by David Thorne
“You still here?”
“No, Walter, I’m a holographic projection. The real Kevin installed magic fucking lasers in the ceiling.”
Cat hair
“You’re covered in cat hair, Kevin.”
“I’d rather be covered in cat hair than your father’s spit, Melissa.”
Archive box
“Can I put this on your desk, Kevin?”
“I doubt it, Ben. With your physique I’m amazed you made it into my office without a lung collapsing.”
Friday evening
“Doing anything on the weekend, Kevin?”
“No, I’ll be in suspended animation for forty-eight hours, Mike. I’ve got a stasis chamber at home that lowers my heart rate to one beat per day. See you in an hour.”
Kevin’s Office
As it’s Kevin’s last week, Ben, Walter and I decided to help him clean out his office. Walter wasn’t keen to participate but I threatened to tell Mike about a certain vet appointment if he didn’t. Helping Kevin clean out his office entailed staying late a few nights, which is no small feat as I’m not a fan of being at the office at all. Kevin almost caught us once when he returned to the office after forgetting his keys, but we managed to throw his chair massager and coat rack out a window and hide under his desk in time.
From: Kevin Eastwood
Date: Monday 9 October 2017 10.06am
To: All staff
Subject: Watering can
The yellow watering can from my office is missing. It’s my personal watering can that I brought in from home to water my ficus and I’d appreciate people asking before they use my things. Please return ASAP.
My coffee mug is also nowhere to be found and I know it was on my desk before I left Friday.
Kevin
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From: Kevin Eastwood
Date: Tuesday 10 October 2017 9.18am
To: All staff
Subject: Missing items
My watering can and coffee mug are still missing. I expect both to be located before the end of the day.
Someone has also taken all of my pens and whiteboard markers and I had stuff in my top drawer and now there’s nothing in there except one rubber band.
There’s no reason for anyone to enter my office when I’m not here. I will be locking my office door from now on.
Kevin
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From: Kevin Eastwood
Date: Wednesday 11 October 2017 9.07am
To: All staff
Subject: THIEVES
I expect my office door to be put back on and my family photos returned IMMEDIATELY.
You picked the wrong person to mess with and just crossed the line. I’m filing a formal complaint with Jennifer and when I find out who’s doing this, and I will, don’t you worry, you’re going to be extremely sorry.
Kevin
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From: Kevin Eastwood
Date: Thursday 12 October 2017 9.08pm
To: All staff
Subject: FUCK YOU ALL
I don’t even care who’s taking my stuff. Without my desk I can’t work so I’m going home. I’m not going to work on the floor. Give yourself a pat on the back. Good job, hope you’re happy. Tomorrow’s my last day so I expect my personal possessions back before I leave OR ELSE!!!
P.S. If one single leaf on my ficus is missing you are dead.
Kevin
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From: Melissa Peters
Date: Friday 13 October 2017 9.32am
To: All staff
Subject: WHERE’S MY STUFF?
I’m sending this from Melissa’s computer because I don’t have one.
Thank god this is my last day as I’ve never had to deal with a more juvenile and inept group of halfwits in my life. It’s like a day care service for mentally disabled children. You come in, walk around nodding and making stupid faces at each other, and then go home. Last month it took 2 weeks for me to get Inc. added to a brochure. 2 weeks for 3 letters and a dot. Just when I think the art department couldn’t possibly get any more fucking useless, you put in extra effort and prove me wrong. Oh, and Walter, I’ll be really disappointed if I find out you had anything to do with the theft of my possessions. The rest of you, not so much, you’re all a bunch of dishonest, self-serving miscreants. And yes that includes you Mike and Jennifer. I doubt this company will last another year and when it folds, good luck finding work anywhere other than a public bathroom glory hole. You’re less use than the talentless inbred monkeys in the art department, wandering around pretending you’re doing something and calling meetings to ask what everyone else is doing. Breaking news, people: Nobody is doing anything.
I’m going to wait in the boardroom for 1 HOUR. If all my stuff isn’t returned by then, I’m calling the police.
Kevin
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From: Kevin Eastwood
Date: Friday 13 October 2017 11.22am
To: All staff
Subject: Drinks
Thank you for the cake. And for loading my car. Sorry about the last email. Looking forward to drinks this afternoon.
Kevin
Walk it Off, Princess
“What’s this?” Holly asked. She held up a large glossy brochure with a cruise ship on the cover. The ship, an icebreaker, was anchored off an ice shelf and tourists were standing on the ice in big puffy jackets with expedition badges on their sleeves, pointing at things and taking photos of penguins. Holly and I were packing to move and the bottom of an old cardboard archive box containing projects I had worked on over the years had given way, spilling its contents onto the basement floor.
“Nothing,” I replied.
“Did you design this?”
“Yes, a thousand years ago. Just throw the whole box out.”
