“…Whether the Donster could accommodate?”
“Um, yes.”
He looks her up and down in a thoroughly unambiguous manner that sets her skin crawling and then, quietly, almost whispering, as if this is a deeply intimate moment, he says:
“Put her through.”
“Thanks Donnie, you’re a star.” She pops back to the desk, feeling the weight of his eyes on her rear.
“Mrs Andrews?”
“Hello?”
“Thanks so much for waiting. I’m afraid we’re not going to be able to repair your old computer, but you’ll be pleased to hear we’ll be issuing you with a replacement right away. I’m going to put you through to Donnie, who is one of our team leaders, and he’ll be organising your replacement for you.”
“Oh thank you for all your help, Tanya dear.”
“My pleasure Mrs Andrews, putting you through now…”
She sees Donnie answer the call and, without a word, he hangs up on Mrs Andrews, picks up his cigarettes and walks out of the office.
Unbelievable, you absolute complete asshole. She’s about to stand up and follow Donnie out but at that moment, Barbara totters back into the office and Tanya realises her phone is ringing as the next call is being directed to her now free line.
What’s left of the morning passes in further painful slow motion. She takes early lunch, resisting the urge to insult Donnie on her way out. She picks up a reduced calorie (and price) coronation chicken sandwich on brown from Sainsbury’s and then sits alone in the grimy, strip-lit staff kitchen and texts Tem with a: “How are you, sorry about last night and did you pick up the waterproofs for the boat trip this weekend?” It all sounds half-hearted and insubstantial. She knows that he would have normally texted her by now.
Why couldn’t they make things work? It didn’t seem to matter what the problems were, it was just the intensity with which they loved and conversely hated each other that seemed to be the issue. She thinks about their first date. They’d gone to see Gogol Bordello and ended up walking through Hyde Park at 3am. At first she’d thought he was an attractive moron; good for a snog maybe, but probably not much else. She soon realised that his buffooning carapace shielded an intelligence that was warm, humorous and razor-edged. She opened up to him like she’d never opened up to anyone before and it was an intense, liberating freedom to be able to genuinely communicate with someone (not just to listen to a sensitive, articulate mind, but to feel that emotional intelligence unlocking and drawing out her own deepest thoughts and secrets).
“You want me to tell you what it signifies, Mr Temujin… what is your surname?”
“It’s not important right now,” said Tem, “what’s of fundamental importance is the significance of the arch. Jesus Christ, tell me about the arch quick!”
“This is all pretty ancient mystical stuff though. I’m not sure if your modern brain can appreciate the wisdom I’m about to hand you.”
“I can do ancient – look, I’ll eat that stick,” Tem proceeded to pick up a stick and begin gnawing the end of it like a dog.
“That is so strange. OK, I’ll tell you. Stop eating the stick. So most of what we know of the Valdivian culture is what has been deduced from the cosmograms that they left behind. Essentially the cosmograms were the Valdivians form of writing – stone blocks, carved in various shapes with etchings on them to signify the various elements of their world, both spiritual and corporeal. The two main types of cosmogram that have been found were either square in shape or round and it is thought that square stones contained messages relating to earthly phenomena and the round ones related to the celestial or godly. Are you with me?”
Tem had slowed down a little and then grabbed her from behind, whispering in her ear:
“You are particularly attractive when you use big words.”
She’d shrugged him off, continuing:
“There was also a more unusual third type of cosmogram, which was rounded on one edge and square on the other, and it was this which was thought to have signified the link between the earthly and the celestial.”
“Highway to Heaven.”
“If you like. The significance of these ancient ‘writings’ was not… What is that?”
“It’s the music from Highway to Heaven. Didn’t you ever watch Highway to Heaven?” he said. He was turning on the spot like a rain dancing chief, humming a tune.
“Nope. Are you listening to the ancient wisdom I’m imparting?”
“Yes, the roundy, squarey stones represent a conduit between heaven and earth.”
