Tuned Out

by Keith A Pearson

  “Never did me any harm; quite the opposite.”

  Dad believes the root of my problems stem from a lack of physical punishment as a child. For some inexplicable reason, he believes the constant canings he received from my grandfather made him a better person.

  “Would you give your granddaughters a good hiding? Would that make them better kids?”

  The craggy lines in his forehead deepen as he glares towards the bar.

  “Where’s our bloody food?” he grumbles. "I’m starving.”

  True to form, the subject slips away.

  With no sign of our lunch, he moves on to another topic I have no appetite to discuss.

  “How’s your love life?”

  “Don’t go there.”

  “Shame it never worked out with that Gemma. She had her head screwed on, that one.”

  “Yep.”

  “No one else on the horizon?”

  “Nope.”

  “Every man needs a good woman in his life, Son.”

  “Gay men don’t.”

  “No need to be facetious. You know what I … wait.”

  “I’m not gay, Dad.”

  “Wouldn’t care if you were,” he says dismissively. “Whatever makes you happy.”

  His answer is out of character and takes me by surprise.

  “Do you really mean that?”

  “Which part? You being gay, or being happy?”

  “Both, I guess.”

  “I know you think I give you a hard time, but it’s only because your mother and I worry about you. Of course we want you to be happy, and if that means batting for the other side, that’s fine by me.”

  “That’s a lovely turn of phrase.”

  “Sorry — not politically correct enough for you?”

  “I don’t think I’d put it on a banner for a Pride march. Anyway, it’s irrelevant as I’m not gay.”

  “Yeah, but my point is relevant. We just want you to sort yourself out.”

  In that one statement it dawns on me this is not a spontaneous event; a father innocently inviting his son to lunch. Mum has told him to have a chat with me.

  “Oh, I get it. This is Mum’s work, isn’t it?”

  “What is?”

  “She told you to invite me to lunch.”

  “No.”

  “Truthfully?”

  “She might have floated the idea but can’t I invite my boy for a spot of lunch without needing an excuse?”

  Conveniently, Norman arrives with our food.

  “You two want a top-up?” he asks, nodding at our glasses.

  “I’ll take another pint,” Dad replies.

  “You’re driving,” I remind him.

  “And? The limit is two pints.”

  “There’s no safe limit. You shouldn’t drive even after one pint.”

  “Nonsense,” Norman interjects. “Not one of my punters has ever had an accident, and some of them can barely stand when they get into their motor.”

  Open mouthed, I stare up at him.

  “Are you serious?”

  “It’s a fact — people pay more attention to the road when they’ve had a few. Back in the good old days, everyone drove home after a skinful and nobody ever died.”

  With his scientific study delivered, Norman returns to the bar.

  “That man is something else,” I mutter.

  “Norman’s okay. He’s just a bit set in his views.”

  “Says the man who hates literally everything about the modern world.”

  He doesn’t argue. We eat in silence whilst watching the news on a TV fixed to the wall opposite. The news is depressing; the food more so.

  “Anything else you want to talk about?” Dad asks, having decimated his lunch.

  “What a strange question. Is this a job interview?”

  “I’m just checking everything is okay.”

  A problem shared is a problem halved they say. I could tell Dad all about my brush with the law but what would be the point? He’ll react in one of two ways: he’ll either laugh for ten minutes and call me an idiot, or more likely he’ll shake his head, tut repeatedly, and then head home to tell my mother. I’m not in the mood for either outcome.

  “Everything is fine. Tell Mum not to worry.”

  A smile and a nod — parental obligations fulfilled, his work is done.

  “Good lad. We must do this again soon.”

  No, we really mustn’t.

  7.

  People ask why I spend so much of my free time playing online video games. It’s a question only a non-gamer would ask.

  After my lunch with Dad yesterday, I returned home and spent six solid hours wired to my Xbox; being someone other than Toby Grant. Six hours living in a virtual world more appealing than my own. Unlike the real version, it is a world where I have some level of control and where I can excel, and the only judgements made are on my ability to complete each level. I am joined by like-minded people from across the globe; none of whom know my real name, let alone my problems. It is escapism — pure and simple.

  I also kept my promise to the cans of lager. All eight of them now reside in the recycling bin; empty. I don’t regret the gaming but, at seven-thirty on this drab Thursday morning, I might regret the lager. If I recall, Frank Sinatra had too few regrets to mention, but mine are certainly stacking up.

  After a bowl of cereal and a shower, I get dressed and prepare for the day. It’s going to be tough. Part of me would rather just slide back beneath the duvet and hibernate until spring, but I know doing nothing will allow my mind to dwell on the car crash my life is fast becoming.

  I conclude it would be better to keep busy, and head down to the car park.

  After an uneventful drive, I arrive at the office and the still-nameless receptionist greets me with a cheery smile. I wonder if her greeting would be so warm if she knew my dirty secret. Probably not.

  I smile back and hurry through to my office.

  It’s still eight minutes before my team are contractually obliged to start work so it comes as no surprise to find their desks empty. Every one of them starts precisely at nine, takes exactly one-hour for lunch, and leaves on the dot of five o’clock. As a manager, I’m expected to work the hours required to do my job; whatever those hours might be.

