Come Sign With Me

Working with a partner can be both the best and worst thing in the world. Some couples do it with ease and aplomb, completely comfortable in each others company in both a social and professional environment. There are positives of course, like saving money on text messages. Why text someone a message when they’re in the same room or building? I imagine only millionaires do that, like Rod Stewart or the man who invented the Internet. I’m sure there are others that I can’t think of right now but to me, the negatives out way the positives.

Don’t get me wrong; working with Allison is a real treat. I can’t complain because it was working together that got us together in the first place. But the saying goes ‘you should keep your work and personal life separate.’ It’s not an exact quote, but it’s something along those lines. Like, what happens if you really embarrass yourself at work? Really embarrass yourself? You go home and never speak of it again, obviously. But at work it becomes a matter of fact, engrained into the history of the company for eternity. It’s the same reason why I don’t go to the work’s Christmas Party. Really, what is the best that can happen at a work’s Christmas Party? You’re never going to buddy up to the boss, tell him your inventive new plans and initiatives over a swift beer and suddenly get a raise. It’s not the time or place for that kind of thing.

And what’s the worst thing that could happen? Well, ask that question to Ryan, the young lad who works on the checkouts. At the last Christmas Party he got drunk, pissed himself and showed his privates to the entire Grocery department. Like I said, engrained into the history of the company for the rest of eternity. And it wasn’t like he could go home and forget about it. His sister and mother works on the Grocery department.

But I couldn’t grumble. I met Allison whilst working here and up until today it had been going swimmingly. I had been pleasantly lying to her about how much work I had been doing at the museum and she was happy enough within the confines of my lie. Every day I would say to myself ‘I’ll tell her. She’ll be fine. I’ll tell her. I’ll tell her tomorrow. Tomorrow will be fine.’ It had been a almost two weeks since Bernard’s wife told me he was ill and not able to hire me at the museum and those two weeks involved not telling Allison about it. Somehow I had managed to convince her I was going down there twice a week to ‘sort things out’, a mush of vague words escaping from my mouth, hoping that she’ll just drop it.

The fact that I haven’t been going to the museum made me wonder about her intelligence. I mean, if I’m not going to a museum twice a week, think of what I could be doing! I could be gallivanting around town with any old tart and she’d been none the wiser. But then sanity strikes and I realise I don’t want anyone else, certainly not an old tart, and that I’m not really one for gallivanting.

But at least she was there for me this morning. Complete with a bacon sandwich and a lovely greeting.

‘Hey, you. I’ve handed in your notice for you.’

Maybe not. Her words were spoken so casually I almost missed them, stumbling into my seat.

‘You’ve…’ I stared at her desperately. ‘You’ve what?’

‘Yeah, just wrote it out. I figured you were running late, so…’

I stared at her a bit more.

‘Sharon’s got it.’ She added.

My mouth was open so much it could have caught a fly.

‘My notice? You haven’t?’

‘Yeah.’ She chirped, nicking a bit of bacon off my plate.

This girl has just ruined me. Her time saving device has just lost me my job. My only job.

‘You…you didn’t need to do that.’ He chuckled nervously.

‘Well, you’re working more and more at the museum lately, I’m sure you don’t need to be here.’

Think…just think of all the gallivanting I could have been doing! All the fucking gallivanting in the fucking world!

‘But...’

I had nothing. No come back. No argument. I was calling her bluff for so long that she’s just turned around and kicked the bluff of a cliff.

‘You need to sign it, of course.’

‘Yeah…well, best go and do that now.’ I cleared my throat and got up.

‘Hang on, finish your bacon butty.’

‘Naa, not hungry.’

I wasn’t hungry. In fact I should have asked her to save it, pop it some tin foil and keep it for when I’m jobless. On the street. Gnawing on my bacon sandwich. Dancing for money.

Sharon’s door was shut. Normally it’s ajar, luring you in and making you peer nervously through the gap. But no, the heavy door was staring at me straight on, a silent guard keeping away from the inevitable. I knocked. Nothing. I knocked again louder. Nothing. I went to knock again and she shouted me in and told me to sit down.

‘Dylan. Dylan. Dylan.’ She smirked.

She was already sat, slowly moving from side to side in her swivel chair. A piece of paper covered the keyboard of her computer. The smirked still covered her face.

‘Well, well, well.’ She said. ‘The end of an era, it seems. We’ve been through a lot, haven’t we? Year upon year. Christmas after Christmas. Dylan…’ She gazed down at the piece of paper. ‘What is your last name again?

‘James. But…’

‘OK.’ She jotted down. ‘Well, you’ve been very adequate.’

To Sharon, that was amazingly positive feedback.

‘Thanks, but…’

‘I’ve enjoyed working with you and wish you luck for the future.’ She said in matter-of -factly, as if it was written down in front of her.

‘I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding.’ I leaned in. ‘Allison wrote that.’

‘I know, all I need is a signature.’

She whisked the paper in front of me, a vast gap where my name was needed and Allison’s curly handwriting above it.

‘I can’t sign that, Sharon.’

‘What?’

She glared at me.

‘I mean, not yet. They’re still sorting things out at the museum.’

‘Yes, Allison did mention you were…sorting things out.’

‘Yeah…’ I nodded.

‘I’m afraid it’s already gone through. You’ve got two weeks left.’

Her words were said so firmly that every syllable hit me, punching me in the head with her spiky Scottish accent.

‘Two weeks? But I haven’t signed it.’

‘I assumed it’s merely a formality.’

‘A formality?’

A formality? Think of all the things in the world that need a signature. A mortgage. A car. What happened to the phrase ‘sign your life away’? I’ve just lost my job and I haven’t even signed it away yet!

‘So you’re not leaving?’ She picked up her pen.

‘No…well, yes. But…’

I was confused. God know how she was doing.

‘What, Dylan?’

‘I am at the museum…a bit.’

‘Dylan.’

Stop talking about the museum! There is no museum. Stop going on about the fucking museum!

‘OK, here’s what happened. Allison thinks I’m working there.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I told her.’

She just glared at me.

‘But I’m not really.’

‘So why did Allison write that?’ She nodded towards the paper.

‘I don’t know.’

‘I’ll bring her in.’

Sharon grabbed her phone and attempted to dial. I put my hand over it and stopped her.

‘Wait, hang on. I’ll sign it.’

I signed the paper and left the room in silence.

‘Where are you going?’ She asked.

Job Centre, probably. And to find my bacon sandwich.