Ever woken up and the first thought that goes through your mind, where the hell am I?
It usually happens when I travel which was quite often, to a place where I haven’t been before, and more often than not, a long way from home.
A hotel room, sometimes they were big, sometimes quite small, opulent, or very basic, a view of snow-capped mountains, or pigeon coops. The result is the same, that first look out the window is nothing like that of out your own.
Like waking up in a different bed, in that different room with that different roof, different walls, paintings, lights, and, when you look sideways, clock.
Often, it took a few extra seconds after waking up, to try and remember all the relevant details. Like where you came from, what airline brought you, which cab you took to the hotel, and which room you were in.
The trouble was, try as they might, hotel rooms were not like most of today’s houses bedrooms.
It was this in mind when I went through the same checklist trying to figure out how it was possible there was a woman in my bed when I couldn’t remember meeting one or bringing one back to the room, simply because I didn’t. I know if I had or hadn’t.
Wouldn’t I?
The other troubling fact was that this time I had agreed to bring my wife along on this junket, just to prove that I was not having an affair, and now she was missing. That woman that was beside me in the bed was not my wife, and I had no idea who she was.
And, as I watched, she rolled over and opened her eyes. In the silence that followed, along with several changes in her expression, perhaps she was making the same assessment of her situation as I had a few minutes before.
The last expression was of surprise, then, “Who are you?”
Not what I was expecting. I was expecting outraged indignation, followed by a threatening call to the police. It could be argued, since all the rooms in the hotel looked the same, that I had intruded in her room, instead of her in mine.
I doubled checked again that this was my room, then said, “I could ask the same question.”
It took a few more seconds to focus on her. Definitely younger than I by a few years, and very attractive. I had to wonder if I had, how I’d convinced her to join me, or equally so, why I would have entertained the notion of having an affair. I may have thought about it, from time to time, but I would not have acted on it. I was content with what I already had.
“The last thing I remember was my husband bringing me a drink from the bar. We were having lunch in the Starlight restaurant. We were here celebrating our 5th wedding anniversary. What do you last remember?”
“Lunch with my wife, down in the Starlight restaurant. I brought her along to allay her fears I was not having an affair.” Which sounded as lame aloud as it did in my head.
“And yet here we are, fulfilling a prophecy.”
I noticed the quick look under the sheets to see if she was dressed, and in that flash, I could see that she had underclothes on. The dress she had been wearing was neatly folded over the back of a lounge chair and her shoes neatly placed beside it. Another glance, sideways, noted my clothes were folded neatly on the other lounge chair, and I was in my pajama bottom.
“But we are not having an affair, are we?” That also sounded lame, but in my head, it held some significance though I’m not sure why.
“I don’t know you, nor have I seen you before. I don’t even know your name. My name is Glenda Matheson. My husband is Robert Matheson.”
“The Congressman, who’s about to announce he’s running for President in the next election?”
“Yes.”
“Then if you are seen here, with me…”
The implications of being caught in a compromising situation with a Congressman’s wife, and even worse, one with such a high public profile, it would be on every front page of every newspaper, and on every TV news channel in the country. Explain that to a wife who was mildly suspicious that you were having an affair.
“It doesn’t bear thinking about.” She rose and sat on the side of the bed, then collapsed backward.
“What happened?” I took a step towards her, but something made me stop.
Instead, I looked sideways and realized what woke me was the sunlight streaming in through the open window. I was sure before I left the room, those curtains were drawn, certainly enough that no one could see in. Now, from the building across the road, and reasonably close, it would be possible to see into the room from a room there. I moved the other window and drew the curtains, darkening the room.
A light came on from her side of the bed.
“People could see in?”
“If they wanted to, but normally it wouldn’t matter. If they were looking, I’d say it was too late.”
“Except there’s a Congressman’s wife in one of the rooms, and a hoard of photographers following them around. You have no idea what fame can do to your privacy.”
I could imagine. And she was right, of course, I’d seen the media coverage of anyone who had a high profile, and they were literally hounded.
“Are you alright?” she was still lying down.
