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The Office

By Guy Wilkinson

____________________

Watson runs three red lights so as not to be late for work. He arrives at the office at a quarter to eight. The first thing he does is pour himself a coffee. He has to be careful negotiating the way to his desk; the room is all angles and exceedingly sharp. He's cut himself more than a few times. Also he has to pass through the glare of an enormous lamp, with a bulbous shade. Watson hates that lamp. It haunts his dreams, a luminous stalk, haloed and watchful. He takes a sip of coffee and grimaces. The secretaries have spiked it with saltpetre again. Of course they are only following directives passed down from above - he'd received a memo about it. In fact most employees have gotten used to the coffee's bitter taste by now. Some even prefer it.

Watson sits at his desk, rubs his cheeks, then switches on the computer. The Director's face fills the screen. Watson's spine stiffens. This isn't the director he expected, but a new one. Watson struggles to suppress a groan. A new Director puts him back at square one. All the work, the humiliations . . . it comes as a complete surprise.

"Watson!" the new Director barks.

"Sir!" cries Watson, nearly snapping his back. He puts his face closer to the screen and tries to look confident.

The new Director has a red bloated face, like a balloon. "Watson!" he screams. "You patsy! Pathetic parasite!" Saliva splashes up against the screen. "I've been reviewing your files, Watson, and frankly, you disgust me! If I had any sense at all I'd come down there and personally throw you out on the street where you belong. Isn't that right, Watson?"

"Sir, yes sir!" he cries.

"What? So I'm senseless, am I? Why you sniveling tadpole! The former Director warned me about you. Watch out for Watson, he said - that slack artist! Well I'm watching. As of today, consider your wages reduced by half. And be grateful there are still people in this world who would employ a good for nothing gypsy like yourself!"

The screen goes blank. Wages cut in half? I'll still have enough to live on, thinks Watson - though he's recently sold his old Pontiac, and purchased a new, more expensive Oldsmobile. He can forget the power tools though. The worst of it is, he'd thought the former Director was finally warming to him. Now Watson has to start over. The notion occurs that if he can clear up some problematic outstanding accounts, he might be able to curry some of the new Director's favor.

            

Watson charters the company's helicopter, and in less than half an hour is deposited in a wide courtyard among tenements in the old part of town. Struggling for breath through an overwhelming odor of boiled cabbage, he feels the old fury, his despisal of poverty, returning. Angrily he pounds on the door of cell 103. An  old woman peers out. A small nut, withered and shrunken. It seems surprised to see him. Watson collects himself. Professionalism is above all of importance. "Good morning, Mrs. Engels," he says. "Mrs. Engels, I represent the Federal Income and Revenue Foundation," (unlike his colleagues, Watson refuses to use the company acronym), "and we'd like to know why you've only been spending marginal fractions of the pension you take from the Government each month. As a matter of fact, we've had a complaint filed against you by a clerk in the Reliable Morning Alert Sector of the U.I.C. department store, low-income division. It seems you refused to purchase an alarm clock from him, even after it had been ascertained that there were no alarm clocks in your home."

"I don't need no alarm clock," the old lady snaps. "I wake up every morning at five a.m. sharp - all my life."

Watson smiles. "Now, Mrs. Engels, surely you see what an irresponsible, what an evasive reply that is. It's not merely the matter of an alarm clock, is it? No, there's more at stake than that. What if everyone decided to act like you, Mrs. Engels, and hoard capital? Think of the consequences of that! Why, the reduction of profits could instigate the closure of countless positions - whole departments could be shut down! Society would collapse - would you like to be responsible for that, Mrs. Engels? Would you like to be responsible for the collapse of society?"

"Alright, alright," retorts the old woman. "I'll go tomorrow and get one."

The node implanted in the side of his neck gives Watson a mild electric shock. "Why the old witch," he thinks. "She's lying!" They were right, you couldn't trust anyone. Watson thinks of his own dear sweet mother, whom he hasn't seen for some time. Policy clearly dictates how the situation must be handled, Watson recalls from his training sessions. For "Patriarchs" (over 65), the correct procedure is a knee to the testicles; for "Matriarchs", a jab to the eyes. But when Watson attempts to put policy into action, he is surprised to discover the old woman has anticipated him; she defends herself craftily with a strategical feint, bringing her right hand up perpendicular to the bridge of her nose, and then countering with a sharp left jab to the solar plexus. Watson exhales deeply and falls to the ground, where he is further tormented by a few well-placed kicks.