“Good boy. Now look at the Marble Arch.”
He’d stopped and looked:
“Ooooh, roundy, squarey stones.”
“This is why kings and generals, or scientists and explorers, would be marched through the Marble Arch or the Arc de Triomphe after some momentous triumph, because they were deemed to have bridged the gap into immortality and their achievements would echo through history forever.”
“Nice. So, if I were to piggyback you under that nice little arch over there, our love for each other would piggyback its way up through the stratosphere and echo for eternity in that great pigsty among the stars?”
“What was that word you just used?”
“Ummm, piggy?” said Tem smiling.
“No, no, one of the other ones.”
“You mean the sloppy one?”
“Yes, with the prefix ‘our’.”
“Oh, I see. Presumptuous, would you say?” he’d said, his smile fading.
“Well, this is our first date.”
He’d given her a long look and then said:
“Gardener.”
“What?”
“My surname is Gardener.”
The jovial mask was gone. The moment was broken. The evening had still been good, but the perfection had slipped and sobering gravity was upon them.
It had been like that ever since; they’d be steaming along together, through these uniquely special moments, when all of a sudden, a seemingly innocuous element of their interaction would become highlighted and distort everything that followed. As soon as he’d started talking about love, she’d immediately tensed up. Was it some internal mechanism that was unable to separate happiness from grief, so as soon as the one showed up, the other’s presence was assumed to be just around the corner? If so, why doesn’t it work the other way? Her misery is not often accompanied with delight. He’d told her that he didn’t think she believed her relationships could work and because of that she’d always be looking for the faults that would confirm her beliefs – it was like a self-fulfilling prophecy. She doesn’t want this to be true. She does believe in their relationship. She has to. She loves him. She just needs time to change. Things are going to be different from now on.
Suddenly she needs to see him desperately – a deep physical need. She picks up her phone and calls his number – straight to answerphone, the voice warm and empty. Where is he? What’s he doing? Who is he with? Why is his phone off?
She gets back to her desk early and, before she opens her line, she finds Mrs Andrew’s file and calls the number. No answer. She’ll try again later.
She feels the enormous presence next to her before she sees it.
“Urghhh, what is this?” She turns to see the brachycephalic head inspecting her Lycra cycling shorts on the radiator, prognathic enhancements at their inspective maximum.
“My cycling shorts – I got a bit wet on the way in this morning.”
“Well kindly keep them out of sight, will you?”
“Of course, please accept my apologies.”
“Don’t you take that tone with me, young lady. Now, we’ve had some complaints this morning about people getting hung up on after waiting on hold for considerable periods of time to have their claim dealt with. This is not what I call good customer service.” Barbara appears to be waiting.
“Um, no.”
“Can you imagine how it will make our customers feel to spend up to
an hour on hold, then finally get through to one of our service agents, only for them to be hung up on?”
“Not very pleased?”
“That’s right, not very pleased. Now I know you’re new and it can take a bit of getting used to the phone system, but our goal is to provide our customers with excellent service. Hanging up on them after they’ve been on hold for an hour is NOT VERY GOOD CUSTOMER SERVICE!”
Barbara paces slowly next to Tanya’s desk, allowing her explosive outburst to resonate around the office.
“Do you know what a SMART target is?”
“Is it a Specific, Measurable, Achievable, Relevant, Time bound target?”
“Oh, who’s a clever clogs? That’s right: Specific – start giving our customers a decent level of service and stop hanging up on them; Measurable – by the number of customers I get screaming in my ear that they’ve been hung up on, i.e. zero, i.e. this needs to be; Achievable – I don’t know, are you suited to working in a call centre if this is not achievable? Relevant – I’d say so, this is why we pay you; Time bound – one more complaint today and you can find yourself another job. Is that clear enough for you SMARTY pants?” Barbara holds the hand she has been using to count out her five SMART points in Tanya’s face. There is a small, slightly smudged smiley face in blue biro in the centre of the sweaty palm.
