people who are carrying their belongings in a cardboard box haven’t got anyplace else to put them. Or they’re in transition.
“Back for more, are yah?” I say as he approaches. He looks at me like he’s never seen me before; almost like he’s never seen a homeless person before. “You okay, mister?” I ask.
He gives his head a shake, sits down beside me and sets his cardboard box down on the cement between his feet. “I’m Simon,” he says putting out his hand.
I take it and give it a few quick pumps. “Harold,” I tell him and he nods. “What’s in the box?” I ask him, not liking the silence and not sure what else to say. I think I know the answer to my question, so asking for money is out of the question.
“You know, I don’t even know what’s in here. Everything that was on my desk that I thought I should take with me. Today was my last day at work.”
“They canned you, did they?” I ask.
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, if it was something you expected you would have been bringing your things out bit by bit, so you didn’t have to carry it all with you in one trip. Plus, it’s the middle of the day and most people would have planned it out a little differently.”
“Pretty perceptive,” he says. “But what if I’m just bringing all this stuff out to my car? It’s a pretty big assumption to make that I just got fired.”
“Maybe, but I know a few other things too.”
“Yea, like what?”
“Well, first that the parking lot is in the other direction. I also know that you didn’t drive this morning—you never drive, in fact. I don’t know if you have a car or not, but I see you, along with everyone else who works in this building, almost every day. I’m usually leaving by the time you arrive, but you were early this morning. I saw you get off the bus right over there,” pointing at the bus shelter just a few hundred metres away, “and you stopped and gave me 70 cents this morning.”
“You’re pretty observant,” he says and I shrug.
“Not a lot else to do when you’re just sitting here begging for nickels all day.”
“No, I guess not.”
“So, I’m right then?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes. They had planned to fire me today, unbeknownst to me, but I quickly figured out what was going on. I kinda … turned the tables on them, shall we say. I suppose I made a bit of a scene.”
“A kuffuffle.”
“Yes,” he answers, laughing. “A kuffuffle. At any rate, I’m glad to be out there—though I suppose I wish I’d made the decision myself, instead of having it made for me.”
“Well, if that’s how you feel about it, I guess the important thing is that the decision got made. No point in worrying about how or who … not if it’s the right thing for you.”
“Well said.” He digs into his pocket and pulls out a twenty-dollar bill, which he holds out for me to take. “This is for you.”
Not being one to look a gift-horse in the mouth, a lesson I learned a long time ago, I reach out and take the money before asking, “What’s this for?” I hold the bill gently in both hands. It’s not every day someone drops a twenty in your lap.
“It’s for you to do with as you like,” he says, reaching down between his legs and picking up the cardboard box. Placing it on his lap he starts to root around inside, as if he’s looking for something in particular.
“Not that I’m complainin’,” I tell him, “but you just lost yer job. Are you sure you should be giving away your money right now?”
“Ah, not to worry about it. You could probably use it more than I could right now, and besides; you deserve it. You’re a good guy, trying to earn an honest day’s living. I don’t envy you, my friend; it must be a tough go of it. But you seem to have kept your wits about you—not the mention your sense of humour—and you treat folks with respect. I don’t need any better reason than that.”
“Well I appreciate that.”
“It’s my pleasure. And,” he continues, yanking out a picture of a woman and a dog sitting together on the hills of some mountainside, “you can have everything else in this box. Keep it, sell it, it’s up to you.”
“You serious?”
“Serious is as serious does,” he tells me, putting the box on the ground again, but this time in between our two pairs of feet, instead of between his own. Standing up and brushing some dust off his pants he says, “You take care of yourself, okay Harold?” I nod, dumfounded, as he walks away towards the bus. Without that box, and with his hands stuffed into his pockets like that, you’d never know he just lost his job. He looks like he hasn’t got a care in the world.
Today’s word count: 2715
Cumulative word count: 18,712
“Let’s get a move on and get you out of here,” says Jim beside me. I’m still in shock and can’t think how to respond. Never in my twelve years working as a security guard here have I seen someone stand up to the Sirs like that. And to publicly humiliate him with the ‘pulled-back handshake’ gag … wow. “C’mon then,” Jim says, probably still in shock himself. “Let’s go—right now.”
