by Peter Barry
That afternoon he sat and listened to the waves tumbling onto the beach, but he no longer found the sound soothing. Quite the opposite in fact; it made him restless and unsettled. It wore him down just as the waves wore down the beach, sucking away his spirit just as the waves sucked back the sand. The day dragged by.
During the rest of that week he received only one call from any of his ex-work colleagues. It wasn’t Murray. It was from a man he’d barely known at The Alpha Agency who’d been requested by Russell to call him about the media schedule for Bauer. He asked why Russell hadn’t called him, and was assured by the person on the other end of the line, who was seemingly wriggling with embarrassment and awkwardness, that he would have done so if he wasn’t so very busy. ‘It’s like a madhouse here, Hugh. Crazy.’ And it struck him that the whole world was busy, apart from him. No one else called. He was enough of an amateur psychologist to know that people were embarrassed. That’s how redundancies affect people. They persuade themselves that he’s ashamed of losing his job, as they themselves would be, and he therefore won’t want to talk to anyone. It was as if someone close to him had died, and people were doing everything possible to avoid the subject. It was no different. But Hugh was desperate to talk to people, to anyone, and tell them how he felt; tell his side of the story, and explain how unjust he considered his dismissal to have been. He was particularly hurt that Murray, world weary and sophisticated man that he purported to be, was too spineless to pick up the phone and offer his commiserations. It wouldn’t have cost him anything.
In his third week without work he called Dieter. The marketing director had heard the news – yet he also had never bothered to call. ‘First Fiona, and now you. Are they all crazy at The Alpha Agency?’
‘I haven’t killed myself yet, Dieter.’ As he said this, he thought it was in bad taste, but his ex-client laughed loudly down the phone. ‘Ya, that is true. But my account is bad luck, it strikes me.’
They arranged to meet for lunch at a restaurant in King’s Cross. Hugh was unexpectedly buoyant at the prospect of a ‘business lunch.’ He shaved (which he tended to do now only if he was seeing someone), and dressed up in a suit and tie. It‘s a charade, he thought, like I’m going to a client meeting. Although he caught a later train – which was far less crowded than the one he used to catch – he felt like a genuine businessman. His briefcase supported him in this role. It wasn’t full of reports now, and its lightness made it feel like a broken, useless limb hanging by his side, but there was still the reassurance of having it with him. He wondered if this was how Tim felt with his security blanket.
While they were considering the menu, Dieter said, ‘This one is on me, Hugh.’
He protested.
‘Ya, you have bought me many lunches over the years. Now it is my turn. It is only fair.’
Hugh was pleased by Dieter’s display of concern, and by his awareness that he might not have as much money at his disposal now.
‘I am not saying this now because you are here with me, but I have always believed you are excellent at your job. I have said that to Murray many times, and also to Russell. I was telling it to Murray just last week. I met him for lunch also.’
‘You met him for lunch?’ He couldn’t hide his surprise.
‘Yes, he wanted to say goodbye to me, and no hard feelings – or that is what he said he wanted to see me for.’
That’s more than he bothered to do for me, went through Hugh’s head.
‘But he also wanted to pick my brains about BMW. Or that is what I think now.’
‘And did he say anything about me?’
‘He said you are too backward at putting yourself forward. That was how he put it. He thinks that is your problem. He was saying that you must learn how to fight. It is necessary in this business. Anyway, that is his opinion. He was not being nasty, just stating the facts as he sees them. He has great respect for your abilities, but does not think you can fight dirty. I think Murray is one of those people who look out for number one first.’
‘I did my best Dieter, but obviously it wasn’t enough.’
‘Maybe it is so, but that man Russell is an idiot. That I strongly believe. Now I can tell you what I think, now that I am no longer your client.’ He leant forward for emphasis, resting his large upper body on the table. ‘That man could not – how do you say it in this country? – could not piss in someone’s pocket in a brewery. I do not understand how he came to run a business.’
He brought up his night out at the Casino with the agency. Although they’d seen each other since that event, the subject hadn’t been raised before.
‘That was typical of the man, that he thought he could buy me with a common prostitute. Who does he think I am? That everyone is like him? I do not blame the girl. It was not her fault, she was doing her job, but I told her where she could go.’ He laughed, ‘But nicely, you know.’
Later on in the meal, during which Dieter surprised Hugh by drinking a couple of glasses of wine, they got round to talking about why Bauer had moved out of Alpha. Although it wasn’t the reason Hugh had wanted to meet Dieter for lunch, he was definitely curious.
‘My account moved because my boss in Mannheim wanted it to move, that was the only reason, Hugh. I was happy to go along with what they told me because I did not like the new campaign by that Simon fellow. I did not understand it. Also, of course, I was happy to see the back of Russell.’
‘Did you like Fiona’s campaign?’
‘That campaign I liked, yes. It is a better campaign than the one I have to run now, our international campaign. But who am I to argue? In Mannheim they know what is best for Australia, that is what they tell me. So I let them get on and do what they think is best. We live at a time when the multinational is king, but in my opinion he is like the king with no clothes. The world has gone crazy, but I refuse to lose sleep over such idiotic people.’
