NaNoWriMo – Day 8 (11/08/2005)
As we work together I think about what it must be like to have grown up in Simon’s world. He’s such a … gentle person. He really wouldn’t hurt a fly if he could help it. Not that there’s anything wrong with being nice, of course, but in Simon’s case I don’t think it would have helped him too much. The girls were probably looking for the rebel or the jock, which Simon is certainly neither; and the boys were probably looking for the weakest person on the playground. If Simon wasn’t the weakest, I’m sure he was pretty low on that particular list.
Shuffling papers I’ve shuffled before, not knowing where anything goes or really how to be of any help, I watch Simon as he goes about retrieving and resorting the many reports, references and bits of research and other information that he’s gathered on this project over the last six months. He thinks they’re going to pull him from the project, but that just doesn’t make any sense to me—he knows as much about the special attention we need to pay to cultural issues between us and the Japanese as anyone else; maybe more. It would seem like taking a step backwards if they replaced him with someone else now, especially with the big meeting so close at hand.
But why do the Sirs want to see him and all his work on the project?
“What do you see when you look at me?” he asks out of the blue.
“What? What do you mean, Simon? What are you on about?”
“Just answer the question, Charlie. What do you see when you look at me?”
“I see a capable, er … confident man with a wealth of knowledge and experience. I see … an asset to this company. Not to mention one hell of a nice guy.”
He looks silently at me for a second—through me, actually—and then shakes his head. “I thought you were my friend, Charlie. My real friend.”
“I am Simon; of course I am.” Of course. Sure. How do you tell your friend that he’s an under-achiever; that sometimes, when I see him walking down the aisles in the office, I’m pretty sure someone is going to stick out their foot and trip him; that occasionally I laugh at him, when someone else plays a prank; or that I think the way his wife treats him is an abomination—not because he’s the man and he should rule the house, but because no person deserves to be treated that way. And I wasn’t lying entirely before: He really is one hell of a nice guy.
“Listen, Simon. I don’t know what it is you’re looking for here. What do you want me to say? I could list your shortcomings … or at least what I see might be your shortcomings, but what good does that do? You’re looking for me to help you feel worse than you already feel, but I ain’t gonna do that. I AM your friend Simon—that’s why I won’t do it. If you want to talk another time about this stuff, I’m happy to talk to you about anything you want; but right now you have other things you need to focus on and that’s why I’m here. To help get these damn papers straightened out and help you figure out what the hell those bastards upstairs want you for.”
Again, he simply stares through me for a second; he’s thinking. “You call this helping?” he says, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “You’ve been shuffling the same ten pieces of paper for the last ten minutes!”
Grinning I walk over to his desk and put the papers down so Simon can sort them into their proper pile, walk back to where I was and bend down to start gathering more sheets.
“Thanks, Charlie.”
“Don’t mention it pal.”
We work in silence for a little while longer. He sneaks glances at his watch every chance he can get, while I steal glances at the new intern making photocopies at the end of the aisle. I look back at Simon, brow furrowed with the intensity of his focus, and I wonder when the last time he had sex with his wife was. A good roll with fine young woman like that would certainly perk him up.
“Simon,” I whisper. He doesn’t here me. Then a little louder, “Simon.” Nothing. “Hey! Simon.” Finally he looks. I motion down the aisle towards the copy machine saying, “Have you thought about taking one of the newer models for a test drive?” in a hoarse whisper so that no one else will hear.
“What?” He’s clearly not understanding the rather salient point I’m trying to drive home.
“Maybe it’s time to demo the new operating system,” I try, now jerking my head towards the copy machine. He looks at me like I’ve gone crazy. “Simon, have you thought of fucking a younger woman who isn’t your wife?” I say, exasperated. “That intern at the copy machine, as a fine example?”
“Charlie, what the hell are you talking about? Cheating on my wife? How did we get on this topic anyway? And to which intern are you referring?” Again with that smile playing at his mouth. I jerk my head again in the direction of the copy machine, then turn to have a look for myself. She’s gone.