“Clear.”
Barbara’s brachycephalic head looks out of the window at the rain for a long moment with an almost rueful expression, as if wondering what distant wrong turn in her past had led her to this regretful impasse. Then, slowly, her head turns at the exact same rate as the rest of her huge trunk and she rolls away like some fused, bloated floral robot. It’s pointless trying to grass up Donnie – he brown noses better than a panto cow’s back legs. She imagines them as a wrestling tag team in fluorescent pink leotards. She then tries not to.
The clock says 1.16pm. Thank God it’s Friday. 4 hours and 44 minutes to go. Then it’ll be out of here, home, shower, and off to see Tem’s band play tonight. Tomorrow they’ll be off down to Brighton for three whole days and nights with Tem and her friends sailing on The Captain’s old boat and the forecast says that the rain might even stop for ten minutes at some point…
But right now she’s still in ISIS and the weekend seems a million miles away. She experiences a moment of doubt; how can she possibly make it through the rest of today? She has to: she’s skint, there’s a recession on so she’s lucky to have a job (even a really crap one) and deep down she knows if she ends up back on the dole again it’s going to be even harder next time to get off it.
“WHAT?”
“Ref: 230001491.”
“MAKE?”
“Mac Book Pro MD311LL/A.”
“IT’S FUCKED!”
She switches back to the customer.
“Mr Kent?”
“Yes, hello.”
“I’m afraid the workshop says that a repair won’t be possible, but we will be able to organise a replacement unit –”
“What?”
“I’m sorry, but the workshop –”
“It’s got a small crack in the screen.”
“Oh… Maybe they found some other faults…”
“What a joke. OK, I just want my cracked computer back. Unbelievable, I’ve had to take two days off work to get this picked up in the first place because you ballsed up the collection, then I wait on hold for an hour to be hung up on and when I finally manage to speak to someone you tell me you can’t even fix a cracked screen. I can’t believe that you have the cheek to charge people for this so-called ‘service’.”
“Unfortunately we won’t be able to return the damaged unit, but we’ll get you a like-for-like replacement –”
“What? What replacement?”
“I believe it would be very similar –”
“WHAT? This is a joke, this has to be a joke. You have to be fucking joking?”
“Mr Kent, I realise you’re upset and I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings, but this is, unfortunately, ISIS company policy.”
“This isn’t company policy, this is fucking theft! You’re stealing my property! I want my computer back! Are you all mad?”
“Please, Mr Kent –”
“What’s your name?”
“Tanya.”
“Listen to me, Tanya. My line of work connects me with people who – how can I put this – iron out problems –”
“Tanya!” Barbara’s back.
“Putting you on hold, Mr Kent. Yes, Barbara?”
“I’ve just had a call from a very distressed old lady called Mrs Andrews and do you know what she told me? She told me that she’s been trying to call this office for two days now and when she finally managed to speak to someone, she got cut off. Can you guess who she was speaking to?”
“Mr Kent? Thanks for holding. Unfortunately I’m resigning from this shit job now, but I’m going to hand you over to my moron of a boss. Her name is Barbara Letz and she is partially responsible for developing the ISIS company policy, which is, as you’ve correctly guessed, criminal…”
Barbara is grabbing for Tanya’s headphones, but Tanya holds her at arm’s length.
“… In that they intend to sell your computer second hand once they’ve repaired the cracked screen and send you a replacement worth roughly one tenth the value of your old computer.” Barbara goes limp. Tanya presses on. “In regard to your work connections who ‘iron out problems’, perhaps I can signpost you in the direction of my colleague, Donnie Rogers, who hung up on you earlier, as someone who might benefit from their attention.”
“Tanya?”
“Yes, Mr Kent?”
“Good luck to you, girl.”
“Thank you Mr Kent, and good luck to you too – passing you over to Barbara now.”
