The Girl Who Couldn't Say No: Memoir of a teenage mom

by Tracy Engelbrecht

  In short, I’d been banished to hell.

  Picture this: It’s 3pm on a scorching Friday afternoon in January. Receptionist Tracy is congratulating herself on the completion of her first week as a working mother, and doing what all working mothers do all day long – watching the clock for home time and pondering just how badly this full-time job is going to screw up her child. I was beginning to think about packing up, when the front door burst open and what seemed like the entire Cape Town City Council’s Cleansing Department streamed in, brandishing scruffy payslips and angry expressions.

  Oh boy. Nervous as hell, I tried hard to be professional and to help them one at a time, but they were not interested in queuing. They wanted their pay issues – sorry, their Fokken Pay Issues – fixed immediately. They did not care who handed over the cash, but somebody was going to do it, and before they left the building, too. Twenty to thirty mean, sweaty labourers crowded around my desk, some shouting, others loitering and a lucky few leering up the jacksie. I was terrifically polite and tried to remain calm, but the tears were not far off. They wouldn’t listen. What did they care if the wage office was closed for the afternoon? Which, of course, it wasn’t. Those buggers were in there, all right, drinking coffee and laughing at the new patsy trying to make herself heard without being shot.

  I tried, “I’m so sorry sir. I can’t help you. The wage office has already closed and they’re the only ones who can help you. I don’t deal with the wages at all. You can either come back on Monday, or I could take down your details and they can get back to you.”

  Well, that worked a charm. Fists came banging down on my desk and were shaken in my face. Threats were issued. Some of the more aggrieved gentlemen would not rest until they’d hunted me down a faed me dnd killed me. Fingers were drawn menacingly across throats, just in case the message remained unclear. Over and over I explained, politely and calmly, that I could not help them; I had no money to give them.

  The mob just got more and more pissed off. So did I. Clearly, no help was going to come from anywhere on those premises. Everyone else in the office was suddenly busy, or had temporarily been abducted by aliens, it seemed. There was only li’l’ ol’ me. They should have issued me with a Kevlar vest along with my company stapler. Then again, riot-management wasn’t in the job description.

  After an hour of talking to the wall (if walls could curse and loom in an ominous manner), I was getting ready to fake an epileptic fit to get myself out of there. While the ringleader continued to berate me, my eyes began to roll back in my head in just the right way, while I worked up a good, frothy mouthful of spit. As I was about to drop to the floor, Elusive Boss Man sauntered in, all rugged good looks and starchy chinos.

  Damn, was I glad to see him! My saviour! He’d get me out of this. And he did. He took charge of the scary guys and promised to sort out their money immediately. I was a little peeved that after all my attempts at professionalism and helpfulness in the face of insanity, all it took to pacify the mob was a drop of testosterone and a few off-colour jokes. Bloody hell. Still, they’d stopped threatening to stab me to death, so I guess we were all winners.

  At the first whiff of Boss Man’s Hugo Boss (coincidence? I think not), the hitherto invisible wage clerks reappeared mysteriously, like The 4400. They bustled around efficiently, as if they hadn’t been slouched over their empty desks for three hours, playing My Husband Is A Bigger Retard Than Yours. Have you noticed how many women do this? Bitching, moaning, whining, complaining, screeching hags. Awful. I’d love to ask them why the fuck they don’t just leave if their husbands are such losers, but they’d probably eat me alive and accuse me of just being jealous because I Can’t Find A Husband.

  I got used to days like that. There were many. I also got used to the intestine-gobbling guilt that gripped me every morning as I left Steven. Even the mind-numbing exhaustion became second nature after a few weeks. I developed a slightly thicker skin and taught myself how to operate that crap switchboard. After three months, I barely flinched at threats against my person. I was efficient and took pride in my work, however pointless it seemed. I organised, filed and colour-coded the place into submission. I tossed old socks and leftover mince in Tupperware containers that I found hidden behind my computer, apparently abandoned by the previous receptionist. I put systems in place that nobody had thought of before, and sorted out admin messes that had stewed for months.