‘I don’t blame you for that. It’s understandable.’
‘Yes, but if Alpha had stuck with Fiona’s campaign, and not insisted on presenting that new one by Simon, I believe my account would still be there. Maybe you also would be there?’
‘Yes.’ But that didn’t bear thinking about.
Although he hadn’t intended to, Hugh raised the subject of how he and Fiona had talked about approaching Dieter for the Australian side of the business. His former client was noncommittal, but didn’t laugh at the idea.
‘I do not think it is worth going there now,’ he said. ‘It is too late to talk about such a thing. But it is an interesting idea, and I would have given it serious consideration.’
Over coffee and brandy, Hugh felt he’d drunk a sufficient amount of wine to feel confident enough to raise the topic that was of particular interest to him. He’d persuaded himself, possibly through desperation, that Dieter would receive his request positively, possibly even enthusiastically. He turned out to be disappointed. ‘I am certainly happy to put in a word for you at my new agency, but I believe they have the staff already in place. You appreciate there will be much less work required on my account now the work comes from Mannheim. They will not need the number of people Alpha required.’
Hugh knew he was right, and that, even if the suggestion was made by their new client, the agency would be reluctant to take on an ex-Bauer account director from The Alpha Agency. He was being naïve. Another door closed.
Dieter had a meeting to go to, but insisted on ordering another brandy for Hugh and settling the bill before he left. As they shook hands and Dieter made his way towards the front door, Hugh was aware of feeling like a spectator at some sports event, when the teams run out onto the field. He was left alone in the stands. He was no longer a player.
The other tables were emptying. People were returning to their offices, their desks, their jobs, their worthwhile employ. They all had something to do. They were all making a contribution, his was not considered to be of any value. He felt ashamed. He was no longer a bread winner. He was unemployed. He was
beyond the pale. Of course, the Brasserie was scarcely the kind of place unemployed people could afford to hang out in, so it was unlikely the waiters would realise he had nowhere to go. They might think that he was so successful a businessman, such an entrepreneur – perhaps from interstate – that he could carry out his deals and negotiations from a restaurant table late on a Friday afternoon, either over the phone or on his laptop, before heading off to his weekender. But he didn’t have his laptop with him. The answer was to speak to someone on his mobile. He tried Paul Skirrow, but there was no answer. Did that mean he was in a meeting and couldn’t answer, or that he’d seen who was calling and decided not to? He left a message. If Paul called him back soon, that would surely, in the eyes of the waiters at least, be a more favourable sign than him making a call.
He scrolled down through the list of names on his mobile. There were acquaintances, colleagues, friends and a few business numbers. He could call Murray, but decided that it wasn’t up to him to make the first move. He still felt betrayed by his old boss. So far as he knew, Murray had made no move to defend Hugh, to argue against him being made redundant, and he could have done so very easily. On the spur of the moment he decided to speak to Geoff Wickes. Unfortunately he had to go through Alpha’s reception. It was Suzie. ‘Hugh, how’s it going? Got a job yet? We all miss you. This place is such a dump.’ In the brief time he spoke to her, she almost succeeded in making him grateful for having escaped. Maybe that was her intention. A minute later he was put through. ‘Thought you’d still be out to lunch, Geoff.’
‘Good to hear from you, Hughsy. Are you calling from the clubhouse? Did you have a good round?’
They exchanged banter. Geoff asked if Hugh spent his days at the beach, and Hugh asked if Geoff had pinched all of the furniture from his old office. The closest the agency gossip came to a serious comment was when he asked Hugh, ‘Is there much out there?’ Hugh replied with the kind of cliché that Geoff would understand and be happy with, even though he probably guessed it was a lie: ‘Yes, got several irons in the fire. Won’t mention any names to you quite yet, Wicksy’ – and he groaned inwardly as he joined the ranks of the ‘Y’ brigade. ‘I’m feeling pretty confident.’
‘That’s the spirit, Hughsy.’
After an upbeat farewell a few minutes later, having made sure Geoff understood he was still at lunch in the Brasserie and on his second double brandy, as well as a hollow promise from both of them that they’d meet up soon for ‘a few jars,’ Hugh decided there was no one else he could call from a restaurant on a Friday afternoon without having to explain that he was out of work and feeling self-piteous. But he tried Penny. He only got her voicemail. So he left the restaurant and walked along Victoria Street towards Central.
The following week he decided to take advantage of Alpha’s offer to pay for a re-employment course with a specialist firm of redundancy advisors. He was aware that the agency wasn’t being altruistic paying for him to attend such a course; it would be written off against tax. It wasn’t costing them much, if anything at all, and it doubtless helped salve their conscience – if they had one. He called up and was given the last spot on a course that commenced in three days time. The lady who took down his details gave him the impression that courses for redundant professionals were a booming business.
The course, for executives, covered talks and discussions on being made redundant, how to cope with it on a practical, financial and emotional level, the art of networking, creating a hard working, powerful résumé, and various interviewing techniques. Most useful of all, perhaps, they supplied office space and a phone number so that prospective employers would be unaware of the fact Hugh now spent his days at home, that he was one of the Unemployed.
