At the Edge of the Game

by Power, Gareth

  The sun penetrates the thinning clouds. The warm rain slackens. The thin curtain doesn’t do enough. All possibility of oblivion is gone. I am miserable.

  AN ACCUMULATION OF NOTHING

  Dexter ran his hand over the dulled fuselage at the top of the boarding steps.

  ‘The ship has taken quite a beating. The things we’ve seen, the dangers we faced. See here? Pockmarks from icy debris far out in the dark interstellar spaces. We hit it approaching a wandering dwarf planet. Despite the dark and the cold, it had life on it. Small crusty things that metabolised the organics-rich ice. They were eating the planet bit by bit, reducing it, sustaining the thin atmosphere with their own warmth. We tried to land, but something broke through the ice, something with brittle tendrils that snapped when they touched the ship.’

  ‘I saw something similar myself, but on a much warmer world, orbiting a giant, about three Jupiter masses. Organics-rich slush full of wriggling things that burst apart under the force of the engines as I hovered.’

  ‘But no intelligence anywhere. Not the slightest evidence.’

  ‘No, not for me either.’

  ‘Except for… once we detected another craft. We were exploring a system about 100 light years away. We curved in close to the star to refuel, saw another ship boost away as we arrived. It was more advanced than ours, much faster and lighter. We tried to radio it but it would not respond. It left the system towards the galactic centre.’

  ‘Definitely human?’

  ‘Impossible to be totally sure. It did look human though, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Are there any images of it?’

  ‘Yes…’ he said, as though I had spoken out of turn.

  I kept talking. ‘I never saw any other craft in all the time I was out there. That was more or less the way I wanted it.’

  Dexter looked at me. ‘Does it displease you that we have broken your solitude?’

  I considered several ways to answer this.

  He croaked. A sound I took to be a laugh. Certainly, I never after heard him emit any sound more like a laugh. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘I see in you, well, more than you probably want me to see. You like to hold back, don’t you, but you achieve the opposite in doing so.’

  This was a man who had not seen another human being in decades, apart from his wife.

  ‘What do you see?’ I ask him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘What sort of man am I?’

  Did I frighten him in my fervour? I really wanted to know what he saw in me. He looked away, down the beach, towards the far headland and the fadings of the coast beyond.

  ‘A beautiful world,’ he said, quietly. ‘Such beauty.’ Then his voice regained its vigour. ‘I must get my wife outside. This intoxicating richness and vitality, it’s just what she needs. You said you would help me.’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘Then let’s go and get her.’

  I've found that free time is no good, because it’s never really free. Rather, the time is free, but the brain prevents you from feeling free. Always in the back of your mind you are niggled by the knowledge that you have to find work, and soon. Making use of the plentiful available hours is all very well, but there’s a background radiation of guilt that induces lethargy, disillusionment, stupor. Gilded cage, gelded rage, I wrote a while ago in my notebook of ideas, believing that I had encapsulated this state in four neat words. I tried to find some way of working this exceptional bon mot into my graphic novel, my labours on which had initially coursed along gratifyingly after Boehm-Adler propelled me dolewards. But every attempt failed, and after much pondering I perceived that the reason for this was that gilded cage, gelded rage is in fact rubbish. This set off a mental chain reaction, and a few consequent thoughts later I became quagmired in the crisis of confidence that afflicts me still. The stacks of pages in this box room seem now to be fantasist folly worthy only of the dump, the rotten fruit of so much misguided effort. With all the free time I ever longed for, I might be achieving creative breakthroughs to elevate myself into the ranks of the comfortably fulfilled, but instead of that this dumb torpor ensures that every hour of every idle day is spent on the actions of a lazy, woolly-headed, talentless ne’er-do-well. Which is what I am. There’s no evidence to the contrary.