“Ah shit.” My eye catches one of the many office clocks hanging around the building in highly visible places. They’re meant to ensure that staff doesn’t have a reason to take longer breaks than necessary; and so that we take our lunch at the right time—at the time the company says to eat—instead of just whenever we want to. Something about our customers knowing when they can get hold of us, if they need to, and the need for maintaining positive habits is what they told us. Personally, I think it’s just another way to control what we do and how we do it. The clock reads nine fifty-five. “Ah shit.”
Simon’s eyes follow my own and he sees what I see. It’s time. He stands up with the last of the papers from the floor and adds them to a pile on the desk that has yet to be sorted.
“Screw it,” he says. “Whatever it is, they’ve already made up their minds about it so there’s not much point in worrying about it any longer. And there’s certainly no point in stressing about this mess. I can hand it over like this or sort it for them, if they want me to.”
“That’s the spirit!”
“Do me a favour, Charlie, will you?”
“Sure thing.”
“Before I go up there I’ve got to take a leak. Those two make me nervous enough as it is, I don’t want to be squeezing my legs the whole time trying to keep from pissing my pants. Would you straighten this pile,” pointing to the unsorted batch, “and put them into a file folder, so at least they look like they’re sorted? I’ll be right back.”
“You got it, little buddy,” I say, tipping a fake hat and trying to do my best ‘Skipper’ imitation from ‘Gilligan’s Island.’
Grabbing the pile as he heads off, I start to straighten them out, so they at least look like an orderly report. As I shuffle and sort I glance at some of the papers—he’s done a really thorough job, from the look of it. Each page has a colour-coded dot at the top, probably to indicate the topic and to allow for the research to be sorted more easily. Every page is filled with Simon’s handwriting, a compact, legible and highly efficient script. He’s gone to a lot of effort; it really will be a shame if they pull him off the project like he seems to think they will.
I can hear him before I actually see him since my back is turned to the entrance of his cubicle. He is walking slowly, trying to delay the inevitable as long as possible, but I know it is Simon just by the sound of his walk. He’s got this sort of … shuffle step that he does when he’s nervous. It’s usually because one of the women in the office has made a fart joke or a sexual innuendo within earshot of Simon and it’s funny to watch his stride change in mid-step. I’ve seem him almost trip before—not on his own feet really, but because of them.
“Time to go, I guess,” he announces as he enters the stall. “Gotta face the music sooner or later.”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Simon. You don’t have any music to face. I’m sure they just want to review your notes with you and make sure everything is on track. The big day is coming up and they probably just want to make sure all of their ducks are in a row.”
“Make sure the geese are flying in a ‘V’ you mean.”
“Huh?”
“Really, Charlie, it’s just as random as ducks in a row. You could mention any trait about any animal and the sentence still makes sense. ‘Make sure all the cows are sleeping standing up.’ If you call that sense.”
We both shake our heads although I get the distinct impression we are doing it for different reasons. I smile at him and he smiles back.
Gathering up all of his file folders and shoving them into his briefcase, Simon grabs the presentation cylinders along with a few straggling pieces of his project and turns to head upstairs to see the Sirs. “Thanks for your help Charlie. Most appreciated.”
“My pleasure,” I tell him. “I thrive on reorganizing messy documents.”
“That’s not what I meant … and you know it.”
“Yea, I do. No worries Simon—you go up there and give ‘em hell. I’ll meet you for lunch later and you can tell me what goes down.”
“Will do, Charlie. See ya.”
As he walks off in the direction of the spiral staircase that leads to the upper offices, I notice the Sirs are looking down at him—and me—through one of their many floor-to-ceiling windows. One of them, Mr. Jenkins I think, catches my eye and gives a quick shake of his head. I’m not sure what he means by it and I sure as shit don’t plan on finding out any time soon.
I drop my head and head back to my own desk, making sure to take the long route so I can have another look at the new intern on my way.