Tanya stands and wraps the headphones around Barbara’s brachycephalic head. The impact of her enhanced prognathism has been minimised by the extension of her lower jaw, which is hanging loose amidst her neck fat. Tanya now unbuttons her orange ISIS shirt with the stylised little Egyptian motif, kicks off her slip-on shoes, unzips her brown skirt, which drops to the floor with a wiggle of the hips, and elegantly steps around the moribund looking Barbara in just her bra and knickers. She takes her Lycra cycling shorts with the indigo stripe and padded cushion for extra comfort from the radiator and slides them up her long slender legs.
They are warm and dry.
Suspenders
Sammy is sitting in front of his laptop. He is wearing boxers and smoking rollies. He has three chat windows open, two of which are periodically flashing to indicate a new chat message. He is currently devoting the bulk of his divided attention to a website called ‘Get Saucy’, where he is chatting to ‘Daddy’s Girl 86’, a 26-year-old, slim, very cute, Caucasian dark-haired girl from Hackney (looks a bit like Alanis Morrisette) with a father-daughter fixation:
> Then he’s going to slowly take off those naughty clothes his daughter’s been wearing
> gasps – they are nice clothes
> Hmmm, they’re naughty and you’ve been a naughty girl. Daddy’s shaky stick is getting really big and angry isn’t it? It’s gone all purple in the face, it’s so angry. Maybe someone needs to give it a kiss to make it feel better? Maybe if you’re a good girl and make Daddy’s shaky stick feel nice, Daddy will make your butterfly feel nice too
In-between whiles, Sammy is on ‘Guardian Soulmates’ chatting to ‘Autumn Fire’: a 29-year-old pale, flame-haired girl, who is seeking an articulate man with more to offer than just genitalia:
> May I enquire as to the manner of charitable function in which you are employed?
> Alas, my current remuneration is earned in a manner of considerably less manifest allure than your financial exploits; I minister to those good souls of the capital on whom life’s sorrows have weighed too heavily, resulting in melancholy of the spirit.
Sammy keeps flicking back to the third window, even though he knows it will flash at him should th
e user sign back in. He reads the short stretch of conversation from earlier today again.
> Hey hun, are you there? X
> Hello sailor, what you up to?
> Sitting here fantasising about you…
> Cheesemonger, I’m perfectly aware that you’re far more likely to be sat in front of the TV watching Songs of Praise with your grandmother than floating in a bath of sexual lubricant, gently enticing your enormous member to pinnacles of delight as you imagine me loosening my oh so tight corset…
> You got me (and granny) – what are YOU up to?
> This and that… To be honest I’ve no idea why I bother with this nonsense at all, anyway – I’m not looking for anything casual and I’ve already met someone who I sort of like, but I guess I find this whole internet dating world intriguing and repelling in equal measure.
> It is a rather odd manifestation of animal reproductive behaviour.
> For sure – the hardware is so alien! A mouse is without doubt the most bizarre example of a sexual appendage, in any animal species I can think of…
> I know, it’s weird isn’t it – sometimes I think about how the West views the whole Muslim system of arranged marriages with such disdain, and yet we’re more than happy to hand the responsibility of life partner selection to a bunch of nerds pissing about with computer logarithms! I mean, did you really put sufficient effort into your personality profile questionnaire for you to think your computer will understand you better than the family that raised and nurtured you for 20 years? It is the strangest mechanism for connecting with potential mates, but then I guess people find a freedom on here that they wouldn’t dare to entertain in reality…
> Hey, you still there?
> Oi, Fleurs?
But ‘Les Fleurs Du Mal’ had disappeared again. Shit, why does he have to get so randomly boring and meek and agreeable whenever he chats with her? She always responds to his chat requests but she also always manages to keep him at arm’s length, maintaining an aura of mystery, whilst being perfectly frank (‘I’ve already met someone who I sort of like’ did not go unnoticed). He doesn’t even know what she looks like. What a mess.
The Laundry Basket Page 2
