NaNoWriMo - Day 7 (11/07/2005)
Dorothy
I’m nervous—incredibly nervous—as I approach his desk. I shouldn’t be … I’ve talked to him a thousand times. He’s not mean or unkind; in fact … he’s kind of a nice man even though he keeps to himself a lot. I know some of the other people in the office like to pick on him and tease him. And they sure don’t mean any harm by it; he’s just that kind of man. He probably got teased a lot when he was a boy too. I’m sure he’s used to it by now.
But talking to a man about the regular day-to-day business around the office is one thing; having to deliver news of an altogether different sort, news like I’ve got for him today, well, that’s an entirely different story. Of course, he’ll have no idea when I tell him that it’s going to be the start of a bad day for him, but he’ll eventually put the two together. I just hope he doesn’t shoot the messenger!
“Excuse me,” I say, coming up to his cubicle. “Good morning, Mr. Cunningham. Simon.”
He turns in his chair to face me, then stands up when he sees me, “Good morning, Ms. Everton. How nice to see you!”
“Having a good morning then, Mr. Cunningham?”
“Oh yes, quite, thank you. Here a little early this morning and not enough coffee before I arrived I guess. I had a little … accident.”
I’m tempted to check his trousers for signs that he wet himself, but he is pointing behind him to the computer desk. There sit a number of soaked paper towels in a sloppy pile. His coffee cup is on one side and the computer keyboard on the other. I begin to feel less nervous about my task.
“Mr. Cunningham, might we have a brief word?”
“Certainly, Ms. Everton, please come in.” He motions me into his tiny cubicle and I can’t help feeling incredibly sorry for the poor man. “There’s nowhere to sit but here,” he notes, nodding at the computer chair, “but what can I do for you this morning?”
“It’s not what you can do for me, actually,” I begin. “It’s what you can do for Mr. Jenkins and Mr. Alabastor.” He perks up. Literally perks. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man do that before. Straighten, neaten, tidy. Fix the hair, check the nose and teeth, smell the breath. Button jacket, smooth pants, one hand in pocket, one out. But never so much perking up in one man, not in my twenty years. It really is too bad.
“Certainly, Ms Everton, how can I be of assistance to The Sirs?” The Sirs is what everyone one the floor calls the two senior partners of the company. It’s technically against company regulation, all staff are to be addressed in a cordial and professional manner at all times; and ‘the Sirs’ certainly isn’t professional, even if it is cordial at times. I let it pass.
“They’ve asked that you gather up all of your documentation and files, including any hard-copy literature or other material you may have on the Japan project, and bring it up to their boardroom for ten o’clock. The would like you to present your findings thus far so that they can make a decision.”
“A decision? A decision on what? I thought we were going ahead as planned?”
“I couldn’t tell you even if I knew, Mr. Cunningham, which of course I don’t. The Sirs,” I use their common name to gain favour with the office staff, when I need to, “don’t often choose to include me in the rational for their decision-making. They simply tell me what it is that I need to get done in order to assist them. I am often the last to know what is going on, I’m afraid, even being so close to the top.”
Of course, this is a lie. I know exactly what goes on when Jenkins and Alabastor have their meetings. I am there, of course, taking minutes for them. I remind them what they’ve talked about the night before, if they’ve had a few too many glasses of scotch during their talk. I know everything that goes on in the office. Absolutely everything, and it’s a good thing to. If I weren’t around, nothing would get done in here. Nothing at all.
“All I know is that Mr. Jenkins and Mr. Alabastor,” I go back to their proper names, for the sake of professionalism, “would like to see you in their office with all supporting materials at ten o’clock. They instructed me to inform you that you should be prepared to give a preliminary presentation on your findings so that some decisions can be made.
“Okay, I’ll get right on it,” says Simon with a grin on his face that looks more like a grimace. “Wouldn’t to upset the Sirs, now, would we?”
Moving to the edge of his cubicle area, ready to go and complete the next task on my list this morning, I glance back at him and wonder where it all went wrong for him. Was his father too easy on him? Or his mother too hard? Did the kids at school taunt him too much or did the teachers just not give him the direction he needed? At any rate, regardless of where it started, the next chapter is about to be written in poor Mr. Cunningham’s book.
“No, Simon. You wouldn’t want to upset them at all. Remember, ten o’clock upstairs. Probably best not to be late … they’re quite busy, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
“Of course, of course. Ten o’clock. I’ll be there.”
“Wonderful. You have yourself a great day, Mr. Cunningham.”
“I will, Ms. Everton. You too.”
“Why thank you. Good day.”
Charles
Oh jesus, I hope she didn’t see me. I duck into the coffee room and pretend to be busy with something … anything. Dorothy Everton. Man what a hard case she is. Sometimes, I think she’s even worse than the Sirs. I wonder what she wanted with poor old Simon? Unlucky bastard. I already heard this morning that Elliot was on his case this morning. Something about ‘trouble round the coffee machine’ or something like that. And if Elliot’s involved it can only mean an unpleasant morning for whoever’s name completes the sentence. Today it was Simon.