"Uncle, uncle," he cries out of his discomfort.

"Now then," says the crone, "no more games. You crawl into your eggbeater and hightail it back to the office, to your files and papers for bumwiping those cannibals who employ you. Oh, and by the way," adds the old woman. "You forgot to tell me to have a nice day!"



A speedy departure, a limping return to his desk, and Watson has scarcely begun tending to his wounds when Parsons arrives to rub salt in. Parsons - some of the people here Watson has worked with for years, and still he doesn't know their names, but in this fishbowl Parsons is infamous. It is no secret Parsons is being considered for the Employee of the Year award. It is Parsons who conceived what has become the last word in advertising - intimidation. Parsons, Watson reminds himself, is the man to thank for those "If you don't use this product, this is what will happen to you" commercials that have terrified so many so successfully. And didn't he take every opportunity to remind you of it? Parsons - Watson hates his smug shiny face.

"Watson," says Parsons, "I've come to tell you I'm relieving you of your post. You're going down to Complaints."

Watson sees immediately the logic of it. If his salary has been slashed, it stands to reason he'll have to accept a more subordinate position. He immediately rises from his chair, dusts it off. "Here you go, Sir," he says. "It's not the most comfortable chair I'm afraid, a man of your standing deserves a much better chair than this. Have you, ah, met the new Director, yet?"

"Of course I've met him," says Parsons. "You must be a great fool to have to ask that question."

"Yes, of course, excuse me," says Watson, with gratuitous nods and bows. "I also managed to squeeze in a meeting this morning, and I think I can say unequivocally that the Corporation is destined for even greater achievements. Of course, we hear much the same sort of thing about yourself, Sir. Just the other day I was telling a colleague your advertising campaign is the greatest stroke of unmitigated genius that I've ever had the honor of being involved with."

Parson gapes. "What are you saying, Watson? You had nothing to do with that campaign, nor it with you."

"Of course not, I only meant that as we belong to the same company -"

But Parsons has taken Watson's chair and turned his back on him.



Complaints is in the basement, deep below ground. The walls grow damp as Watson descends; the hollow staircase is dimly lit. When he gets to the bottom he finds himself in knee-deep water. Suddenly he is confronted by a man with a hump, who shines a flashlight in his eyes. "You the new guy?" he asks.

"Watson," says Watson. "Public Relations."

"Yep, that's the one. Supposed to show you around. Course there ain't much to see, just the one room." They wade into the cavernous space. One of the four stone walls has a hole in it. In front of the hole stands a rickety backless stool. "This is your office," says the man with the hump. "And this is your chair."

"My chair?" Watson can scarcely believe this uncouth wretch.

"That's right. You sit on that chair, and you can see through that there hole clear into the reception room. Now don't get nervous - that wall's a foot thick, and solid rock.. Besides hell, that hole's the size of your head, ain't nothing but a baby could get through a hole like that. You ain't afraid of babies, are ya? Anyway, the Company's thought of everything. They even provide one of these here protective masks." He held up a pinkish-red Halloween devil mask, made out of coffee cup lids. "So they won't recognize you, see? Put it on."

Watson slips the mask over his face, and sits tentatively on the stool. Unfortunately, the hole has been made for a much shorter man; Watson has to slouch to see through it. This angers the hunchback; he rushes over to knock Watson off his perch. "Goddamit!" he shouts. "A huge corporation like this, and they can't find even one fool with the right qualifications!" Out of nowhere he produces a rusty saw, kicks the stool over and begins hacking away at the legs. After a rough job he slams the stool upright. "There!" he says. Watson cautiously sits down again. The stool lurches forward. The hunchback frowns, then throws his hands in the air. "Look, just take this." He hands Watson the flashlight. "Turn it on, Simple Simon! Hold it against your chest, so that the light's pointing upward. Now - show me your devil face." Watson turns to look at him. "Not bad," says the hunchback. "Now watch the hole, and don't move." As Watson turns away, the hunchback vanishes into some recession in the walls.

It is hot work behind that mask. Watson stares into the next room, which is empty. He waits for someone to come and lodge a complaint - surely, he thinks, people have complaints these days. Now and again he glances over his shoulder, but the man with the hump doesn't reappear, and eventually Watson gives up looking for him. He sits there, masked, awaiting grievances. Eventually he begins to admire the thickness of the walls. The Corporation certainly isn't underestimating its public.