  I Put Systems In Place… Yes, however much I hate that ludicrous, pretentious corporate jargon, I picked up some of it. It rubs off, you know, and one day you find yourself spouting absurdities like “owning the problem”, “driving the process”, “getting in on the ground floor” and other such cramp-inducing lingo. Without realisingingut real it, you turn into a “team player”, and actually believe that an afternoon of action cricket with a bunch of drunken colleagues is just the ticket to increase productivity. But be warned – once you reach that stage, only retrenchment can save you. Or sudden, violent death.

  Some people thrive on that shit. I just think it’s stupid. I did my job to the best of my ability, but I never stooped to the “show-me-the-money” mentality. (Yeah, indeed, that phrase graced one of the so-called morale-boosting posters the company insisted on sticking up all over the place. Cheesy and so plagiarised. Shameful, really)

  I guess I was never truly committed to, nor much interested in my job. This was no career – it was just a job and I couldn’t turn it into anything else.

  After a few months, the company started a process of major restructuring. Sweeping changes were made. Retrenchment became a contagious disease. New logos were introduced, sales staff were renamed Business Development Officers – all laughable exercises in futility. Lots of knives lodged in lots of people’s backs, and Boss Man left for greener pastures.

  And so – meet the New Boss, infinitely worse than the Old Boss. New Boss Man was a domineering git with the people skills of a Spanish Inquisitor and the managerial ability of a wet mop. He was a large, sweaty man whose struggling arteries clanged audibly as he walked (it was cancer that got him in the end, although a massive Quarter Pounder-induced heart attack couldn’t have been far behind).

  Somehow New Boss Man combined blustery incompetence and despotic fussiness into one obnoxious package. He was also horribly paranoid, convinced that somebody was breaking into his office on weekends and going through his files. I don’t know why anybody would want to do that, but he was sure of it, and he put forward a colourful assortment of conspiracy theories, using the word “mole” more than once. What these imaginary moles would be after is anyone’s guess. He often spoke about getting the office phones “swept for bugs”. Too many movies, perhaps, or maybe he did have people after him that we knew nothing about. The Doughnut Police, possibly?

  He took to placing sticky tape over doorframes and hairs over filing cabinet drawers. Thing is, everybody in the office knew he did this, so we had great fun messing with his head. The guys in sales would unstick the tape and replace it slightly differently every time. Cruel, but deserved.

  He wasn’t a nice man, although looking back, I realise he was very much out of his depth. He was a numbers man: systems, procedures and paper trails turned him on. People scared him, and he was terrified of losing control of his staff, of not being respected. He was right to be terrified, so he compensated by being an utter bastard towards everybody. At least twice a week somebody would come storming out of his office, either swearing or crying. Husbands of upset staff members paid him angry visits too. Where other businessmen entertain important clients with expensive lunches and even more expensive lap dances (Whelap dandodgy as it is, it seems to work), he once took the CEO of his biggest client to the movies to watch a weepy romantic comedy. Zero people skills, complete social ineptitude and absolutely no concept of personal space. Everybody hated him, poor guy.

  For some reason, he seemed to have a soft spot for me. We worked closely together, God help me. On my birthday, he called me into his offi
ce and we had a private party with cake and fruit juice. He was a staunch Christian (another one!) and disapproved of alcohol. You can imagine what the rest of the office thought of this. I could picture their excitement as they peered through the keyhole looking for evidence of inappropriate behaviour. They loved that sort of thing. Eeeuw. Nearly lost my breakfast there. The image is too ghastly to contemplate. I never did it, okay? Let’s just get that straight, right now.

  New Boss Man would regularly lecture me on my choice in men and tell me I could do much better. He told me he could introduce me to any number of successful, respectable prospects. I never took him up on his offer, as even then I realised what a bad idea it would be to have your boss involved in your love life. It’s possible that he just wanted to get some action himself, married and churchified though he was, but I’d like to think that his heart was in the right place. Oh, the awkward silences – what do you say to a boss who thinks he’s mending your foolish ways with men? I was very young, and didn’t know how to handle it. Now, at the grand old age of 28, I’ve discovered the Death Stare, which works remarkably well on nosy male bosses. Shuts them up faster than the mention of gynaecological procedures.

