You know when you meet a stranger who does the same job as you? Suddenly the whole conversation is darkened by the shadow of that fact. You’re desperate not to bring it up, in fear of…. well a few things. Boredom, for one. If you don’t really like your job, talking about it to a stranger won’t be fun, will it? There’s the fear of competition, too. They might be higher up than you, have a stronger relationship with their boss, or even have an office that’s half an inch bigger. They all say size doesn’t matter. But when it comes to defending your position, everything matters. If I worked in an office, I’d stretch out a full twenty minutes dedicated to having a more efficient stapler.
That’s what people in office’s talk about, don’t they? Either that or they’re stood by the water cooler, cracking wise. I’ve only seen this in films, you understand. I don’t work in an office. But today I would have loved to. In meeting a stranger who does the same job as me, I realised I should really be getting on with my life. Because there is no defending of your position, gloating about stationary or telling the person how close I was to my manager. How could I? When my ‘position’ was the B-team of the supermarket; the trolley pushers. Left of the bench at the game and forgotten about. Left only to serve the players with cold drinks at half time. How could I gloat when I didn’t have any stationary to begin with? I may have found the odd pencil on the car park now and again, but what decent human being could call that pencil theirs? And how could I wax about being mates with my boss when she’s a middle aged, cold-hearted, business minded shrew from Kilmarnock. (Steve’s words, not mine.)
So there I was, stood in the car park, in the rain. Trying to make small talk with Jerry, the trolley pusher from the D.I.Y shop next door. He was one of three of their pushers, about 26 years old with thinning brown hair that was slicked back and went past his ears.
‘Bit shit out here, isn’t it?’ He began.
Trying to defend his position. Gone.
‘Yeah…’ I tried.
‘They say it’ll clear up about four.’
Oh, he meant the weather, not the job. Good old weather. Infinitely gives the English something to talk about.
‘Yeah, supposed to be sunny tomorrow, though.’
We were stood under his trolley bay. With our hoods up and hands in our pockets, making that noise people do in the rain. It sounds like a Gorilla sighing. All of a sudden he started talking to someone else. There was no one around, but he was speaking into the middle distance, smiling every so often and replying to, what seemed like thin air.
‘Yeah…yeah, I’ll be up in a second.’
This was brilliant. What’s the point in gloating about your job when the person you’re up against is a mentalist? It would be like shooting fish in a barrel. Like showing off your new custom made kitchen to a tramp. Jerry put down his hood and said his goodbyes, before whipping it back up again and racing in store. I then realised he wasn’t a mentalist. He wasn’t talking to nothing; he was talking to a little earpiece and microphone he had attached to his head. Like those things people in call centres wear. But this one was thinner and silver coloured; far more hi-tech in my book. As I watched Jerry run up to his shop, I tried to think about why our shitty, house brick sized walkie-talkies were better than what they had. But it was no use. David versus Goliath.
When I was at University I felt the same. We all sat at our desks and listened to the lecturer for hours at a time. There were about fifteen of us in the room and about ten of them had laptops, taking notes on Microsoft Word. I felt a hundred years old. There I was with a simple notepad and pen whilst the others tapped away, occasionally doing a bit of Facebook-ing and checking their e-mails. I might as well have had an abacus with me, after riding in on my bicycle, with my satchel of my shoulder and a big red apple in my hand. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for new technology. I love the PlayStation, but when they bring out another for twice the price, I feel old fashioned, questioning ‘What’s wrong with the one I’ve got?’
‘Wayne…’
Wayne was photocopying this month rotas in the offices. He’d just started doing them so I’d only have a few seconds before he finished.
‘You know the D.I.Y shop next door?’
‘I know of it, yes.’ He replied, the slow flash of the photocopier making his glasses light up.
‘Well, their trolley pushers have head sets…to talk to the store.’
‘Good for them.’