Watson performs his duties conscientiously until a familiar voice intervenes. "Watson," it shouted. Parsons! Watson swings around in his devil mask  to face him

"Watson, you imbecile, what do you think you're doing?"

"Waiting for a complaint, Sir," he answers.

"Good God!" Parsons is incredulous. "Is it really possible to be so stupid? You were sent her to mop, Watson - to mop, not to lounge on a stool all day! Now where'd that hunchback get to? Mop up this water, Watson, and get back to your desk, the work's piling up. And take off that ridiculous mask!"



It is backbreaking work, that mopping. When he finishes it is all he can do to drag himself back up the stairs. He drops into his chair. Stacks of files piled up on his desk obscure his view of the office. The files, Watson knows, contain documents pertaining to loans the Corporation has made to a certain developing nation. The application was approved on that country's acceptance of the provision that the money would only be invested in Universal Information Corporation products or goods. UIC then persuaded the government of that nation to invest the loans in two commodities which - due to an error in production planning - UIC at that time held in surplus.  The commodities were whisky and rifles. Then the government of that nation defaulted; now repayment was being extracted via the country's only remaining resources - whisky and rifles. Soon, Watson knows, UIC will have to intervene more deeply. To squash a revolution, or to assist one.

He is working through the files when a company messenger appears, carrying a pressed white tuxedo on hangers. "Put this on sir, and don't dawdle," he says. "You're wanted in the Boardroom!"

What miracle, thinks Watson, is this? In no time flat he dons the tuxedo, stands gleaming in virgin white. But he hasn't time to admire himself - he's been called for in the Boardroom. He races up the winding staircase, all the way to the top, down vast corridors to the great double-doored entrance of the Boardroom. He longs to fling these doors open, to shout "I am at your disposal!" But his way is barred by a mustachioed doorman, larger than himself, also dressed in white. He chops at Watson's neck with the side of his hand. Watson falls to the floor.

"Fool!" curses the doorman. "Do you think you can waltz into the Boardroom?  An insignificant creature such as yourself? They would tear you to pieces!" When Watson sits up, to rub his neck, the doorman grabs his ear and yanks him to his feet. But the tone of voice softens. "Listen, little friend, fools mustn't rush in unprepared. These are not men such as you or I. One must enter only when one has an offering."

"But what shall I offer?" cries Watson.

"Why, what has been requested, of course." He points with his forefinger to a low table beside the door. An oval service tray has been placed on it, with a matching domed cover; both pieces are solid silver. Watson can discern the edges of a lace doily between them. He doesn't hesitate, but immediately steps forward and hoists the tray. He holds it in one hand, at shoulder level. The doorkeeper marks his every gesture; now he looks gravely at Watson and nods. "Good - very good," he nods. "I see why you were chosen. Now stand aside. Make way for the ladies."

No sooner does the doorman speak than the doors fling open and out from the Boardroom a line of women drag by, ten of them, twenty, thirty-nine - women from the secretarial pool. All are dressed in colorful shiny bodices and some kind of rabbit accessories - long bunny ears, puffy tails. They wipe at their mouths with handkerchiefs, and have a dazed look in their eyes. When the last passes by, Watson moves toward the doors, but is again restrained by a hand to the chest. "Not yet," says the doorkeeper. A legion of tuxedoed waiters have turned a corner at the far end of the hall and are marching single file toward them. Watson stares incredulously at them. Thin they are; sticklike, like scarecrows. Eyes sunken and ashen skin. The first battalion bears magnums of wine, held as cautiously in white gloves as if they were landmines. Then waiters hefting silver ice buckets, with ice cubes crackling like milky diamonds. Then come the units bearing food, buckling under the weight of it, all embedded in gleaming silver. Sixty men, a hundred, a seemingly infinite line. Finally, bringing up the rear, two or three dozen waiters with sauce trays, sour cream, bacon bits. One last old soldier files by. The doorkeeper nods. Watson steps through the door.

He finds himself in a wide green meadow, in a gentle valley ensconced among rolling hills. Air unimaginably fresh and clean; so overwhelming that at first it makes him dizzy. He looks up in wonder at the sky, and the sun beaming benevolently down. "Beautiful," he whispers. It is the most beautiful boardroom he has ever seen.

Lost in amazement, he has fallen behind. Like a line of chalk, the procession winds up the steepest of the surrounding slopes. Watson runs to catch them, all the while balancing the tray in one hand. He can see the caravan's destination - some small crowd gathered at the top of the hill. Watson catches the back of the line just as the avant-garde reaches the summit.

