When I said I’d have to sell my soul for a job in today’s market, I never thought it would end up being something taken literally. After six months of fruitless searching and unsuccessful interviews, I managed to get something at a firm called Rapunzel Ltd, after my dad made some arrangements with the director. I don’t even know what the company actually does. I’d much rather write stories, but my parents wanted me out of the house. I just wish they’d let me work in something that was part-time.
“There’s more work in accounts than there is in writing,” my dad would say, “And the money’s good. You’ll be of little use to people if you only want to work part time.”
It wasn’t the best start. I ended up being late on my first day because there was nowhere to park at the company’s shabby old tower in the middle of Stoke. I trembled as I saw the white steam billowing from the bonnet of my car. Joy, the director, stood at the front desk and tapped her watch.
“Parking trouble?” She asked. I nodded, unable to get the words out. The smell of evaporated coolant lingers, and I guess she smelt it on me. There was little humour in her voice. Someone who certainly lives up to their name.
She led me down a corridor. I heard the clacking of keyboards and muffled phone conversations as we passed the numerous offices. Nobody looked up as I glanced through the windows. One person had a radio, which played "9 to 5" by Dolly Parton. She knew it best. This kind of work is all taking and no giving.
We stopped at a vacant office.
“Charlotte Forsyth – Accounts Administrator” the plaque on the door stated. My name and new role. That’s nice, I suppose.
The director beckoned inside. I stepped through the door and a light came on, revealing nothing more than a desk with a computer, and a revolving chair. It smelt of must. There didn’t seem to be any kind of heating, or even a window.
“This will be yours,” The director said.
I sat down, and felt a lump in the seat press into my back. Was this really the job my parents wanted me to have? How am I supposed to write if I’m working full-time?
“Welcome to the team at Rapunzel Limited,” The director said, “There’s a post-it on the monitor with your log-in details for that machine and for Sage.”
Fuck. I hate Sage.
“Your first order of business is to look at the bank reconciliations,” The director stood behind me as I switched the computer on. It seemed to stay on a loading screen and then delivered another message of woe:
“Windows 10 is updating.”
“Once I’m in, where do I find what I need?” I asked, “Are there physical copies of invoices and statements?”
“You’ll find everything you need on the machine. Now, I’m off to my holiday home in the French Alps for the next three weeks, but I’ll call you from there with updates.”
I felt the bile building up in my throat. Was that where the name came from? Being trapped in a tower by an absent boss? I guess Joy didn’t pay much attention to symbolism.
“Seriously?” I said.
The director said nothing, but I could read her face. Do nothing without the director’s approval. Do not speak unless spoken to. Remember that every day, you’re doing something wrong. Silence is golden. Like most jobs I’ve been in.
“Have fun.” She left the office.
“Just a moment,” I said, “Is there anything I can do while the computer’s updating?”
No answer. I reached into my handbag and pulled out my notebook. If there isn’t much to do, I might as well draft some ideas for when I get home. I also pull out my personal mug. The one which says “Irritated Writer”. Regardless of whether I’m doing accounts work or my notes, I won’t be of much use to anybody until I’ve had some coffee.
I go to the staff room at the end of the corridor. There’s nobody else in there, but it smells of microwaved fish. Opening one of the cupboards, I find a tin of cheap instant coffee. Decaffeinated instant coffee. My fists clench. I want to punch through the cupboard door. There is tea, though. Hopefully that can stave off the caffeine withdrawals.
When I returned to my office, my computer was still updating. Joy had reappeared, looking at my notebook.
“So, we haven’t scared you off yet?” Her view remained fixed on the notebook, “What’s this?”
I felt my heart beating.
“Story ideas,” I said, “I’m a writer.”
“Is that so?” She opened her own handbag, “Well, I’d love to see what you say.”
“Wait a minute!” I reached for the notebook, but it disappeared into her bag, “That’s my favourite notebook! I need to refer to it when I’m working!”
“You’ll have no use for it here,” The corporate hag sidestepped out of the office, “You come to work to work. I’m not paying you to write stories.”
I still had the pen. I wanted to ram it into her eye, but she seemed to glide out of the office before I could close the distance. The prison sentence would have been worth it. At least with prison I could look forward to getting out. Here, I’m stuck until I get fired or quit, then my parents will throw me out if I don’t get something else. If I speak to them about it, their only response will be telling me to become a mother.
“The responsibility will motivate you to work hard.” They’d say, “You’ll be glad to be out of the house, if nothing else.”
Now my notebook is gone, and with it any chance of writing my way out of this mental prison.
I think it is now clear; this is Hell.
Andrew Roberts, 2019
Special thanks to Kate Forsyth
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