“Dizzy. Lightheaded. This is how I feel when I have two sleeping pills instead of one.” Then, a few seconds later, “and the same taste in my mouth.”
“You were drugged?”
“Are you dizzy, feeling lightheaded?”
It didn’t seem so, but it was possible. “I didn’t drug you if that’s what you’re thinking. The only time I’ve seen you is in the paper, and even then, I didn’t take much notice. If I had, I would have know who you were.”
She was about to say something when there was a pounding on the door. “Mr. Jackson, are you in there. This is the police.”
My heart just about stopped.
Then, almost an instant later there was a voice behind me, a woman, “If you don’t want to end up dead, come with me now.”
Both of us immediately turned in the direction of the voice. Middle-aged, conservatively dressed, could be a school teacher.
“Who are you?”
“Someone who is trying to save your life. Now. The both of you. Before they kick the door in.”
Another few seconds and more pounding on the door set us both in motion. She grabbed her clothes, I grabbed mine, and we followed her through a connecting door, and she closed it just before we heard the door to my room open. The room had another connecting door that led into another room, whose door was in the side wall. After locking one, she came over, opened the third and we went through, out into a passage, and then into a stairwell where on the other side she locked it.
“Get dressed. We have to go.”
“Where are you taking us?” Glenda asked. She had regained her senses, enough to ask relevant questions.
“Away from here.”
“Why?”
“Because the police officers that entered that room have been ordered to kill you.”
One third of the month is gone and this writing job is not getting any easier.
The notion that we can sit down and over a period of 30 days, we can write a 50,000 word novel would be, to some, a preposterous notion.
For me, it is not. I have done it for three years in a row, and even without having a plan.
This one has a plan, but that plan only sometimes stretches to a day or two ahead, depending on how I’m going.
Today, it had been hard going because I set time aside to just sit down and write it, but you all know how fickle that can be. Devote time, and the words don’t come, have no time and try scratching in between a lot of other jobs, and the words are flowing.
It is annoying to say the least.
Bit, for today, Jack has discovered he does, indeed, have a doppelganger, and that he is related, which explains the uncanny likeness. Of course, he has been followed to the island, and run to ground in a park where the two meet face to face. Oh, and the doppelganger has a name, Jacob.
It could have got ugly, but Maryanne is there, though Jack is still not sure why, and her presence averts what could have been an ugly showdown,
Instead, some words of advice. Jack must ask his mother for the answers.
A fine time for Jack to discover that his mother has been lying to him for his whole life.
But, of course, any attempt to get her on the phone is proving difficult.
And it might mean the end of his holiday.
Our Jack is not a happy man.
Today’s effort amounts to 2,873 words, for a total, so far, of 25,485.
Yes, word wise we have reached the half way mark, but story wise, it appears it make take a little longer.
Ever woken up and the first thought that goes through your mind, where the hell am I?
It usually happens when I travel which was quite often, to a place where I haven’t been before, and more often than not, a long way from home.
A hotel room, sometimes they were big, sometimes quite small, opulent, or very basic, a view of snow-capped mountains, or pigeon coops. The result is the same, that first look out the window is nothing like that of out your own.
Like waking up in a different bed, in that different room with that different roof, different walls, paintings, lights, and, when you look sideways, clock.
Often, it took a few extra seconds after waking up, to try and remember all the relevant details. Like where you came from, what airline brought you, which cab you took to the hotel, and which room you were in.
The trouble was, try as they might, hotel rooms were not like most of today’s houses bedrooms.
It was this in mind when I went through the same checklist trying to figure out how it was possible there was a woman in my bed when I couldn’t remember meeting one or bringing one back to the room, simply because I didn’t. I know if I had or hadn’t.
Wouldn’t I?
The other troubling fact was that this time I had agreed to bring my wife along on this junket, just to prove that I was not having an affair, and now she was missing. That woman that was beside me in the bed was not my wife, and I had no idea who she was.
And, as I watched, she rolled over and opened her eyes. In the silence that followed, along with several changes in her expression, perhaps she was making the same assessment of her situation as I had a few minutes before.