I hear her soft-soled shoes whisper by on the carpeted hallway outside the lunch room, mixed with the soft swish of her long skirt. Ms. Everton is about fifty-five, if I had to guess, but she doesn’t look a day over seventy. Her hair is always pulled right back in a tight bun, so much so that I doubt she will ever need plastic surgery. I often wonder, much to my own horror, what her face must look like when she gets home and lets her hair down. All that skin, pulled taut all day long, let loose to hang off of her like … like … like sheets on a clothesline. She is tall for a woman, about five foot, eleven or so and she still wears those secretary style glasses to top off her business skirt suit. I’ll bet she was pretty good looking back in her day.
Shuddering from my own thoughts, I check the doorway to ensure that she really is gone and, seeing that the coast is clear, make my way quickly over to Simon’s area. There’s a flurry of activity going on behind his walls as I walk in.
“Hullo Simon,” I say, scaring the bejesus right out of him. He jumps—literally jumps—and throws all of the papers and files straight into the air. They rain down around him and the look on his face is one of pure desolation. “Jesus! Sorry mate!” I say, bending down to help him start collecting everything. “Yer a bit jumpy this morning, what’s going on?”
“What’s going on? What’s going on? Let’s see Charles. My wife hates me, Elliot torments me, I’ve just been told to bring all of my files on the Japan project to the Sirs in,” checking his watch, “less than forty minutes from now. I have to do a presentation on my findings so far so that they can “make a decision” about how to proceed. They’re going to fucking pull me off the project, Charles. After everything I’ve done, they’re just going to pull me right off the project.”
“Oh come on Simon. How do you know that? Did Everton say that?”
“Not in so many words, no. But she implied it, Charles, you weren’t here. You don’t know. And now I’ve gone and messed all this up.” He gives an exasperated wave at his cubicle and the contents now strewn about the floor and desk. He starts picking them up again, trying to sort them into piles as he goes. “Shit,” he says. “Everything’s out of order now. What am I going to do? If they weren’t planning on giving it to someone else, they sure as hell are now.”
“C’mon Simon,” I say, standing up with a large pile of rather ruffled looking sheets of paper. “I’ll help you get everything back into order before you have to go up there. Not to worry. Come on, then. Stand up and let’s get started. I can’t do this myself you know, I need you to tell me where things go.”
He stands up, somewhat reluctantly and we get to work sorting through the papers.
Today’s word count: 1592
Cumulative word count: 9767
I’m nervous—incredibly nervous—as I approach his desk. I shouldn’t be … I’ve talked to him a thousand times. He’s not mean or unkind; in fact … he’s kind of a nice man even though he keeps to himself a lot. I know some of the other people in the office like to pick on him and tease him. And they sure don’t mean any harm by it; he’s just that kind of man. He probably got teased a lot when he was a boy too. I’m sure he’s used to it by now.
But talking to a man about the regular day-to-day business around the office is one thing; having to deliver news of an altogether different sort, news like I’ve got for him today, well, that’s an entirely different story. Of course, he’ll have no idea when I tell him that it’s going to be the start of a bad day for him, but he’ll eventually put the two together. I just hope he doesn’t shoot the messenger!
“Excuse me,” I say, coming up to his cubicle. “Good morning, Mr. Cunningham. Simon.”
He turns in his chair to face me, then stands up when he sees me, “Good morning, Ms. Everton. How nice to see you!”
“Having a good morning then, Mr. Cunningham?”
“Oh yes, quite, thank you. Here a little early this morning and not enough coffee before I arrived I guess. I had a little … accident.”
I’m tempted to check his trousers for signs that he wet himself, but he is pointing behind him to the computer desk. There sit a number of soaked paper towels in a sloppy pile. His coffee cup is on one side and the computer keyboard on the other. I begin to feel less nervous about my task.
“Mr. Cunningham, might we have a brief word?”
“Certainly, Ms. Everton, please come in.” He motions me into his tiny cubicle and I can’t help feeling incredibly sorry for the poor man. “There’s nowhere to sit but here,” he notes, nodding at the computer chair, “but what can I do for you this morning?”
“It’s not what you can do for me, actually,” I begin. “It’s what you can do for Mr. Jenkins and Mr. Alabastor.” He perks up. Literally perks. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man do that before. Straighten, neaten, tidy. Fix the hair, check the nose and teeth, smell the breath. Button jacket, smooth pants, one hand in pocket, one out. But never so much perking up in one man, not in my twenty years. It really is too bad.
“Certainly, Ms Everton, how can I be of assistance to The Sirs?” The Sirs is what everyone one the floor calls the two senior partners of the company. It’s technically against company regulation, all staff are to be addressed in a cordial and professional manner at all times; and ‘the Sirs’ certainly isn’t professional, even if it is cordial at times. I let it pass.
“They’ve asked that you gather up all of your documentation and files, including any hard-copy literature or other material you may have on the Japan project, and bring it up to their boardroom for ten o’clock. The would like you to present your findings thus far so that they can make a decision.”