‘Yeah…’
I looked around the office. There were a few colleagues milling about, chatting whilst sat on tables. The head boss was at her desk in the corner, ruffling up papers and talking at her phone.
‘Do you think we could get ones like theirs?’
This was embarrassing. I felt like a 12 year old who had just rushed to his Mum after seeing his friend with a new toy. I wanted the same toy. ‘Can I have it, Mummy!?’
‘What’s wrong with the walkie-talkies we’ve got?’ He asked.
‘Well, they’re great and everything. But the head sets would be better.’
‘How?’
‘Lighter? Easier to use…’
‘Go on...?’
‘Steve dropped his in a puddle yesterday.’
‘I’ve talked to him about that.’
‘At first, Alex used it like a phone? He put up to his ear? He was deaf for two weeks?’
‘And I spoke to him about that. Well, I sent him an e-mail about it.’
So I left the office with nothing. Was it wrong that I was jealous of Jerry and his headset? It looked far more professional. I peered over to Jerry, pushing a rack of their trolleys in one hand, and with his other, touching the nib of the microphone and gently speaking into it. Oh, he was rubbing salt into the wound. A shiny, silvery, hi-tech piece of salt. I breezed over and began some small talk again. Two minutes into a rather intriguing conversation about the weekends weather, I realised I wasn’t looking at Jerry. I was just looking at his head set. I decided to go for the jugular.
‘Can I have a go?’ I grinned.
‘Yeah, sure. Here you are…’
Jerry stopped his trolleys beside a car and carefully lifted off his headset.
‘Careful.’ He warned, placing it on my head. ‘That’s looks good.’ Stepping back.
‘D’you think so?’
‘Yeah…looks cool.’
Oh, I was smiling now. So much so, it was hurting my face. Checking my reflection in the car mirror confirmed my delight; I looked quite space age, to be honest. I think that was due to the headset’s colour. If you paint anything silver it looks like it’s from Star Trek; a piece of wood, a hairbrush, even a family member.
‘OK, you’ve had your fun. Let’s have it back.’ He smiled.
‘Naa, just a few more seconds. How do you talk into it?’
Jerry let out a stifled sigh and fiddled with the wire until he found a black box.
‘That. You press that.’
‘Hello?’ I pressed it.
A few seconds later, a voice replied.
‘Yes? Hello, Jerry, did you want something?’
‘OK, give it me back, now.’ Jerry said.
‘We need you inside, Jerry.’ The voice came through again.
Even the clarity of the voice was shiny. With our walkie-talkie’s, they’re all distorted and muffled. I needed to convince Wayne to get some of these.
‘I think you’re wanted inside.’ I said.
‘OK, I’ll be right back. Keep hold of that.’ He said, pointing at the headset.
He disappeared in store whilst I checked my reflection one more time. This time at different angles, pouting occasionally and miming a few words to show how I would actually look like whilst using it. Thinking back, I must have looked like a right tit. But then, I was super cool.
‘What are you doing with that?' A voice spoke behind me.
It wasn’t coming through the headset; this voice was slightly muffled and had a different accent; a Birmingham accent.
‘Brian! How’s it going?’ I turned to him.
‘Cracking, yeah.’
‘How are you and Grace?’
‘Good. We’re living together now, up Haledon Court.’
Not homeless anymore. Far from it, it’s quite nice up Haledon Court. They’ve got private parking and everything. Brian looked a bit healthier, as if he'd had a few warm meals since I last saw him. But still had the same trademark tramps dusty hat, scruffy beard and long hair. The D.I.Y shop clearly didn't care about their trolley pushers either.
‘Great, and how’s working here going?’
‘Super! I’ll take that off you…’
Brian helped himself to what was now my headset in my brain, and stuffed it in his coat pocket.
‘I’ll give it to Jerry when he comes back.’
‘Oh, OK, haven’t you got one?’
‘Yeah, but it’s in the repair shop.’
They’ve even got their own repair shop. I’m definitely convincing Wayne about these now.
End of part one.
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