The last expression was of surprise, then, “Who are you?”
Not what I was expecting. I was expecting outraged indignation, followed by a threatening call to the police. It could be argued, since all the rooms in the hotel looked the same, that I had intruded in her room, instead of her in mine.
I doubled checked again that this was my room, then said, “I could ask the same question.”
It took a few more seconds to focus on her. Definitely younger than I by a few years, and very attractive. I had to wonder if I had, how I’d convinced her to join me, or equally so, why I would have entertained the notion of having an affair. I may have thought about it, from time to time, but I would not have acted on it. I was content with what I already had.
“The last thing I remember was my husband bringing me a drink from the bar. We were having lunch in the Starlight restaurant. We were here celebrating our 5th wedding anniversary. What do you last remember?”
“Lunch with my wife, down in the Starlight restaurant. I brought her along to allay her fears I was not having an affair.” Which sounded as lame aloud as it did in my head.
“And yet here we are, fulfilling a prophecy.”
I noticed the quick look under the sheets to see if she was dressed, and in that flash, I could see that she had underclothes on. The dress she had been wearing was neatly folded over the back of a lounge chair and her shoes neatly placed beside it. Another glance, sideways, noted my clothes were folded neatly on the other lounge chair, and I was in my pajama bottom.
“But we are not having an affair, are we?” That also sounded lame, but in my head, it held some significance though I’m not sure why.
“I don’t know you, nor have I seen you before. I don’t even know your name. My name is Glenda Matheson. My husband is Robert Matheson.”
“The Congressman, who’s about to announce he’s running for President in the next election?”
“Yes.”
“Then if you are seen here, with me…”
The implications of being caught in a compromising situation with a Congressman’s wife, and even worse, one with such a high public profile, it would be on every front page of every newspaper, and on every TV news channel in the country. Explain that to a wife who was mildly suspicious that you were having an affair.
“It doesn’t bear thinking about.” She rose and sat on the side of the bed, then collapsed backward.
“What happened?” I took a step towards her, but something made me stop.
Instead, I looked sideways and realized what woke me was the sunlight streaming in through the open window. I was sure before I left the room, those curtains were drawn, certainly enough that no one could see in. Now, from the building across the road, and reasonably close, it would be possible to see into the room from a room there. I moved the other window and drew the curtains, darkening the room.
A light came on from her side of the bed.
“People could see in?”
“If they wanted to, but normally it wouldn’t matter. If they were looking, I’d say it was too late.”
“Except there’s a Congressman’s wife in one of the rooms, and a hoard of photographers following them around. You have no idea what fame can do to your privacy.”
I could imagine. And she was right, of course, I’d seen the media coverage of anyone who had a high profile, and they were literally hounded.
“Are you alright?” she was still lying down.
“Dizzy. Lightheaded. This is how I feel when I have two sleeping pills instead of one.” Then, a few seconds later, “and the same taste in my mouth.”
“You were drugged?”
“Are you dizzy, feeling lightheaded?”
It didn’t seem so, but it was possible. “I didn’t drug you if that’s what you’re thinking. The only time I’ve seen you is in the paper, and even then, I didn’t take much notice. If I had, I would have know who you were.”
She was about to say something when there was a pounding on the door. “Mr. Jackson, are you in there. This is the police.”
My heart just about stopped.
Then, almost an instant later there was a voice behind me, a woman, “If you don’t want to end up dead, come with me now.”
Both of us immediately turned in the direction of the voice. Middle-aged, conservatively dressed, could be a school teacher.
“Who are you?”
“Someone who is trying to save your life. Now. The both of you. Before they kick the door in.”
Another few seconds and more pounding on the door set us both in motion. She grabbed her clothes, I grabbed mine, and we followed her through a connecting door, and she closed it just before we heard the door to my room open. The room had another connecting door that led into another room, whose door was in the side wall. After locking one, she came over, opened the third and we went through, out into a passage, and then into a stairwell where on the other side she locked it.
“Get dressed. We have to go.”
“Where are you taking us?” Glenda asked. She had regained her senses, enough to ask relevant questions.