Robert
“Three minutes after,” I say aloud, looking at my watch. I love looking at this watch—it was given to me by my grandfather, a legendary tycoon in his own day, which had been given to him in turn by his grandfather. My instructions were simple; find another legacy for my own son, if I had one, and only pass this particular piece to my first-born grandson.
“Hmmm …” is the non-committal reply from Willard. Then, in his soft voice, “Did you really expect him to show up on time?”
“No,” I say, “I expected him to be here early.
Again, “Hmmm …”
“At any rate, here he comes. We’ll need to do something about that Charles Gray now as well. Make a note of that, will you?”
“So noted. Shall we assume our positions?”
“Certainly. Do you prefer standing or sitting this morning?”
“I stood the last two times, as I remember. It’s about time I gave you a chance.”
“Well, you’re too kind.”
“I know how much you enjoy being the one to stand. Something about the shadows that turns you on, is there?”
There is a particular gleam in his eye as he says this, reminding me of our trip to Thailand. But I can’t think about that right now—we’ve got business to attend to, and I’m standing today. I move to get into position.
“Remember,” says he, “you’re not to say a word until the end.”
“I know how it goes,” I say back. “It’s not the first time I’ve done this, you know.”
This is our usual banter. It calms us, steadies us, allows us to play our parts more effectively. It is always a competition between Willard and me. Always has been and, I suspect, it always will be. Barring any unforeseens coming between us. It’s unlikely really. We’ve known each other since we were six years old and we’ve been competing with each other ever since.
In grade school it was to see who could get more gold stars; in high school it was to see who had the better grades and the better looking girlfriend; in college it was how many girlfriends and who could drink the most without puking their guts out; in grad school it was who’s girlfriend was better looking and who would get published first. Then it was on to who would make their first million, first, then their second, and so on. It has kept both of us at our best, moving forwards, always growing and expanding. New ideas, new products, new trading partners. Which brings me back to Charlie.
There is a knock on the door and it is a few moments before Willard stands slowly from behind the desk and walks purposefully but painstaking slowly (for the person on the other side of the glass, who can see all of this going on) toward the door.
Pulling it open and stepping graciously aside, he says, “Welcome, Mr. Cunningham. Please, do come in.”
Today’s word count: 2286
Cumulative word count: 12,053
Shuffling papers I’ve shuffled before, not knowing where anything goes or really how to be of any help, I watch Simon as he goes about retrieving and resorting the many reports, references and bits of research and other information that he’s gathered on this project over the last six months. He thinks they’re going to pull him from the project, but that just doesn’t make any sense to me—he knows as much about the special attention we need to pay to cultural issues between us and the Japanese as anyone else; maybe more. It would seem like taking a step backwards if they replaced him with someone else now, especially with the big meeting so close at hand.
But why do the Sirs want to see him and all his work on the project?
“What do you see when you look at me?” he asks out of the blue.
“What? What do you mean, Simon? What are you on about?”
“Just answer the question, Charlie. What do you see when you look at me?”
“I see a capable, er … confident man with a wealth of knowledge and experience. I see … an asset to this company. Not to mention one hell of a nice guy.”
He looks silently at me for a second—through me, actually—and then shakes his head. “I thought you were my friend, Charlie. My real friend.”
“I am Simon; of course I am.” Of course. Sure. How do you tell your friend that he’s an under-achiever; that sometimes, when I see him walking down the aisles in the office, I’m pretty sure someone is going to stick out their foot and trip him; that occasionally I laugh at him, when someone else plays a prank; or that I think the way his wife treats him is an abomination—not because he’s the man and he should rule the house, but because no person deserves to be treated that way. And I wasn’t lying entirely before: He really is one hell of a nice guy.
“Listen, Simon. I don’t know what it is you’re looking for here. What do you want me to say? I could list your shortcomings … or at least what I see might be your shortcomings, but what good does that do? You’re looking for me to help you feel worse than you already feel, but I ain’t gonna do that. I AM your friend Simon—that’s why I won’t do it. If you want to talk another time about this stuff, I’m happy to talk to you about anything you want; but right now you have other things you need to focus on and that’s why I’m here. To help get these damn papers straightened out and help you figure out what the hell those bastards upstairs want you for.”