“A decision? A decision on what? I thought we were going ahead as planned?”
“I couldn’t tell you even if I knew, Mr. Cunningham, which of course I don’t. The Sirs,” I use their common name to gain favour with the office staff, when I need to, “don’t often choose to include me in the rational for their decision-making. They simply tell me what it is that I need to get done in order to assist them. I am often the last to know what is going on, I’m afraid, even being so close to the top.”
Of course, this is a lie. I know exactly what goes on when Jenkins and Alabastor have their meetings. I am there, of course, taking minutes for them. I remind them what they’ve talked about the night before, if they’ve had a few too many glasses of scotch during their talk. I know everything that goes on in the office. Absolutely everything, and it’s a good thing to. If I weren’t around, nothing would get done in here. Nothing at all.
“All I know is that Mr. Jenkins and Mr. Alabastor,” I go back to their proper names, for the sake of professionalism, “would like to see you in their office with all supporting materials at ten o’clock. They instructed me to inform you that you should be prepared to give a preliminary presentation on your findings so that some decisions can be made.
“Okay, I’ll get right on it,” says Simon with a grin on his face that looks more like a grimace. “Wouldn’t to upset the Sirs, now, would we?”
Moving to the edge of his cubicle area, ready to go and complete the next task on my list this morning, I glance back at him and wonder where it all went wrong for him. Was his father too easy on him? Or his mother too hard? Did the kids at school taunt him too much or did the teachers just not give him the direction he needed? At any rate, regardless of where it started, the next chapter is about to be written in poor Mr. Cunningham’s book.
“No, Simon. You wouldn’t want to upset them at all. Remember, ten o’clock upstairs. Probably best not to be late … they’re quite busy, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
“Of course, of course. Ten o’clock. I’ll be there.”
“Wonderful. You have yourself a great day, Mr. Cunningham.”
“I will, Ms. Everton. You too.”
“Why thank you. Good day.”
Charles
Oh jesus, I hope she didn’t see me. I duck into the coffee room and pretend to be busy with something … anything. Dorothy Everton. Man what a hard case she is. Sometimes, I think she’s even worse than the Sirs. I wonder what she wanted with poor old Simon? Unlucky bastard. I already heard this morning that Elliot was on his case this morning. Something about ‘trouble round the coffee machine’ or something like that. And if Elliot’s involved it can only mean an unpleasant morning for whoever’s name completes the sentence. Today it was Simon.
I hear her soft-soled shoes whisper by on the carpeted hallway outside the lunch room, mixed with the soft swish of her long skirt. Ms. Everton is about fifty-five, if I had to guess, but she doesn’t look a day over seventy. Her hair is always pulled right back in a tight bun, so much so that I doubt she will ever need plastic surgery. I often wonder, much to my own horror, what her face must look like when she gets home and lets her hair down. All that skin, pulled taut all day long, let loose to hang off of her like … like … like sheets on a clothesline. She is tall for a woman, about five foot, eleven or so and she still wears those secretary style glasses to top off her business skirt suit. I’ll bet she was pretty good looking back in her day.
Shuddering from my own thoughts, I check the doorway to ensure that she really is gone and, seeing that the coast is clear, make my way quickly over to Simon’s area. There’s a flurry of activity going on behind his walls as I walk in.
“Hullo Simon,” I say, scaring the bejesus right out of him. He jumps—literally jumps—and throws all of the papers and files straight into the air. They rain down around him and the look on his face is one of pure desolation. “Jesus! Sorry mate!” I say, bending down to help him start collecting everything. “Yer a bit jumpy this morning, what’s going on?”
“What’s going on? What’s going on? Let’s see Charles. My wife hates me, Elliot torments me, I’ve just been told to bring all of my files on the Japan project to the Sirs in,” checking his watch, “less than forty minutes from now. I have to do a presentation on my findings so far so that they can “make a decision” about how to proceed. They’re going to fucking pull me off the project, Charles. After everything I’ve done, they’re just going to pull me right off the project.”
“Oh come on Simon. How do you know that? Did Everton say that?”
“Not in so many words, no. But she implied it, Charles, you weren’t here. You don’t know. And now I’ve gone and messed all this up.” He gives an exasperated wave at his cubicle and the contents now strewn about the floor and desk. He starts picking them up again, trying to sort them into piles as he goes. “Shit,” he says. “Everything’s out of order now. What am I going to do? If they weren’t planning on giving it to someone else, they sure as hell are now.”
“C’mon Simon,” I say, standing up with a large pile of rather ruffled looking sheets of paper. “I’ll help you get everything back into order before you have to go up there. Not to worry. Come on, then. Stand up and let’s get started. I can’t do this myself you know, I need you to tell me where things go.”
He stands up, somewhat reluctantly and we get to work sorting through the papers.
Today’s word count: 1592
Cumulative word count: 9767
posted by Paul Keetch at 7:44 AM
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