  Or is there? Now that I think again, to flick through these pages at random is to see that maybe not all is meritless. Impossible for me to be objective about my own work, but some of this art is actually good. Not world-class, but well-rendered. I don’t think any amount of criticism would convince me otherwise. I’ve nailed some of these things, like the aurochs in stampede. It’s dynamic and full of character. And the Neanderthal faces too. I mean, who knows what they really looked like, but I think I have managed to achieve a good balance between scientific accuracy and the requirements of storytelling. These Neanderthals are soulful, melancholy, noble. Or brutish and evil, as plot-points here and there demand. The world I’ve created may not be original, as such, but it is from a reasonably fresh angle. Some new permutations of old tricks. The dialogue… well, bits of that are regrettable, and it requires heavy editing. Helen won’t be a sounding board for me any more. Will have to seek out some willing friend to take a look at the newer material, try to get some ideas and perspectives bounced back at me. That might get the whole thing going again.

  But it’s cold these days, some days cold enough that, with our inadequate capacity to heat this house, I can’t work at the desk without gloves for my numbed fingers. Not an ideal way to produce artwork. Another excuse not to buckle down. Outside a spiteful wind swipes at stray bits of rubbish. A girl in heavy coat and a long skirt squints against whipped-up grit as she slants along the puddled footpath. A scene from any typical Irish November, and yet… The problem is that these conditions are no longer the climatic steady state. People say heartily that at last we’ve got our weather back, but it’s not really true. Everyone knows this is just a transition from cruel summer to crueller winter. It doesn't really feel the same at all. Impossible to pin down exactly what's different to the old days, but something's definitely not quite right.

  The phone is ringing. No interest in answering it. But Helen doesn't come out of the sitting room as I hoped she might. She's still napping on the sofa, or just lazy. I go downstairs, glare at the insistent thing.

  ‘George Holden, please.’ A terse woman's voice.

  ‘Yes, that's me.’

  ‘This is Amanda at the Peoplefirst Temping Agency. We have a Dublin West mailroom position that would suit you. Do you want it?’

  ‘Oh. Ah. Yes,’ I stumble.

  ‘There are some forms you need to fill out in the office. We need you down here as soon as possible.’

  I look at the closed door of the sitting room, behind which Helen may be listening. ‘All right. I'll be there first thing in the morning.’

  Electrically attenuated exasperation comes through the earpiece. ‘You get over here right now if you want the job. I'm ringing other people too, you know. First one here gets it.’ The line goes dead.

  Here's the gelded rage back with a vengeance. What might I have said if she hadn't hung up? ‘Fuck off,’ would be topmost of all options, in a world where injustice and evil could be properly combatted without repercussions. What'll I do...? I'll just go, not tell her now. She'll take all the good out of it by giving me orders. A fait accompli presented later on will garner brownie points.

  Grab my coat off the hanger. Seeing myself in the dusty mirror somehow brings clarity, sparks a greater sense of urgency. Rush out to the garden shed. I've not rode the bike in about two years. Chain's almost solidified with rust, and the bike has virtually merged with the items of assorted junk against which it leans. I yank it out into the unaccustomed daylight, give it a quick look over. Tyres soft but not flat. Brakes partially functional. It'll do.

  Against the headwind I get three, maybe four knots out of the obstinate, squawking, rattling contraption, this bastard of a machine. Lun
gs aching already in the cold. Bobbing over the potholed surface I overtake the long-skirted girl in Ranelagh village, reach the crest of the incline, discover that, such is the friction inherent in the bike, it won't freewheel down the other side. So a cursed eternity later I'm over the canal, violating the one-way system at the Odeon, passing Stephen's Green, dodging down hushed side-streets, skirting a bleak midweek Temple Bar. Over the brimming autumnal Liffey, finally to the badlands around Talbot Street. The denizens of these parts are coarse of face and of word. They know who is of their sort and who isn't, and I get the look of the outsider as I weave past huddled congregations. For some reason Peoplefirst Temp Agency has not moved away from the area, despite all the trouble and all the hassle being here must surely attract.

  I can see a bloke in a combat jacket rushing up the road from the opposite end. Instinct kicks in. Leaning into the bike for leverage I squeeze every bit of momentum I can out of it, get to the door of the office before him, get myself buzzed in.