Again, he simply stares through me for a second; he’s thinking. “You call this helping?” he says, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “You’ve been shuffling the same ten pieces of paper for the last ten minutes!”
Grinning I walk over to his desk and put the papers down so Simon can sort them into their proper pile, walk back to where I was and bend down to start gathering more sheets.
“Thanks, Charlie.”
“Don’t mention it pal.”
We work in silence for a little while longer. He sneaks glances at his watch every chance he can get, while I steal glances at the new intern making photocopies at the end of the aisle. I look back at Simon, brow furrowed with the intensity of his focus, and I wonder when the last time he had sex with his wife was. A good roll with fine young woman like that would certainly perk him up.
“Simon,” I whisper. He doesn’t here me. Then a little louder, “Simon.” Nothing. “Hey! Simon.” Finally he looks. I motion down the aisle towards the copy machine saying, “Have you thought about taking one of the newer models for a test drive?” in a hoarse whisper so that no one else will hear.
“What?” He’s clearly not understanding the rather salient point I’m trying to drive home.
“Maybe it’s time to demo the new operating system,” I try, now jerking my head towards the copy machine. He looks at me like I’ve gone crazy. “Simon, have you thought of fucking a younger woman who isn’t your wife?” I say, exasperated. “That intern at the copy machine, as a fine example?”
“Charlie, what the hell are you talking about? Cheating on my wife? How did we get on this topic anyway? And to which intern are you referring?” Again with that smile playing at his mouth. I jerk my head again in the direction of the copy machine, then turn to have a look for myself. She’s gone.
“Ah shit.” My eye catches one of the many office clocks hanging around the building in highly visible places. They’re meant to ensure that staff doesn’t have a reason to take longer breaks than necessary; and so that we take our lunch at the right time—at the time the company says to eat—instead of just whenever we want to. Something about our customers knowing when they can get hold of us, if they need to, and the need for maintaining positive habits is what they told us. Personally, I think it’s just another way to control what we do and how we do it. The clock reads nine fifty-five. “Ah shit.”
Simon’s eyes follow my own and he sees what I see. It’s time. He stands up with the last of the papers from the floor and adds them to a pile on the desk that has yet to be sorted.
“Screw it,” he says. “Whatever it is, they’ve already made up their minds about it so there’s not much point in worrying about it any longer. And there’s certainly no point in stressing about this mess. I can hand it over like this or sort it for them, if they want me to.”
“That’s the spirit!”
“Do me a favour, Charlie, will you?”
“Sure thing.”
“Before I go up there I’ve got to take a leak. Those two make me nervous enough as it is, I don’t want to be squeezing my legs the whole time trying to keep from pissing my pants. Would you straighten this pile,” pointing to the unsorted batch, “and put them into a file folder, so at least they look like they’re sorted? I’ll be right back.”
“You got it, little buddy,” I say, tipping a fake hat and trying to do my best ‘Skipper’ imitation from ‘Gilligan’s Island.’
Grabbing the pile as he heads off, I start to straighten them out, so they at least look like an orderly report. As I shuffle and sort I glance at some of the papers—he’s done a really thorough job, from the look of it. Each page has a colour-coded dot at the top, probably to indicate the topic and to allow for the research to be sorted more easily. Every page is filled with Simon’s handwriting, a compact, legible and highly efficient script. He’s gone to a lot of effort; it really will be a shame if they pull him off the project like he seems to think they will.
I can hear him before I actually see him since my back is turned to the entrance of his cubicle. He is walking slowly, trying to delay the inevitable as long as possible, but I know it is Simon just by the sound of his walk. He’s got this sort of … shuffle step that he does when he’s nervous. It’s usually because one of the women in the office has made a fart joke or a sexual innuendo within earshot of Simon and it’s funny to watch his stride change in mid-step. I’ve seem him almost trip before—not on his own feet really, but because of them.