The guy who just got fired, or quit, or whatever just happened—Simon—he’s just looking at Jim like he’s from another planet. Everyone else is watching Simon watch Jim, and vice versa. It’s like a tennis match … they look from one man to the next like they’re lobbing a ball back and forth. But neither of them is speaking and neither blinks. It reminds me of the staring contests we used to have as kids. No blinking and no smiling, those were the rules. Break either one of them and you lost.
“Jim,” I say lightly. “Simon here has five minutes to get his stuff together before we need to get on his case. He’s had a rough day and it’s only—” I check my watch, “—a quarter to eleven. Jim stares at Simon a moment longer and then breaks his gaze and turns it on me instead.
“Whatever you say ‘Fiddich.” Fiddich is the name the guys down at the APSG (Association of Professional Security Guards) gave me when the found out about my penchant for single malt scotch. Jim only uses it when we’re out for a drink together or if he’s trying to make a point. I’m guessing today it’s the latter. I give him a quick nod to let him know I got the point … or at least I got that he was trying to make a point. We’ll work it out afterwards but we need to stay solid right now.
Turning to Simon I say, “We’re going to need to make sure that we get you out of here as quickly as possible. I know you’re probably a little hot right now, and you’d probably like to make your point a few more times today if you can, but we’re all just working folk like you, okay? We’ve got our own jobs to do; this is your fight. Okay?”
He turns his gaze on me and I can feel the eyes of everyone else looking at me as well. I glance up to the executive offices and am not surprised to see both of the Sirs watching the scene as well. It’s like the Rupert Sheldrake book, magnified by about a hundred people. Looking back to Simon I reiterate, “Okay?” to which he gives a slight, almost imperceptible nod. I return the nod and we unlock our eyes.
“Will you help me pack the last of this stuff up?” he asks the young intern who has been watching him expectantly the entire time. She nods by way of an answer and together they move to the centre of the cubicle and begin sorting out the items on the floor and placing them deliberately into a cardboard box.
“Thank you for helping me,” I hear him say in a low voice to the girl.
She just looks at him; unsure what to say or unable to speak I cannot immediately tell. She, too, must be in some amount of shock having been dragged into the middle of a situation that is completely outside her expectations for the day. I’m sure she didn’t come to work today wanting to be involved in a row between one of the office staff and the Sirs. And I’m doubly sure that she didn’t come to work wanting to be seen as taking his side against theirs. Which, I have no doubt, is how she’s been judged, by the Sirs alone if by no one else in the crowd that has gathered. She’ll be lucky if she makes it through the afternoon without being fired herself. She’s only a temp anyway.
“It’s okay,” she says, “I’m just worried about finding a new job tomorrow. I don’t want the temp agency to think I’m gonna ruin everything for them.” She’s obviously gotten the same message I did … smart girl.
“I can call them if you want. If you give me their number, I’ll call them and tell them that you got pulled into this because of me; that you didn’t actively participate, that you were just trying to help me out; I can even tell them that I coerced you somehow, convinced you to help me. At least they’ll know that it wasn’t your idea.”
“I appreciate the thought, but I think I need to handle this one myself. I’ll call them as soon as you’re gone and let them know what’s happened so that it doesn’t come as a surprise to them. Maybe they’ll even call the Sirs themselves and arrange to have someone else brought in tomorrow morning instead of me, and they can reassign me somewhere else.”
Standing there, watching over them along with Jim and the crowd that is only now starting to disperse at the back where people can’t see now that Simon and the girl are packing his things, I feel like an intruder in someone else’s living room; like we’re there listening to an intensely private conversation between two people who have little to gain and everything to lose. I feel like an interloper.
“I’m sorry if I made your life more difficult than it needs to be,” he says to her, still talking in a low voice so that only the people closest to him—in a physical sense only—those of us who are inside the cubicle walls, can actually hear.