  ‘Shite!’ says yer man, still yards away.

  ‘You are...’ says the woman at reception with sufficient derision to make me wonder if she's Amanda. But no, she isn't. Name tag says Majella. Yer man starts pressing the buzzer, knocking on the window. She pays him no regard at all.

  ‘George Holden.’

  ‘Holden.’ She picks up her phone, murmurs into it, tells me to go through to the main office. Going through, I spot yer man atop my bike, lofting a long finger as he wheels away up the street.

  A big fat African man named Arthur bids me sit without deigning to actually look at me. I take a seat in front of his desk. He pushes a form and pen towards me. ‘Name, PPS, spouse name, spouse PPS, bank, etcetera.’

  ‘Right.’ His drumming fingers are most distracting as I work through the form, trying to do it quickly so he won't think I'm an illiterate who can't hold down steady work.

  ‘Okay...’ He scans down through what I have written, seems pleased by it. Finally looks me in the eye. ‘Good man yourself.’ You-ah-self, he says in that African way.

  He puts a photocopied road map on the desk between us. ‘You know west Dublin at all, my friend?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘So here is the place, you see? The company is called Avatan. You heard of them? Very large drug plant, with many departments - manufacturing, research, admin, legal, etcetera. Great need for exchange of physical paper documents. Not e-mail and SMS and such.’ He makes a dismissive gesture, finding the thought of vulgar electronic communications distasteful. ‘Huge amount of post also arrives from outside every day. Need for a large Operations department, with well-staffed mailroom arm. Avatan are our best client by far, my friend. Keep me fat.’

  No idea how to respond to this.

  ‘Naas Road. Bus stops here, if you lack a car. Walk to here, around here, in here. 7AM tomorrow morning. ‘

  ‘Seven. Right.’

  ‘You understand how the system works, my friend? I think you are new to temping?’

  ‘I think I understand.’ Not sure what he's driving at.

  ‘Here it is. You have one hour, maybe two, to impress the boss lady. Her name is Candy. Ask for Candy McThomas at reception.’

  Candy McThomas. No woman with a name like that will have any time for me.

  ‘Listen, and learn quick. Mailroom is a busy job. You work non-stop. There are rest breaks, when the load is light. Never unless, understand? She sees you stop, you're gone. Most men we send, they make it to lunchtime, maybe, then they are sent home. Paid for half a day, and then back to the dole queue. This is good work if you can impress her. That's very important.’

  ‘Okay, I get you.’

  ‘Do you? Okay, take this map away. Don't forget, 7AM. It would make sense to be there early. Say 645.’

  ‘Okay.’ I get up to leave.

  ‘Oh’ he says. ‘One other thing. Come over here.’

  I follow him to the corner of the room. ‘Lift that up.’

  I lift up a box of photocopier paper.

  ‘Good. You can lift 15kg. You are physically capacitated for mailroom work.’

  He shakes my hand, leads me back to the desk, where I pick up my jacket. ‘Good luck, my friend. I think you will do well. I don’t say that to many people.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  As I turn the handle of the door that leads back to reception, he says: ‘Are you going to leave without asking?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Are you interested in how much the job pays?’

  ‘Oh, well, I assumed it’s minimum wage.’ Can it possibly be higher? I scan his slight smirk.

  He leans back in his chair, sighs. ‘Yes. I can confirm that in this you are correct.’

  ‘Right. Thanks.’

  ‘Again, goodbye and good luck’

  The receptionist ignores me as I take my leave, begin the bicycle-less trudge back to Ranelagh.

  Mobile starts ringing in rainy Harcourt Street. It’s her. I’ll just let it ring out. It’ll spoil the effect if I try to tell her about this on the phone. I can picture myself getting annoyed at the need to repeat things, poking questions diminishing the event in that way that they always do.

  ‘Didn’t you get my call?’ she says at the front door twenty minutes later.

  ‘I didn’t hear it. Listen, I have some good news. I’m starting a job in the morning.’

  The joy that shows on her face, it almost makes me take a step back. I did not expect it. She grabs my hands.