“Away from here.”
“Why?”
“Because the police officers that entered that room have been ordered to kill you.”
A single event driven by fate, after Ben told his wife Charlotte he would be late home one night, he left early, and by chance discovers his wife having dinner in their favourite restaurant with another man.
A single event where it could be said Ben was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Who was this man? Why was she having dinner with him?
A simple truth to explain the single event was all Ben required. Instead, Charlotte told him a lie.
A single event that forces Ben to question everything he thought he knew about his wife, and the people who are around her.
After a near-death experience and forced retirement into a world he is unfamiliar with, Ben finds himself once again drawn back into that life of lies, violence, and intrigue.
From London to a small village in Tuscany, little by little Ben discovers who the woman he married is, and the real reason why fate had brought them together.
One third of the month is gone and this writing job is not getting any easier.
The notion that we can sit down and over a period of 30 days, we can write a 50,000 word novel would be, to some, a preposterous notion.
For me, it is not. I have done it for three years in a row, and even without having a plan.
This one has a plan, but that plan only sometimes stretches to a day or two ahead, depending on how I’m going.
Today, it had been hard going because I set time aside to just sit down and write it, but you all know how fickle that can be. Devote time, and the words don’t come, have no time and try scratching in between a lot of other jobs, and the words are flowing.
It is annoying to say the least.
Bit, for today, Jack has discovered he does, indeed, have a doppelganger, and that he is related, which explains the uncanny likeness. Of course, he has been followed to the island, and run to ground in a park where the two meet face to face. Oh, and the doppelganger has a name, Jacob.
It could have got ugly, but Maryanne is there, though Jack is still not sure why, and her presence averts what could have been an ugly showdown,
Instead, some words of advice. Jack must ask his mother for the answers.
A fine time for Jack to discover that his mother has been lying to him for his whole life.
But, of course, any attempt to get her on the phone is proving difficult.
And it might mean the end of his holiday.
Our Jack is not a happy man.
Today’s effort amounts to 2,873 words, for a total, so far, of 25,485.
Yes, word wise we have reached the half way mark, but story wise, it appears it make take a little longer.
After several years of bad management, the company had decided to make a clean sweep and change upper management. Of course, that sort of change was driven by the volatility of the company’s share price and dividends, and shareholders’ discontent. Productivity was down because of low employee morale driven by what was labelled a ‘toxic work environment’. This led to production problems, quality control issues, and falling sales.
Something had to be done.
The new broom, as it was come to be known as, had made several far sweeping changes, one of which, to counter the discontent of its employees, was to institute the anonymous complaint. Any employee could make a complaint without fear of reprisals. In the past, those that had were vilified, demoted, or sacked. Now, the new broom had decided that employee input would improve the workplace, improve productivity, and provide the way back to the halcyon days.
Or so we thought.
Two phones, each on a bedside table, both chimed to indicate an incoming message.
I’d been staring at the roof, contemplating the start of a new week in a place where I had decided was not where I wanted to be. Beside me, still asleep, was the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, but she was not sure about making a commitment. She’d been down that road before, and it failed miserably and was taking it slow.
I told her slow was my middle name.
I leaned over and picked up the phone, more out of curiosity than anything else, but fascinated that both phones could go off at the same time.
“In the light of a host of complaints about the catering division, it has been decided that the staff cafeteria will cease operations at the end of the month. It has for a number of years been the subject of employee dissatisfaction and the result of an extensive investigation to the feasibility of keeping it going, given the economic climate and fiscal position of the company the only viable decision is to cease operations. Staff currently working in the catering department will be transferred to other positions within the company.”
How could this be possible? I had seen the feasibility study relating to the cafeteria, and it was ‘feasible’ to keep it going. They were right though, there had been a host of complaints, but that was because the catering manager had no idea how to run a large-scale cafeteria that churned out upwards of 5,000 meals a day. Even Olga, who was right here with me now, had said that it was the most poorly managed operation she had ever worked in.
I tossed the phone back on the bedside table and got back under the covers. Too early and too cold to get out of bed.