“Time to go, I guess,” he announces as he enters the stall. “Gotta face the music sooner or later.”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Simon. You don’t have any music to face. I’m sure they just want to review your notes with you and make sure everything is on track. The big day is coming up and they probably just want to make sure all of their ducks are in a row.”
“Make sure the geese are flying in a ‘V’ you mean.”
“Huh?”
“Really, Charlie, it’s just as random as ducks in a row. You could mention any trait about any animal and the sentence still makes sense. ‘Make sure all the cows are sleeping standing up.’ If you call that sense.”
We both shake our heads although I get the distinct impression we are doing it for different reasons. I smile at him and he smiles back.
Gathering up all of his file folders and shoving them into his briefcase, Simon grabs the presentation cylinders along with a few straggling pieces of his project and turns to head upstairs to see the Sirs. “Thanks for your help Charlie. Most appreciated.”
“My pleasure,” I tell him. “I thrive on reorganizing messy documents.”
“That’s not what I meant … and you know it.”
“Yea, I do. No worries Simon—you go up there and give ‘em hell. I’ll meet you for lunch later and you can tell me what goes down.”
“Will do, Charlie. See ya.”
As he walks off in the direction of the spiral staircase that leads to the upper offices, I notice the Sirs are looking down at him—and me—through one of their many floor-to-ceiling windows. One of them, Mr. Jenkins I think, catches my eye and gives a quick shake of his head. I’m not sure what he means by it and I sure as shit don’t plan on finding out any time soon.
I drop my head and head back to my own desk, making sure to take the long route so I can have another look at the new intern on my way.
Robert
“Three minutes after,” I say aloud, looking at my watch. I love looking at this watch—it was given to me by my grandfather, a legendary tycoon in his own day, which had been given to him in turn by his grandfather. My instructions were simple; find another legacy for my own son, if I had one, and only pass this particular piece to my first-born grandson.
“Hmmm …” is the non-committal reply from Willard. Then, in his soft voice, “Did you really expect him to show up on time?”
“No,” I say, “I expected him to be here early.
Again, “Hmmm …”
“At any rate, here he comes. We’ll need to do something about that Charles Gray now as well. Make a note of that, will you?”
“So noted. Shall we assume our positions?”
“Certainly. Do you prefer standing or sitting this morning?”
“I stood the last two times, as I remember. It’s about time I gave you a chance.”
“Well, you’re too kind.”
“I know how much you enjoy being the one to stand. Something about the shadows that turns you on, is there?”
There is a particular gleam in his eye as he says this, reminding me of our trip to Thailand. But I can’t think about that right now—we’ve got business to attend to, and I’m standing today. I move to get into position.
“Remember,” says he, “you’re not to say a word until the end.”
“I know how it goes,” I say back. “It’s not the first time I’ve done this, you know.”
This is our usual banter. It calms us, steadies us, allows us to play our parts more effectively. It is always a competition between Willard and me. Always has been and, I suspect, it always will be. Barring any unforeseens coming between us. It’s unlikely really. We’ve known each other since we were six years old and we’ve been competing with each other ever since.
In grade school it was to see who could get more gold stars; in high school it was to see who had the better grades and the better looking girlfriend; in college it was how many girlfriends and who could drink the most without puking their guts out; in grad school it was who’s girlfriend was better looking and who would get published first. Then it was on to who would make their first million, first, then their second, and so on. It has kept both of us at our best, moving forwards, always growing and expanding. New ideas, new products, new trading partners. Which brings me back to Charlie.
There is a knock on the door and it is a few moments before Willard stands slowly from behind the desk and walks purposefully but painstaking slowly (for the person on the other side of the glass, who can see all of this going on) toward the door.
Pulling it open and stepping graciously aside, he says, “Welcome, Mr. Cunningham. Please, do come in.”
Today’s word count: 2286
Cumulative word count: 12,053
posted by Paul Keetch at 7:33 AM
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