  However creepy it all was, he was probably right about my relationship choices and gave me pause to consider All The Boys I’d Done Before. Not to mention the ones I hadn’t and should have.

  My first real schoolgirl romance was with a boy who loved his hair more than he loved me. I was twelve years old. It didn’t last long, and that’s all I can say about that.

  The second boy was yummy – I couldn’t believe my luck. He was a great, big, dumb lug of a boy, six feet tall at the age of twelve and a heavy metal freak. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but oh, the goose bumps! He taught me to appreciate Guns ‘n’ Roses and I tried to teach him how to spell. We first held hands at our school barn dance (do not say a word), and then spent the next three months in an unconscious liplock, emerging occasionally to write sweet letters to each other. I still have the letters he sent me. Shocking handwriting, littered with swear words followed by profuse apologies for the profanity. He also sent me heart-shaped “I Love You” stickers. The thought of him painstakingly sweating over a full-page letter to me made me feel unbelievably special. Before I entered his universe, the most he ever wrote was “Mr D Sux’s”, in spray paint on walls. He must have really loved me.

  Of course, as these things do, the romance fizzled out once summer holidays were over. Rumours eventually reached me that an older girl, cool blonde Simone, was involved. Devastated, I was. Simone, you bitch. Our summer romance left me kndere left owing all the words to Guns N’ Roses’ Patience, and with an abiding, morbid fear of Being The Last To Know. I still have both.

  When he later tried to get back together with me, I wouldn’t be swayed. By then I was into older boys who could spell. Dammit. Stupid, stupid. Multi-syllable words are all well and good, but they sure ain’t gonna keep you warm at night. Should have stuck with him. His collection of tattoos is pretty impressive these days and he’s also the Boy I’d Most Like To Kiss Again.

  A string of mostly forgettable attachments followed. After the Boy Who Kissed Like A St Bernard came a brief fling with a neighbour – tall, blond, seventeen and delicious. He played the drums and was perfectly aware of how gorgeous he was. Innocent and virginal, I valiantly fended off his rigorous attempts to get into my pants. Of course, I was way too young to appreciate his tastiness. He was a bit of a bastard, really, but what a pair of hands on him! Ooh, missus. Sexy Neighbour Boy wins the title of Boy I Really Should Have Shagged When I Had The Chance.

  The first Boy I Really Fell In Love With was fifteen, gangly, awkward, bitchy and sexy as hell. We called him Mr Bean, because he made us laugh. But who wants to sleep with Mr Bean? Me, apparently. Even though he was one of my best friends and therefore off limits, I went ahead and fell in love with him anyway. But He Just Wasn’t That Into Me. Or he was gay, which was the general consensus. Who knows? Maybe I just scared the shit out of him.

  Terrible idea to fall in love with a close friend. I must have been crazy, but I couldn’t seem to help myself. I wanted him badly and I was determined.

  I got my chance one night, sitting outside and smoking B&H with him (we thought we were cool, okay!). He lay on the grass with his head in my lap. I found myself holding his hand up to my mouth and kissing his fingers, one by one. I remember him saying it was nice… finally, this was it. This I could do. I couldn’t talk to him without choking, I’d never tell him how I felt, but put him on his back under the stars and I was pretty damn close to heaven.

  I don’t know who kissed first, him or me. Minor detail. What mattered was that it was sexy and wonderful and if ever there was such a thing as a perfect moment, this was it. I felt with electric certainty that nothing – nothing – would ever live up to this. And all we did was kiss. Bloody talented, that boy.

  Other suitors included, in random order, Very Dumb Lifeguard Boy, Arrogant American Boy, Boy Who Was Actually Still Married The Bastard, Guitar-Playing Political Hippie Boy, Delusional Boy Who Told Me His Parents Were Spies Or Something and Scary Policeman Boy. Not included are the random 2am-after-six-Hunters gentlemen – for two reasons. Firstly, because a girl’s gotta know when to stop embarrassing herself, and secondly, importantly, because I can’t remember their names.

  Theigh="Arialn there’s my latest crush, and this is truly embarrassing. It’s Robbie Williams.