“Did you get to go to Antarctica?”
“No. We just did the branding and marketing materials.”
“When you worked at de Masi jones?”
“No, before that.”
Holly flicked through the brochure, “It’s really nice. I like how the pictures are matte but certain objects are glossy.”
“Spot varnish. It’s expensive but it gives a nice effect.”
“They should have given you a free trip.”
“We were promised a free trip but it never eventuated. Neil Fairhead promised us a lot of things.”
“Who’s Neil Fairhead?”
“Nobody.”
I first met Neil Fairhead, on a scorching summer day, at a local Mexican restaurant called Zapata’s. He’d contacted me via email the day before and we’d arranged to meet to discuss ‘an exciting opportunity’ over lunch. The meeting was set for twelve-thirty; he arrived a little after one. I watched him pull up in a black E-Class Mercedes, climb out, and carefully brush himself down with a lint roller for several minutes before making his way in.
I could describe Neil but it’s easier if you just picture a life-sized Howdy Doody bobblehead. I’m not exaggerating; his head was huge and looked like it was twice as close as his body as he headed towards my table. I almost ducked. His neck must have been one solid mass of muscle to support it - but with a non-solid bit through the middle so he could breathe and swallow obviously. If I had a head that size, and neon-red hair like Neil’s, I’d wear clothing with muted colours so as not to draw further attention to myself but Neil wore a green suit. Not the dark ‘English racing green’ sort of green, the ‘Kermit the frog green’ kind of green.
“I like your suit.”
“Thanks. It’s Prada.”
“Prada make green suits?”
“Yes, it’s custom. I have a blue one at home as well.”
“Cookie Monster blue or Smurf blue?”
“Somewhere in-between.”
“Nice.”
He took off his jacket and draped it over a chair. The label was visible and it read Joseph. A. Banks Menswear.
This probabl
y should have been a red flag but I was only twenty-eight at the time, running a small design agency with just four employees, and desperate for new clients.
I’d started the agency three years before by accident really; I was working for a large Australian packaging company called Amcor and had just been promoted to art department manager after the previous manager, Mr Brown, threatened to go home, get his gun, and come back and kill everybody. It was an exciting morning that included Mr Brown being pepper-sprayed by police officers and escorted out in handcuffs. He managed to kick over a water cooler on the way out but he was the only one who got wet. A Channel 9 News crew turned up an hour later but decided the story wasn’t as exciting as everyone was making it out to be and left. We got the rest of the day off though, due to the art-department reeking of capsaicin, which was nice as it was a Friday - long weekend and all that.
I was offered Mr Browns position, and a small pay increase, the following Monday morning. By Friday, I understood why Mr Brown had lost the plot. Managing designers is like attempting to produce a Broadway play with the entire cast made up of toddlers; there’s tears and tantrums, shit everywhere, and nobody has any idea what they are meant to be doing.
The work wasn’t hard but there was a lot of it: Reps emailed the art department details and dimensions of required packaging artwork, a proof was produced and sent back to the rep for approval, then the artwork was sent off to be made into printing plates. Having a team of six designers and around 100 proofs to be completed daily meant a maximum of two hours per design. Designers don’t like two-hour deadlines. They also don’t like being told that they’re “not Neville fucking Brody” and that a cardboard box featuring an arrow and the words ‘this way up’ doesn’t require a forty-five minute group discussion about negative space.
“How’s that cucumber box coming along, Adam?”
“You just asked me that.”
“That was four hours ago.”
“No it wasn’t, it was... less than three.”
“I asked after you’d been working on it for two hours. I’ve got that design in the system as a one-hour job. It’s a single colour print produce box.”
“I’m almost finished. I just have to design the graphic.”
“The graphic? What have you been working on?”
“The sides.”
The sides say, ‘Contents: 40 cucumbers. Handle with care.’”
“And?”
“And I fail to see how that’s taken... five hours. How long do you think it will take to do the graphic? Should I check back with you next week?”
“I’ve got enough on my plate without you being sarcastic.”
“And nobody will have cucumbers on their plates unless you get the box done. Seriously, how long is it going to take you to finish it?”
“How long is a piece of string?”
“That’s misuse of an idiom, a piece of string can be any length but the time it takes to write the word ‘cucumbers’ and wack a picture of a cucumber on a box is easily calculable. In this case, one hour.”
“I can either do it well or I can do it quickly, which one do you want, David?”
“It’s a cucumber box, Adam. I want it done quickly. Nobody gives a fuck if it’s done well. The farmer is going to fill it with cucumbers, it’s going to be driven to the supermarket, the cucumbers are going to be stacked onto shelves and the box is going to be crushed. You’ve got ten minutes.”
“What? I can’t even pick a typeface in ten minutes.”
“What typeface did you use for the sides and back?”
“Bauhaus Bold.”
