Colm Brady

Iguana

The phone on his desk rings and Horace knows without looking that it is Francis. This is the fourth call in half an hour. He reaches for the receiver and answers while Dermot gives him the cut-throat gesture.
“Horace, can you come in here for a minute please?”
Horace gives Dermot the finger and plods towards the end office. He knocks and gets a nod from Francis. As he enters he is assaulted by a wave of superheated air – Francis has the thermostat cranked up to ten and looks suitably tropical in his linen suit.
The lads alternate between calling him the Iguana and the man from Del Monte behind his back. Francis is in his early forties and has recently indulged his taste for heat in a long-haul trip to Thailand. He has returned with a hardwood letter opener which he now uses to gesture to the chair in front of his desk.
“I was reviewing the quotations you ran off on Friday– I have circled the corrections that need to be made.”
Francis bears the face of someone who had been personally affronted by the documents.
Horace remembers that Francis was away on Friday. Dermot had entertained the office by sitting at this desk and dictating imaginary letters in his best Francis-like growl.
“Dear Mr Ahern, very pleased…blah blah, get fucked, yours blah blah.”
Horace remarks that he has spent a lot of his working life in this very spot. He looks out the window behind Francis at the building site three stories below. He wonders if he got enough momentum up could he penetrate the double-glazing and escape this conversation. He would describe a divers arc impaling himself on a dumper.
“…and they need to be faxed out immediately. Are you listening to me Horace?”
“Yes Francis, I will get them sorted straight away.”
He stands up to leave when Francis lifts the letter opener like a sceptre.
“Was someone messing with my chair on Friday, it nearly amputated my knees when I sat under the desk this morning.”
“Not that I know of Francis, maybe it was the cleaners.”
Francis seems happy with that explanation and waves Horace out.
Horace hurries down the hall and dumps the quotations on Dermot’s desk.
Dermot is on the Liverpool website and instinctively puts his body between the monitor and his visitor. Horace points at the papers and tries to look annoyed.
“You made a pure balls of these on Friday, he has marked the bits that need to be changed. And he noticed someone was messing with his chair.”
“You checked all the stuff I did on Friday, so really it’s your fault. Sure everyone knows I’m a fuckin eejit!”
Horace sits down at the desk across from him. A miniature mountain of paperwork overshadows the divider between them. Mount Fuji is composed of reports, files and anything Dermot is afraid to throw out. This means that anything that gets within three feet of this behemoth gets sucked into its gravitational pull and it grows daily. Occasionally the summit of the teetering pile falls over the divide into Horace’s immaculate desk. Dermot stretches his neck and appears over the top.
“Some bird rang for you man, Vanessa she said her name was. She said your mobile rang out. She sounded well posh.”
Horace tries to remember ever having spoken to a Vanessa. It comes to him; she is from Slaughter and Musgrave – Recruitment Consultants. He rummages for her card thanking God he hasn’t used it to clean his teeth. He recalls doing a fairly mediocre interview with a company in town. He reckons the only way he could get it is if the previous three people backed out. It is a great job but the problem is Francis - He has an Il-Duce-like version of loyalty and never gives references. Dermot had offered to forge a reference letter or even impersonate Francis on the phone but it is too risky.
As he reckons he is doomed anyway he beckons Dermot over to his desk.
“Bring the Bullshit Bingo sheet over.”
Bullshit Bingo consisted of a grid of 36 squares divided between two players. Each square has a common piece of business cliché and each one is ticked off as it appears. The guys reckoned they owned the rights and would get rich off it but the offers aren’t lining up yet.
Dermot lines up the sheet as Horace dials the numbers. A receptionist answers.
“Hi could I speak to Valerie Peachey please, this is Horace Moloney returning her call.”
Dermot plugs his earpiece into Horace’s phone and hovers over the grid sheet with a pencil. He nudges Horace as the connection was made.
“Hi Horace, I couldn’t get through on your mobile and I just wanted to touch base.”
Dermot ticked one box on his side.
“The company were very impressed with your interview. They reckon you tick all the boxes.”
Dermot mouths two – nil against Horace.
“The job will be a steep learning curve…”