  Don’t laugh! Sigh… I, too, was like you, not so long ago. I scorned his music and scoffed at the culture-starved ignoramuses who loved him. I thought I was better than that.

  It happened one hot night in November. Channel surfing while waiting for the Veet Bikini cream to work, I stumbled upon a Robbie documentary. And was mesmerised. Yes, mesmerised. I lay there for an hour, Veet forgotten (by the way, when they say “Do Not Exceed 10 Minutes,” they really mean it), drooling with lust. When the programme ended, I emerged from my trance bereft. I needed more, more, I tell you. It’s the tattoos, probably. And those lines around his mouth – oh my, his mouth. Ouch.

  Sigh… Now there’s a Man I Would Pay To Have Meaningless And Degrading Sex With. I’ve collected quite a bit of his music lately, and I’m trying to like it, I really am, but my finger still itches to hit the “Next” button. Sorry, Robbie. To be honest, I just want to see you with your pants off, really.

  As I said, New Boss Man’s concern about my love life was not entirely unfounded. At that stage, I was going through a regrettable phase of swapping one guy for the next, like chain-smoking, except with men, not cigarettes.

  Lesson One: office romances are no good. After trying it three times, I have finally got the message. It took a while, but I now know that Shagging Colleagues Is Frowned Upon. And with good reason. Makes everybody think you’re a slag, for one thing. Even if you’re not.

  Number One was a guy thirty years older than me (yes, you heard right). We had a good time together, and didn’t care if people looked at us funny. It ended after five months, and I don’t regret a minute of it. We both understood that there was no future in it. We were just having a good time. There’s a lot to be said for dating an older man, although I won’t say it, because my mother is going to read this. He was an interesting guy with a fabulous Scottish accent. (I’ve always had a fetish for foreign accents, ever since my sexy French boyfriend when I was thirteen. Ah! Those green eyes, the perfect skin and the way he would read The Magic Roundabout to me in French… Yum).

  My first date with Number One started with Mexican food and many jugs of sangria. It ended sometime the next morning with the nagging feeling that I’d shagged Billy Connolly. Everybody at work knew about our fling and took great delight in teasing me about it, no doubt gossiping viciously behind my back, too. I didn’t care. We managed to keep it from New Boss Man for a while, as he would have had kittens. But he found out eventually.

  He saw us leaving work together one afternoon. I saw him watching us for ages,
and I knew what was coming. Later on, he stopped Number One on the stairs on his way back up to his office.

  “So, are you and Tracy relatives or something? I often see you coming to work together,” he asked.

  I nearly choked on my own spit. Relatives? Was he joking, or was he seriously that naive? Or was he malicious enough to want to make us spell it out for him? The entire office went silent – everybody wanted to see us get fired.

  Number One took charge of the situation smartly, as he always did. He wasn’t intimidated by the horrible little man at all. They hated each other and I was often stuck in the middle. They fought about everything, just for the chance to be right. Jeez, if I never see another itemised cellphone bill in my life it will be too soon. Another reason why Cosmo writes all those articles about never dating colleagues.

  “Actually, no, sir. Tracy is my girlfriend. We’ve been going out for a while now.” All very matter of fact and calm.

  Seeing New Boss Man’s cheeks puff up and turn red, then purple, then a deathly shade of white was delicious. He was livid. I could see his mind working furiously, trying to find something in company policy forbidding such conduct. Unfortunately for him, there was nothing in writing. Unofficial company policy was Shag Everybody You Possibly Can, but actual relationships between staff members were unusual, so talking about the relationship between Number One and me was a delectable teatime treat. You can imagine the atmosphere in an office with an equal split between single women in their early twenties and married men in their thirties and forties. Gaaah. The stuff those people got up to. Much worse than me, I promise.

  I was sad when we broke up, but it had to happen. Life at work was awkward for a while afterwards, but we got over it and ended up working well together again. We’ve lost touch now, but it would be cool to be his friend.

  I’m very ashamed to say that Number Two followed close on his heels. Short-lived and ill-advised, this was an entirely different story. I chucked him just as soon as I discovered he was not actually separated from his wife as he’d told me. Don’t like to think about that one.