  ‘Oh, George. That’s great. Is that where you were?’

  ‘Yeah, the agency called me down. Got there just ahead of another fella. The games they play with other people’s lives, making people race each other for work.’

  ‘How much does it pay?’

  ‘It’s minimum wage, a mailroom job in some pharma place.’

  ‘Minimum wage.’

  This takes the wind out of her sails a bit.

  ‘We knew any of these jobs would be minimum wage, Helen.’

  ‘I know, but –’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I just… hate to think of you slaving for so little.’

  ‘Maybe if I get enough work, we won’t have to have Mr Lodger here any more.’

  ‘Hmm,’ she sounds into my shoulder, unwilling to humour this notion even for a moment.

  The dawn greys itself into existence, light spreading thinly from the cold shallows of the Irish Sea to the murk of the city. It is wrong, so wrong, to step outside at this, the cruellest hour, when the driven air slaps you before you’ve made your first step. Evasive faces scan the rough pavement, creased with the rage of birthright denied. It should not be like this, goes the human mind. Beings such as we, the species that dominates the physical world with blundering ease, should transcend this sort of nonsense, should not be subjected to the indignity and squalor of the dawn commute. Of course, this is only day one, so I might get used to it.

  Endure another tedious hike through town. Slouched crowd at the bus stop on the quay, no chance of getting a seat. Get thrown about as the bus thuds its way up and around past Heuston, through Inchicore, along the ugly, harsh Naas Road, all the derelict car dealerships, retail warehouses, half-arsed fast fooderies. Get stuck in some sort of stupid snarl-up at the Long Mile, police in tactical armour and their silly obstructions. Same again at the Red Cow, more police, keeping the interchange secure for Dublin’s remaining workers. All this eats up my fifteen-minute margin of error. Watch out now, turning through these industrial back roads, watch out for the right place to alight.

  Rain has started to pelt. Raise my jacket hood as I stride across the empty car park, towards the warm light of the Avatan reception.

  ‘I’m starting here this morning,’ I tell the young receptionist and her complicated deployment of make-up and hair. She turns away from me to make a call to Candy McThomas. Wonder how I must seem to this young one. Suppose I must look old, declining, weak. Maybe I am all of those. Depends on your point of view, at the end of the day.
Don’t really see it that way myself. How have I managed to come through so much life, such a vast span of time, still with all targets ahead of me? So much life already lived. Statistically speaking, nearly halfway through my lot of time, and I feel as though I’m only starting out.

  Candy McThomas is a good-looking, tall, slim girl in a fairly garish pink body-hugging mini-dress and dark tights. Her face registers womanly satisfaction at the widening of my pupils. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ I say in a businesslike tone.

  She leads me to the lift with minimal conversation. A routine part of her job, bringing new try-outs into the mailroom. To her I am a number, not someone to be thought of as attractive, or even unattractive. She’s maybe five years younger than me, curiously demure in her movements, considering what she’s wearing. Hard to figure out, she is.

  ‘Here it is,’ she says, pushing open one of a pair of double swing-doors, gesturing me through ahead of her. Step forward, see the mailroom for the first time. Two men stand at a bank of pigeon holes, shoving envelopes into this one and that. They show no interest until Candy calls them over to meet me. ‘Lads, this is – um…’ She looks at me.

  ‘George.’

  ‘Sorry. George, these are Len and Al.’

  Len is a small, weedy-looking man, whereas Al is medium-sized, burly.

  ‘Alright,’ says Al in his city accent. ‘We’re just about to do our runs, Candy.’ To him I’m an annoying disruption.

  ‘You go on your run then, Al. Len, will you stay here for a minute and get George started?’

  Al pushes a cart of sorted envelopes out the door and off towards the lift.

  Len is diffident. He leads me to the bank of pigeon-holes. His voice is raspy, his breathing short. Just listening to him makes me feel short of breath myself. I wonder is he missing part of a lung.

  ‘Get some post like this’, he says, picking up a pile out of a large plastic container beside him. ‘Just check the name and throw it into the right hole’