Two – One
“They are a young company and like to work hard play hard.”
Two all and that means that he would have to work late in the new place. He works overtime here for no money anyway so it can only be an improvement.
“They are happy to pay the salary discussed and all we need are references from your last two employers.”
Dermot points at Francis’ office and shakes his head wildly. Horace feels his brain getting sore. He wants to stop her but something stops him from protesting. He spills out the numbers and resigns himself to four more years with Francis.
“Right we will get straight onto that and will have contracts issued by close of play.”
Three two to Horace but victory is like ashes in his mouth.
The end office opens and Francis comes powering down the hall. His scowl is even more ingrained.
“I have to go out for the afternoon, get those quotations out and I want to see credit control reports by five.”
The two serfs jump to attention and sit back at their desks.
“Ringing up lads to look for payment, I fuckin hate this job.”
“Will we leave it ‘til after lunch?”
Dermot agrees and they head down to the shop. They hit the deli-counter and stock up on baguettes with what could loosely be described as chicken products. Dermot buys the Star and Horace reads the sports page while Dermot lights a cigarette beside the entrance to work.
They trudge back upstairs and head for the lunchroom. Francis annexed a fair portion of it for the boardroom next door so they are all squashed at small round tables sitting on rickety barstools like battery hens. Dermot starts a debate about Sunderland but Horace doesn’t bite, he eats his chicken wrap in silence. The others leave and Dermot starts into a yoghurt.
“Cheer up man, it’s only an interview after all.”
“Yeah but its always the same thing, he wont give a reference so I can’t move on. I am so sick of the shit here – four years in a concentration camp. And we can’t even dig a tunnel.”
Dermot isn’t listening; he was watching the door of the lunch phonebox open. He silences Horace with an elbow in the side. The Managing Director comes in and sets about making himself a coffee. The lads have never seen him in here before – this place is a haven for the junior ranks only. He sits at the next rickety stool and picks up the Star. He glances at the front page like a man who only reads the Irish Times and clears his throat.
“Dermot, I want a quick word with Horace here.”
Dermot grabs his lunch and takes off upstairs. Conversations with Mr Hennessy MD are usually painful and always brief. In his haste to vacate he nearly falls down the stairs. Hennessy blows on his coffee and studies Horace over the Styrofoam rim.
“How long have you been with us Horace, three years?”
“Four actually.”
“Well the receptionist just transferred a call to me from a company you did an interview for recently. Are they a good outfit?”
Horace nods looking at the building site outside with longing. This was the bit where he loses his job – marginally worse than where he is at now. He feels sick but glad it is going to be over.
“Well I told them the truth.” OH FUCK not the truth.
“You have been a good worker and I wish you the best of luck in your endeavours.”
Horace is tempted to kiss Hennessy but stays still. If the company rang for references that means he has got it – he is free.
A quick “Thank you” is all he can manage and he bounds upstairs to Dermot. He ignores the questions and rings the agency. He doesn’t even bother with the bingo. They confirm he can start in two weeks.
They offer to start later if he wants but he accepts breathlessly. There is only one formality to complete now but that can wait until five. He and Dermot spend the next hour planning a leaving do and accepting bids on his desk lamp and stapler. They arrange custody of the rubber plant. Dermot looks sad when the plant it is handed over.
“Are you going to tell Francis?”
“As soon as he gets back.”
“He is going to freak out if you don’t even work your notice.”
“We will see. I am going to do something I should have done months ago.”
Dermot sits back.
“You aren’t going to do anything stupid are you? You have the job now – just go today and leave it.”
“Maybe you are right. Nah, I will tell him.”
“Your funeral man.”
Francis barrels in and heads straight to his office. Dermot starts counting on his fingers. On the fourth finger Horace’s phone rings. Of course he will come in. Francis hangs up without saying goodbye.
Horace walks by Dermot’s upturned thumb. He walks into the office leaving the door open. He steps up to the desk, picks up the letter-opener and snaps it in two. He drops the pieces on the desk and walks out.

posted by Colm Brady @ 11:14 PM