It woke Olga.
“Trouble in paradise?”
Paradise was her euphemism for work. She had become increasingly desponded as I about working there. In her case, as q waitress in the cafeteria, it was a job she could take or leave. For me, loitering on the fringes of middle management, not so much. Not if I wanted to keep the flash apartment and upscale car.
“They have dumped the cafeteria.”
I had expected her to leap up in indignation. It barely registered on the Richter scale. “And what did you expect?” She raised her head off the pillow. “They were never going to implement your suggestions, it would make Commissar Bland look like a fool, like the fool above him.”
Her analogy transposing our fearless leaders with those back in the old Soviet Union were always an insight to what she had experienced back home before she emigrated with her parents. Commissar Bland was a dictator, and not a man to cross. She cared little about him, and treated him, like the others did, as a joke.
“So much for the new broom,” I muttered.
“You are so naive Petr, but like home, change means no change, just different faces and words that all mean the same thing.”
Petr was her pet name for me, named after an old mentor of hers.
“Aren’t you the one losing your job. Doesn’t it bother you?”
“I will become best factory worker. We are very adaptable. You should try not to lose any sleep.”
She lay down again and snuggled closer.
…
I left her at the fourth floor where my office was located, and she would continue up to the next, the location of the cafeteria.
If I remember correctly, the current CEO when the factory manager, had always wanted to reclaim the cafeteria space for a new modernised production line, but the old guard had seen the benefit of keeping it despite the cost, as a means of keeping its workforce. Even twenty years ago, it would not have made a discussion topic, even in jest.
But times change.
Herman, another of the middle management fringe dwellers, and had also seen the need to have something to ‘bribe’ the workforce. We’d only been talking about it with others on our level the other day when all manner of rumours were drifting through our building.
He was loitering in the passage, obviously waiting for me.
“You’ve seen the message?”
I nodded.
“Hell of a way to kill an institution?”
I walked into my cubicle and dumped my bag on the floor. As a first act, the new broom removed all the offices, and put everyone into an open plan, where it was easier to communicate with others and removed the barriers walls and doors presented. The jury was still out on whether it worked, I could still never get to see the people I needed to.
He followed me in and sat in a chair in the corner. I sat on the desk, it was not a large cubicle.
“It was a drain on profits. The world has moved on from pandering to workforces. It seems dividends are more important. I’m sure this will not be the only change.”
“Like managers losing their cars and credit cards, except for the upper echelon. I don’t think you’ll see them close the executive dining room.”
Yes, it was only a matter of time before that morsel would raise its head under the banner of hypocrisy.
“Probably not. But remember, we used to build cars once, and it was good advertising to hand them out to all and sundry. Now, trying to do the right thing costs too much.”
My phone on the desk rang and startled me. It was still quiet, the bulk of the cubicle population hadn’t arrived yet. My guess they were gathering in coffee shops discussing the news.
I picked up receiver mid ring, then said, “Yes?” I refused to follow the official answering sequence advised by the new broom.
Hesitation, then, “O’Hara from Administration. Can you come and see me, nine a.m.?”
Why? There was no way anyone could know I sent that memo, and I wasn’t on management’s radar, it had been O’Hara himself who told me to keep up the good work, the coded message that said I was not on the latest promotion list.
“I’ll see you then.” I was not going to say ‘yes, sir’ like other management hopefuls. O’Hara was not someone who could be buttered up, a fact only I seemed to be aware of.
“Who was that?”
“O’Hara.”
“Then your days are numbered. He never calls except to say you have a promotion or you’re fired. You aren’t on the promotion list.”
“How can you be sure?”
No one was supposed to know who was on that list for sure, it was a closely guarded secret. Herman said he knew someone who knew someone who knew Herman’s PA, and had been told who was on the list. So far, in the last two lists, he had been right about us two.
Perhaps he was right. I was going to get fired.
“Have I ever been wrong?”
Technically, no. But I never got any other names of those who were on the list. Maybe it was better to wait, and be disappointed then.
“Well, we’ll soon find out.”