At the top of the hill, thirteen men are seated at a table. A long table, elegantly set, with such a profusion of crystal and silver and gold candelabras and jewel-encrusted crockery it hurts the eyes to look at it. The thirteen men are of various nationalities but wear identical conservative business suits. Watson hears running water. The lineup stops moving. Then a man at the head of the table waves, and one at a time the waiters come forward, to fill glasses or set down silver trays.

Step by step, as the procession advances, Watson's nervousness increases. If he should trip and fall? To make matters worse, the line that had seemed endless only moments ago now seems unmercifully abbreviated. Then, as in a dream, Watson realizes it is his turn. And that man at the head of the table - the only one without a tray - that man is none other than the new Director himself. Watson's knees tremble as he starts the long walk to the far end of the table. The Board members sit still, watching him - they will not uncover their trays until the Director gives the sign. As he comes up beside the Director Watson averts his eyes. In doing so, and standing as he is now at the crest of the hill, he sees a river in the valley below. From the table all the way down to the river itself runs a long line of garbage, a line that broadens, forming small mounds on the bank. Watson sees tin cans, newspapers, plastic jugs, diapers, tires, washing machines, dented silver, slivered bones. Shopping carts buried upside down in the mulch. Vultures are winging over it. The stench is indescribable. Watson forces himself not to notice. It takes all his willpower to prevent his hands from shaking - but there, he's done it, he's set the tray down without fumbling. He takes two steps back, breathing a heavy sigh of relief. He has a clear view over the Director's shoulder as the Director reaches out to uncover his tray. Watson is surprised to see, on that gleaming silver platter, a banana. Nothing else.

The Director quickly swivels in his chair. "That's right, Watson. It's a banana. What were you expecting? I'm a bananian, Watson - all I eat is bananas. Is there something you'd like to say about that?"

"No sir," Watson squeals.

"Then keep your pointless emotions to yourself! Do you understand me? Don't even think!"

"Yes sir!" says Watson. He tries not to feel or think - a Herculean task.

The Director turns away from him. He picks up the fruit, slowly strips the skin off it, and tosses it heedlessly over his shoulder. He consumes the banana in three bites. Its disappearance seems a signal for the others to begin. As the Director sits back, putting his fingertips together, the Board members unfold their napkins and tuck them into their collars. Then altogether they uncover their food, with altogether the same result; the portions are so generous they spill over onto the tablecloth. But what food is this, wonders Watson. This isn't food at all! Those aren't peeled grapes one member is popping into his gullet. And the man beside him, his string of uncooked sausage looks extremely suspicious. And that bald one, what is he chewing on, it looks like some yellowish underwater sponge. And the blood that sits thickly on their plates - their meals are barely cooked! But when the man to the right of the Director picks up a hand, intact to the wrist, and baring his teeth bites into it, Watson knows at that moment the awful truth. All are chewing earnestly now, their hands covered in blood, blood oozing out of the corners of their mouths. Watson is stunned. It is a shock to realize how naïve he has been.

"Watson!" shouts the Director. "Fetch me some mineral water."

Happily, Watson takes off running. Down the side of the hill he scrambles. He crosses the meadows and the fields of daisies, and bursts through the doors back into the hallway. The doorkeeper is waiting with a glass bottle of water. Watson takes it and wordlessly turns and starts running back. He crosses the fields of daisies and the meadows. Up the side of the hill he sprints. But as he approaches the table, he slips on the discarded banana skin. Down goes Watson, face first to the ground; the bottle flies and strikes the Director squarely on the forehead.

Luckily, it doesn't kill him.  

The Director slowly ascends from his chair, and comes over to Watson, who has remained on the ground. Stooping down, he seizes Watson by the lapels of his tuxedo and lifts him. Watson had not realized what a large man the Director is, physically, but Watson's feet are actually dangling off the ground. The Director brings his face close; his warm bananian breath mingles democratically with Watson's. "Watson," he says, "tomorrow you will clean out your desk. And an arduous task it will be, Watson - without thumbs!"

Nodding their approval, the Board members rise out of their chairs.

____________________ 

Mr. Wilkinson wanted his biography to read the as the following: “Guy Wilkinson lives in Vancouver and teaches English at Langara College.” We were going to add something funny to this, then thought the better of it.