  I slump down behind my desk and switch on the iMac. Before it can boot up, my phone rings. I check the screen and consider ignoring the call from my newly appointed probation officer, Trudy Durrant. Her previous threat of a harsher sentence for failing to comply with the court’s order removes the choice.

  “Hi, Trudy.”

  “Morning, Toby. How are you?”

  What a dumb-ass question.

  “I feel like the worst human on earth.”

  “It’s probably delayed shock after court yesterday. Remember what I said to you before?”

  “Yep, but the reality is far worse than the theory.”

  I met with Trudy last week so the Probation Service could compile a pre-sentencing report for the court. I suppose she has to deal with all manner of undesirable individuals who’ve committed far worse crimes than mine, and probably multiple times. Thus far, she’s certainly treated me like one of her more compliant clients.

  “I understand,” she replies. “And the reason for calling is so we can get your case dealt with as quickly as possible. I know you don’t want this hanging over you.”

  “I don’t want this, period.”

  “You probably won’t be surprised, but I hear that a lot. I can tell you though; some of my clients embrace their community service order and go into it with a positive frame of mind, and often complete it with a fresh perspective on life. It’s only a punishment if you treat it as such.”

  “At this precise moment in time, Trudy, it’s hard to think of it any other way.”

  “Tell you what: if you’ve got half-hour spare, why don’t you pop in on your lunch break and we can get the ball rolling. I know you don’t want to do this but it’s better to get
stuck in than let it fester for weeks. The sooner you start, the sooner you can put it behind you.”

  With the iMac awake, I glance at my schedule.

  “Okay,” I sigh. “I can be there just after one.”

  “Great. See you then.”

  Trudy ends the call and I’m left with a begrudging admiration for her efficiency. For someone who quite literally has a thankless job, she appears surprisingly enthusiastic about it. Less can be said about me and my job. I look up to see all five members of my team now at their desks — quietly getting on with their work. Fingers crossed they’ll stay that way and I can have an uneventful morning.

  Ten minutes later, that hope is shattered by a call from a client. And if there’s one client I really can’t face this morning, it’s Barrie Taylor, owner of Etondale Car Sales.

  “Good morning, Barrie.”

  "No, it bleedin’ ain’t.”

  After the problems we had with their debut Facebook campaign — namely the barrage of negative comments — I paid Barrie a visit to discuss a way forward. He certainly matched the stereotype of a used car salesman: late forties, fake tan, cheap suit, and slimier than a toad’s handshake. Once he calmed down we discussed a new strategy due to launch yesterday. In my absence I’m guessing it didn’t go well.

  “What’s the problem?” I ask.

  “I want you to speak to Google.”

  “Err, right. That’s not really how it works, but why would I need to speak to them?”

  “I ain’t had any more negative reviews on Facebook, but the tossers are now writing all sorts of crap on Google. As of this morning, we’ve had forty-four reviews and they’re all one-star.”

  “By tossers, you mean your customers?”

  “Same thing.”

  “Okay. Far be it from me to judge, but maybe that’s where the problem lies.”

  “Eh?”

  “Every one of those reviews is from a disgruntled customer, and the fact you refer to them as ‘tossers’ suggests the problem lies with your customer service standards.”

  “And? Ain’t that your job to fix?”

  “Bear with me a second.”

  I search his company on Google and scan the latest reviews.

  “Barrie, I note most of the negative reviews mention your company’s inability to fix problems — that’s not my job.”

  “I bloody knew this would be a waste of time,” he rants. "I hired you to bring in more customers, not to let the previous tossers say whatever the hell they please.”

  “But how can we do that if your reputation is so bad? Would you hire a plumber with dozens of negative reviews?”

  The question is met with a breathy pause.

  “Fuck this,” he then spits. “Take it all down.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Take the whole lot down … Facebook, Google, all of it.”

  “You want us to remove your business profiles?”

  “Yes, and I want it done this morning. All this negative bullshit is costing me money.”

  This isn’t an uncommon response from clients who don’t understand how the Internet works. The world has changed and there’s no longer any place to hide. With Barrie at the helm, I’ll be amazed if Etondale are still trading this time next year.

  “Fine. I’ll get onto it.”

  “Good. And you can stick your invoice up your arse. I ain’t paying it.”

  He hangs up.

  His closing statement riles. If he isn’t prepared to pay his invoice, I’m not prepared to waste any more time on his account. His profiles will stay live and the negative reviews will continue to roll in until he settles.

  I send him an email saying as much. He replies almost immediately, stating he’ll come round and beat the shit out of me if he receives another negative review.

  In hindsight maybe I will remove those profiles after all. It’ll give me something to do, I suppose.

  I spend most of the morning undoing all the work we’ve invested in the Etondale account; in the knowledge my efforts won’t contribute to our departmental target. It keeps me distracted but does nothing to lighten my mood.

  Lunchtime comes and, with all the motivation of a two-toed sloth, I get in the car and make my way towards town.