“Oh hey,” she says, “easy is overrated anyway. It’s when things are difficult that we actually learn and grow, right? So, you’ve actually done me a favour.” She gives him a little smile and goes back to packing. I can’t help but wonder if she’s trying to convince him that easy is overrated or herself. Personally, I don’t think there’s any such think as an easy life.
I notice Jim looking pointedly at me and when I give him my attention he glances at his wristwatch and then gives a backward shake of his head up towards where the Sirs can still be seen in the windows of the executive offices, looking down on the scene. ‘We’ve gotta get this guy outta here,’ his eyes are telling me, ‘or we might be next on the block.’ I get the message and give him a quick nod.
“Simon,” I say gently but, I hope, firmly, “it’s time for you to leave.”
He looks at the girl first and gives a small smile, then looks up at me. “Give me a hand up?” he asks, reaching up to me. I grasp his arm around the wrist and feel his hand close around mine. Loading my weight backwards slightly I give a quick tug and hoist him to his feet. We release each other’s arms and he turns to offer his own hand to the girl, which she accepts. He pulls her to her feet and, for a moment, they stand there facing each other, looking at each other.
“Thank you, Julia.”
“You’re welcome. And thank you, too,” she says, reaching up on her toes and giving him a light kiss on the cheek. I might be mistaken, but it looked to me like she caught him just on the corner of the mouth too. I wonder if that was intentional or not.
Blushing, he asks, “What was that for?”
“It’s not important,” she answers cryptically. “But thank you all the same.”
“Then you’re welcome, even if I’m not sure what for.” That small smile plays at the corner of his mouth again as he reaches down and picks up the box full of his belongings.
Turning to look first at me and then at Jim, he says, “All right everyone. It looks like my escort has arrived. Mustn’t dawdle now, off we go,” and turns to leave the cubicle. We are just about to leave the desk area when another employee steps out of the crowd and stands directly in front of Simon.
“Gonna leave without saying goodbye?” he asks, pretending to dab at tears in the corners of his eyes. He draws a laugh from the crowd still standing around to see what, if anything else will happen. It has certainly been an eventful day so far.
“Hey Charlie. I guess it was more than just a review of my work, huh?”
“Looks that way, doesn’t it?”
“Sure does. But, as I just learned from Julia here, ‘easy is overrated.’ I’m about to start growing again, Charlie. Enough of this place … this was long overdue.”
“I know it, buddy. I know it.”
“All too well, eh? You thought about joining me?”
“Thought about it, considered it, decided against it. I’ve got a family at home, Simon. Wife; kids. I can’t just up and quit.”
“Just think about what’s going to be better for them in the long run Charlie. You keep working here you’re gonna lose your soul. Then what good will you be to your family?”
“Yer more than just another pretty face, you know that?”
Simon puts his box of belongings down on the table beside him and gives the newcomer, Charlie, a big hug. “Take care of yourself, Charlie. Don’t let this place knock the wind outta your sails, okay?”
“Simon, just ‘cause you quit your job doesn’t mean we’re not gonna see each other. Jesus, man, I’ve gotta stay here and keep working and you’re giving me hugs in public?” This elicits another laugh from the crowd. “What’re you trying to do … ruin my reputation?”
I smile with the others while Simon picks up his box and resumes his march to the front door. Charlie steps aside and lets us pass and I notice that he doesn’t follow. It seems he’s got piece of dirt or something stuck in his eye, which is causing it to water.
Simon leads Jim and I on a long, winding tour of the office. It is fully five minutes more before we come into the reception and lobby area. Jim walks straight to the front door, opens it for Simon and stands there waiting expectantly. I start to wonder if Jim is a little more invested in this job than I had thought. As Simon makes to walk through the door, I put my hand on his shoulder and whisper, “Hey, man. Way to go.”
He looks over his shoulder at me, gives me that small smile, and walks through the open door.
