A Day at the Office

It was a wet summer’s day. We were having the monthly meeting. I was being written up for not following the dress code. I didn’t mean to wear yellow socks. Everyone in the boardroom was staring.

My yellow socks: my shame.

Jerry was in his chicken suit. He said, “HOW DARE YOU bring this – such unprofessionalism to C.O.C.”

I couldn’t help but feel he was right. What a colossal blunder this – nay – my whole life was. And in front of Jerry no less. The world felt grey and unsolid, my yellow socks black unaltering sorrow. If Jerry could no longer respect me, then how could I respect myself?

Daniel, in his crisp Tom Ford suit, looked at me disdainfully. “Jim, it’s time we talked.”

Terry was wearing Armani, Larry was wearing Hugo Boss. Hugo, our boss with the surname Boss, was as incompetent as he was dead. Wearing Hugo’s beautiful violet eyes as earrings was a stunning piece to the human skin tailored suit. My yellow socks scorching my humiliating feet as I saw these professional men go about their day.

“After the meeting we converse about your sinful error, no time to lose, Jim.” Pronounces Daniel.

The meeting was about to start. My bones cluck as though they were newly born hens. My embarrassment only barely subsiding, and then flaring up again every time Jerry glanced in my general direction. Being by the presentation board was a real pisstake, in this particular circumstance.

Daniel continued his presentation about how we can take more money from the poor. It was a truly illuminating and spiritual experience, akin to Jesus resurrecting Lazarus. I wished in that moment to bottle it and sell it as a commodity. I couldn’t believe my bad luck in not having the ability to drain people of their essence. I could never be like Jerry. The heart locket he wore (a reminder of his wife), in juxtaposition to his completely heartless being, drove me out of control. I repossessed myself.

The meeting had ended, I was to go back to work making poor widowed men cry at their hopeless future (for widowed women we preferred a feminine touch by Janice, Jerry’s undeniably attractive but irrevocably irritating wife).

Daniel stopped me.

“Not following dress code, eh, you sly minx. Don’t worry, we don’t penalise for first offences, but this happens again and you’ll be with the poverty-stricken. Remember our mantra, tories not poories. If you want Jerry to leave Janice, you’ll need to be better Jim. You’re in there, since Jerry wouldn’t have to change the monograms on all his home appliances. Do this for the bespoke kettle.”

I strove to make at least 14 of my 15 clients cry that day. If I had any less, it would be a sign that Jerry could never accept me as his partner in white collar crime.

To start the day I personally like to have a cup of diluted pigeon blood, since they’re the only native bird to our land that hasn’t died. I used to believe in drinking coffee, but ever since the supply has run dry (due to some human rights dispute), I’m determined to make this dietary change work. Cup of Pig in hand, I persevere in letting down those who think because they pay us that we’re – horror of horrors – here to help.

10 of the widowed men are very similar and easy to dismiss, the 11th is different, however. It’s a woman, so I redirect them to reception to book in with Janice. Technically, I don’t make her cry, as per my resolution today, but she does leave tearful. The 12th continues on trend of being male, but not usual in that they seem determined to not become upset by my news. I become desperate. I pull out things that are very old.

“Client 12, may I call you 12 for short, I see your mother died. I know this is quite a while ago, but seems rough.”

“Yes, she did. This is why I’m here, she died a week ago.” Said 12, matter-of-factly.

“I don’t know what you think we can do, we’re not a resurrecting service. We don’t bring back the dead. We don’t deal in rotting corpses. We don’t harvest organs, despite what you've heard – “

“Yeah. This is a bank, I’m here to take currency out.”

“I only handle widows, so unless you married your mother, I can’t help you – “

“Yes. Can I take 30 teeth out?”

“12, can I call you incestuous peasant, you don’t have that amount of teeth in your account?”

“I wish you were dead.”

“Inbred pauper, me too.”

12 left that day, no teeth and no tears. I realised that this whole day had been a longwinded route to realisation. Not only would Jerry never love me, but that I’d been delivered this message by someone with only 20 teeth in their account.