  The Probation Service offices are housed in a suitably cheerless building in a part of the town centre I seldom have reason to visit. Actually, I seldom have reason to visit the town centre at all on account half the shops have closed down in the last decade. A campaign last year tried to encourage more people to use the surviving shops but I considered it ill-conceived and ultimately pointless — you can’t turn back the Internet tide. Why bother with the hassle of visiting the town centre when you can have all manner of goods delivered to your door in as little as two hours? Some people just can’t accept change and want to cling on to the supposed good old days. Fools.

  I trudge into the reception area. There are two men waiting on plastic chairs; both kitted out in attire from the Sports Direct bargain bins. I’m eyed with disdain, and I’m sure they can tell I’m in unfamiliar territory.

  I approach the unmanned reception desk and, as advised, press the bell for help. Another, more telling sign warns of severe repercussions if staff receive any form of verbal or physical abuse.

  “Yes?”

  I look up to find a middle-aged man filling the doorway behind the reception desk.

  “I’m here to see Trudy Durrant. She’s expecting me.”

  “And you are?”

  “Toby Grant.”

  “Wait there.”

  He then disappears. Incensed at his lack of common courtesy, I turn to one of the surly men on the plastic chairs.

  “Is he always so rude?”

  From beneath the peak of his baseball cap he mumbles something that sounds a lot like ‘fuck off’. Nothing would give me greater pleasure but it’s not an option.

  “Hi, Toby.”

  Trudy breezes into the reception area and shakes my hand. If I had to describe a polar opposite human to the miserable arsehole I just met, it would be Trudy. I’d guess she’s in her early thirties but it’s hard to tell as she has that new age vibe going on; her blonde hair braided into tight cornrows, and piercings in her nose and eyebrow. I’d wager Trudy spent most of her twenties travelling through Asia and Africa trying to find her spiritual self; returning home to inflict her new found philosophies on small-time drug dealers and prolific shoplifters.

  She leads me along a corridor to her office where I’m offered a seat.

  “Thank you for coming in,” she chirps. “I wish all my clients were so reliable.”

  The term ‘clients’ sounds inappropriate but then again, what do you call the various misfits she has to deal with on a daily basis?

  “It’s okay. As you say: it makes sense to get this over and done with.”

  I gaze around the office as Trudy searches a pile of folders for my file. Even compared to my office, her work place is poky. There’s also a strong scent of lavender oil which I guess is supposed to calm her clients.

  “Ah, found it.”

  My folder is noticeably thinner than the rest in her tray. I’m hoping it stays that way, and Trudy can file it away before the first daffodils sprout.

  “So, Toby, let me explain the rules about community service. You’re required to complete a minimum of six hours per week but you can do more depending on the placement.”

  “And with a full-time job, when am I expected to work?”

  "Most clients complete their hours at the weekend. In your case, you could do six hours on either a Saturday or Sunday, or both if you wanted to complete the full quota within …”

  She reaches for a calculator.

  “Five weeks,” I confirm.

  “Oh, yes. Maths never was my strong point.”

  The thought of working seven days a week for the next five weeks doesn’t appeal. Then again, there isn’t any part of this which appeals.

  “Did you have any idea wha
t kind of work you’d like to do?”

  “The kind where I’m paid.”

  “Sadly not an option.”

  “No idea then.”

  “Okay. Let’s start by whittling down your options. I see you work in an office so perhaps you’d like a change? Fancy working in the fresh air?”

  “In January? No thanks.”

  “Right, so we’re looking at a placement where you work inside. How about a charity shop?”

  I’ve already decided I don’t want to work anywhere I might bump into one of my colleagues, clients, or my dad. He regularly trawls the charity shops looking for collectible vinyl and my presence behind the counter would lead to an interrogation.

  “I’d rather not work in a shop.”

  “How about the sports centre?”

  “Doing what?”

  “I believe they’re refurbishing one of the old sports halls and need help painting the walls, sanding the floors, and the like.”

  That sounds a lot like actual work.

  “I’m not very practical. Anything else?”

  “There’s Trinity Place. It’s a residential care home for the elderly.”

  “I wouldn’t be expected to … you know … wipe their arses or anything?”

  “No, Toby,” she frowns. “They have trained staff to assist residents with their personal needs.”

  “What would I have to do then?”

  “There will be some domestic duties such as helping to serve meals and keeping the place tidy, but there are more rewarding elements too, such as reading to visually impaired residents or organising little events to keep them entertained. One of our previous clients helped set up a weekly quiz and I believe they still do it now. I don’t suppose you play an instrument?”

  “I can just about force a tune from a guitar.”

  “Perfect. They love a good sing-song.”

  I can’t say the prospect of spending sixty hours surrounded by dribbling pensioners holds much appeal, but at least the work doesn’t sound too demanding.

  “That might work.”

  “Excellent. I’ll call them later and we’ll get everything set up. When did you want to start?”

  “Any time next century will do.”

  “Nice try. How about this weekend?”

  “Fine. Saturday, I suppose.”

  “Leave it with me and I’ll call you later with all the details.”