“Really?”
“Yes, what’s wrong with Bauhaus Bold?”
“Nothing, it’s a great font for roller derby posters.”
“I’m not changing it.”
“No, you’re right, we haven’t got another three hours. Write ‘cucumbers’ in Bauhaus Bold, add a picture of a cucumber, and call it done. If anyone asks about it, I’ll say you’re on medication.”
“I’m going to add a sunrise behind the cucumber as well. To give it a ‘fresh from the farm’ feel.”
“No, just whack a cucumber on it and hit print.”
“It won’t take me long.”
“Yes it will. Just whack a cucumber on it, please.”
“Right, I’m going to go see Tony.”
“What for?”
“To tell him you’re micro-managing me and stifling my creativity.”
“You’d actually call attention to the fact it’s taken you five hours to design a cucumber box to the regional manager? It’s a rather odd thing to do but okay, off you go then.”
“Fine. But I’m adding a sunrise.”
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From: David Thorne
Date: Monday 24 August 1998 9.39am
To: Tony Cox
Subject: Resignation
Morning Tony,
Firstly, thank you for the opportunities you have provided me here at Amcor. I’ve gained an in-depth knowledge of the flexographic printing industry over the last two years and taking over the position of Art Department Manager last month has proved an interesting and challenging experience.
However, as a graphic designer, managing other graphic designers is not the career path I envisioned and I think it may be time for me to move on. Please let me know what processes and paperwork need to be completed.
Regards, David
................................................................................................
From: Tony Cox
Date: Monday 24 August 1998 10.21am
To: David Thorne
Subject: Re: Resignation
David,
What the fuck? Why are you quitting? The art dept. is running like clockwork. The backlog has been cleared and productivity is up 30%. Have you been offered another job?
Tony
................................................................................................
From: David Thorne
Date: Monday 24 August 1998 10.46am
To: Tony Cox
Subject: Re: Re: Resignation
Tony,
The only clockwork the art department could be likened to would be that off a $5 knock-off Rolex from Indonesia. One that accidently got worn while swimming.
My position wasn’t replaced when I took Andrew’s role and Adam quit last week citing ‘creative differences’. Hayley sits at her desk sobbing most days and Christine manages to get through about a proof a week as she has no idea how to use a computer. I’ve tried to show her but she’s 72 and doesn’t give a fuck. Apparently she used to be the tea lady here in the 60s and just sat down one day.
Frank and Yola are the only ones getting proofs out and what they don’t complete, I’ve been taking home with me and doing in the evening.
I realise my decision creates a difficult situation but I will do whatever I can to help with the transition over the next few weeks.
And no, I haven’t been offered another job. I’m not sure what I’m going to do actually. I have a decent setup at home though so I might give freelance a go until I find another design position.
Regards, David
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Tony outsourced work to me. It started with ten or eleven proofs a day - just to take the load off the art-department - then a few more when Christine died. She had diseased gums and the infection made its way to her heart - which stopped while she was on the phone arguing with a rep about why a typeface change to a proof was taking two weeks. Frank told me that her last words were, “I’m not a fucking robot.”
Hayley left the art department next, apparently God told her to build huts on an island somewhere in the Pacific Ocean. I hadn’t even realised she was religious and I’m pretty sure I used the term, “Jesus fucking Christ, Hayley, what is it now?” at least five times a day when I’d been there. She wasn’t replaced and the amount of proofs sent to me increased.
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From: Frank Goodwin
Date: Wednesday 21 October 1998 11.02am
To: David Thorne
Subject: fuck this place
Hey.
Just so you know, I’m quitting as well so you’re probably going to get a lot more proofs in two weeks. Did Yola tell you they moved us into the cafeteria? This is bullshit. They put those moveable walls up but we can still hear people eating on the other side and they look through the cracks. Im using one of the plastic tables as a desk. How is this even remotely acceptable?
Also, the lady at the cafeteria says you still owe her $6.50 for a kitchener bun and coke. I’m not paying it for you.
Frank
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Frank came to work with me and we easily dealt with the seventy or so proofs per day between us. Yola found out and was pissed so she became my second employee.
Amcor shut down the art department completely. There wasn’t much point having one when the three of us managed 100% of the work load. Frank and Yola were hard workers; we had gotten along well at Amcor and the only thing that had changed was the environment. It was a better environment, a more relaxed work space where people came and went as they pleased based on the workload for the day. Without a clock-in clock-out mentality, we were a lot more efficient - sometimes we’d have that day’s proofs completed by mid afternoon and could take the rest of the day off but just as often we’d work until past midnight. Neither Frank or Yola complained when we had late nights as they were making almost double what they’d made at Amcor. Frank bought his first new car, Yola purchased an apartment. We all did alright out of it; I was saving to buy a house and had around two-hundred grand in my personal account after three years.