Although everyone told him the course was worth attending, he couldn’t help but feel he was being sent to some kind of health resort to convalesce after a particularly serious illness. The people at the firm of redundancy advisors were sympathetic, to a degree, but their eyes gave them away. He could see they weren’t that involved. Dealing with unemployed executives was simply a job, one that prevented them, in all probability, from becoming unemployed themselves. But towards the others on the course, Hugh felt some affinity. They were in the same boat as him. They’d been cast adrift together, and he could see in their eyes the same desperation and sadness that he also felt. They too had lost their lives by losing their livelihoods. The unemployed, he realised, are the undead of our times.
He gave up his idea of waiting for people to contact him. Instead, he threw himself into the task of finding work. That was his job – to find work. He spent his whole day in the pursuit, making phone calls, writing letters, searching websites and being interviewed by head-hunters. He tried to arrange appointments for the same day so he could save on the train fare, and he usually walked between meetings so he could save on bus fares. As a special treat, he had one coffee in the mornings and one cup of tea in the afternoons. For lunch, if the weather was fine, he’d find a park or some small patch of greenery where he could sit and eat a sandwich. Around him were the employed, those who had the time to take a lunch break, usually young and casual (he supposed management stayed at their desks and worked through their lunch break), enjoying an easy familiarity with each other, texting or calling friends while talking and laughing with their work colleagues. Among the crowd lying on the grass, or squashed together on the park benches or strolling along the paths, he guessed there must be people in the same position as he was, and he searched the faces for giveaway signs of envy or desperation. Some unemployed were obvious. The permanently unemployed, the down-and-outs and homeless drifted amongst the affluent, or at least fortunate, their eyes lowered as they scanned the ground for cigarette butts, or held out their hands, mumbling well-rehearsed lines about a cup of tea or a fare home. He turned away from these filthy spectres much more determinedly, much more aggressively than others, as if there might be a stronger attraction there, a recognition of fellowship that he wished to deny for as long as possible.
A full time job continued to elude him. Most of the vacancies were for juniors. Everyone knew agencies were only willing to pay for juniors now, in all departments, but especially on the account side. Having long been regarded as no more than glorified messenger boys, people who carried strategy documents, media schedules or the creative work from the agency to the client, then instructions, approvals or rejections back from the client to the agency, management always considered account executives to be the easiest group to make cuts in. This was an agency’s middle management, and it was being kicked out of the door, not just in Australia, but across the world. Agencies had become top and bottom heavy, staffed by those on enormous salaries and with expense accounts to match, or by those working for a pittance with hours a peasant in a rice paddy would blanch at. Many people Hugh visited glanced at his résumé and said, ‘I’d love to have someone with your experience working here, Hugh. We’re desperate for people like you. I’m so tired of relying on kids. But I simply don’t have the money to take you on.’ The senior positions that did come up were few, partly because, in the current economic climate, people were reluctant to resign from an agency they’d been at for years in order to join a new one. Longevity in a job gave employees a feeling of security, even though it was in all likelihood illusory. The jobs that did come up were keenly competed for. There could be more than a hundred applicants for the most ordinary of jobs. Hugh frequently missed out to someone who was born and bred in the city, someone with the contacts. Always he was told it had been a hard decision and that he’d been their second choice. Soon he stopped believing that.
He managed to pick up some freelance assignments. He joined the army of consultants, those who a few years back had known the security of a full time job, but lost out when their agency was forced to downsize, restructure or consolidate. The way these people suddenly materialised in coffee shops around the city was one of the phenomena of the modern world. They were easy to spot. Usually alone,
often working on a laptop, they spent hours on their mobiles. But Hugh always thought it was the look that gave them away: it said, I don’t belong. They did their best to appear independent and secure, but struck Hugh as being almost as rootless as the homeless. They were like dogs without name tags. There was no company name on their business cards. They didn’t have an owner; they were strays.
Hugh replaced people who were on holiday or maternity leave, or helped out on a pitch for a new piece of business, when existing staff were so overworked they were unable to do it themselves. He enjoyed being back in an agency, even though it was temporary. He liked the companionship, being able to talk to people if he felt like it and catching up on what was happening in the business. Most of all, he enjoyed being part of a team again. He also liked receiving a salary cheque, even if it only covered a brief period of time. Money had that affect on him: it made him feel secure.
But the day inevitably came around when the head of department or the people in Human Resources said, ‘Thanks, Hugh, you’ve been a great help to us, but we think we can manage without you next week. You can get back to the beach.’ The comment was made kindly enough, as if he was a lucky bastard being freelance and being able to spend his free time on the beach, but it was said to cover up what they both knew: that Hugh would be happier sitting in an office, at a desk, with a job. Consultants would joke among themselves about how it was advisable to keep a low profile on Friday afternoons, even spend a few hours in the toilets because, if you were out of sight, you were likely to be out of mind too. Management might forget about you until you walked back into work on Monday morning … and then you’d get at least another day’s pay, possibly even a week’s.