Harold
Hey, here comes that guy from earlier this morning; the one who chatted while he rooted for his change. 70 cents, if I remember it right … and I usually remember things like that. He’s carrying a cardboard box, which can’t be good. From my experience, people who are carrying their belongings in a cardboard box haven’t got anyplace else to put them. Or they’re in transition.
“Back for more, are yah?” I say as he approaches. He looks at me like he’s never seen me before; almost like he’s never seen a homeless person before. “You okay, mister?” I ask.
He gives his head a shake, sits down beside me and sets his cardboard box down on the cement between his feet. “I’m Simon,” he says putting out his hand.
I take it and give it a few quick pumps. “Harold,” I tell him and he nods. “What’s in the box?” I ask him, not liking the silence and not sure what else to say. I think I know the answer to my question, so asking for money is out of the question.
“You know, I don’t even know what’s in here. Everything that was on my desk that I thought I should take with me. Today was my last day at work.”
“They canned you, did they?” I ask.
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, if it was something you expected you would have been bringing your things out bit by bit, so you didn’t have to carry it all with you in one trip. Plus, it’s the middle of the day and most people would have planned it out a little differently.”
“Pretty perceptive,” he says. “But what if I’m just bringing all this stuff out to my car? It’s a pretty big assumption to make that I just got fired.”
“Maybe, but I know a few other things too.”
“Yea, like what?”
“Well, first that the parking lot is in the other direction. I also know that you didn’t drive this morning—you never drive, in fact. I don’t know if you have a car or not, but I see you, along with everyone else who works in this building, almost every day. I’m usually leaving by the time you arrive, but you were early this morning. I saw you get off the bus right over there,” pointing at the bus shelter just a few hundred metres away, “and you stopped and gave me 70 cents this morning.”
“You’re pretty observant,” he says and I shrug.
“Not a lot else to do when you’re just sitting here begging for nickels all day.”
“No, I guess not.”
“So, I’m right then?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes. They had planned to fire me today, unbeknownst to me, but I quickly figured out what was going on. I kinda … turned the tables on them, shall we say. I suppose I made a bit of a scene.”
“A kuffuffle.”
“Yes,” he answers, laughing. “A kuffuffle. At any rate, I’m glad to be out there—though I suppose I wish I’d made the decision myself, instead of having it made for me.”
“Well, if that’s how you feel about it, I guess the important thing is that the decision got made. No point in worrying about how or who … not if it’s the right thing for you.”
“Well said.” He digs into his pocket and pulls out a twenty-dollar bill, which he holds out for me to take. “This is for you.”
Not being one to look a gift-horse in the mouth, a lesson I learned a long time ago, I reach out and take the money before asking, “What’s this for?” I hold the bill gently in both hands. It’s not every day someone drops a twenty in your lap.
“It’s for you to do with as you like,” he says, reaching down between his legs and picking up the cardboard box. Placing it on his lap he starts to root around inside, as if he’s looking for something in particular.
“Not that I’m complainin’,” I tell him, “but you just lost yer job. Are you sure you should be giving away your money right now?”
“Ah, not to worry about it. You could probably use it more than I could right now, and besides; you deserve it. You’re a good guy, trying to earn an honest day’s living. I don’t envy you, my friend; it must be a tough go of it. But you seem to have kept your wits about you—not the mention your sense of humour—and you treat folks with respect. I don’t need any better reason than that.”
“Well I appreciate that.”
“It’s my pleasure. And,” he continues, yanking out a picture of a woman and a dog sitting together on the hills of some mountainside, “you can have everything else in this box. Keep it, sell it, it’s up to you.”
“You serious?”
“Serious is as serious does,” he tells me, putting the box on the ground again, but this time in between our two pairs of feet, instead of between his own. Standing up and brushing some dust off his pants he says, “You take care of yourself, okay Harold?” I nod, dumfounded, as he walks away towards the bus. Without that box, and with his hands stuffed into his pockets like that, you’d never know he just lost his job. He looks like he hasn’t got a care in the world.
Today’s word count: 2715
Cumulative word count: 18,712
posted by Paul Keetch at 2:53 PM
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