…
It took twenty minutes to walk from the old administration building to the new, built recently on the outskirts of the company site, on what was once the carpark. The carpark had been relocated under the new administration building, and it gave management the perfect excuse to charge us to park our cars.
A Lot of employees had switched from car to the train, less than the weekly cost of the carpark. Another new broom initiative; getting people out of cars and onto public transport, their contribution to easing global warming.
None of us, other than those in the new administration building had passes, so we had to sign in as visitors on the ground floor, even though we spent a lot of time travelling back and forth, and visiting other members of our departments who had been moved from the old building.
No, not a new broom initiative, just the result of an obtuse security chief.
Getting the pass made me five minutes late, and O’Hara didn’t like tardy people.
A glare followed me from the door of his office to the seat in front of his desk where he motioned me to sit. The offices were better here and were offices not cubicles. Everyone else wanted to be transferred to the new office. I didn’t. Too far away from Olga.
“I called you over to discuss the ten-point plan to save the cafeteria.”
“What ten-point plan?” Perhaps they did know who wrote the memo.
“I had every written complaint checked to see whose writing it was. Next time, write it on the computer and print it out.”
I shrugged. “I did it for a laugh. Nothing’s going to change in this place.”
“You sound like you don’t like working here?”
“I do. Most days. Today, though, is one reason to leave. That cafeteria has been here since the day the factory started. The employers, once, were involved in getting employees housing, even had their own estate, and assisted them to buy cars. It was a novel thought in an age where employers, well, some employers, considered their employees assets.”
“We still do.”
I shook my head. I guess if you wanted to be in management you had to believe and repeat the new mantra. I’d heard about the management team building conferences.
“So, we’re going back to our original values?”
“This is neither the time, nor do we have the fiscal viability. But it seems some of the board members consider your proposals need fleshing out into a plan with costings so they can make a more balanced judgement.”
“Unfortunately, you just uttered the two words that make that idea redundant, fiscal viability. There is no possible way in this current world we live in that a cafeteria would ever be viable, unless we charged five-star restaurant prices for the meals.”
“Humour me and do it anyway.”
“Not my department.”
“Fixed. You now are temporarily assigned to ‘rebuilding and restructuring’. You can add three others to your team. You have a week.”
“And if I say no.”
“It’s that or your resignation. You have been given an opportunity, take it.”
I shrugged. I’d heard about the new broom’s method of culling. Give them jobs that they can’t possibly find a solution to. Devious, but devastatingly effective. One last hurrah before being tossed on the executive scrap heap.
When I came out of his office, Herman was waiting in the outer office.
“You too,” I said.
“Nine of us. Sounds like there’s a new project in the wind.”
I didn’t burst his bubble. Ten more budding executives were getting the push. I sighed.
At least now Olga and I could go visit her family on the shores of the Black Sea. There was no excuse not to.
Today Jack is about to become as confused as he ever will be. Well, maybe not as ever, but it’s the start of a time when he will not know what is happening.
Firstly, there’s Maryanne. Whilst the full extent of the enigma she she will be for nearly three quarters of the book, may need a little adjustment when it comes to the first edit, I know something about her now, and those characteristics will gradually be dropped in front of the reader.
Some will say, after this chapter, that she is trouble. Jack has known that from the start, but that assessment really comes from a distinct lack of understand of women in general. Yes, he had had girlfriends, but not like Maryanne.
And, before you asked, yes, she is, in part, modelled on a woman I once knew, and she was nothing like any other woman I had known. She was genuinely a beautiful soul, and very much misunderstood.
Jack is fortunate in that he is hesitant to take that last step, though I suspect he might want to, but there are reasons for holding back.
These will be more apparent in the next chapter … I hope.
It’s written in my head, and I’m tempted to stay up and write it, but it’s late, and life other than being a writer will impinge on my time tomorrow.
Today’s effort amounts to 2,018 words, for a total, so far, of 22,612.
After several years of bad management, the company had decided to make a clean sweep and change upper management. Of course, that sort of change was driven by the volatility of the company’s share price and dividends, and shareholders’ discontent. Productivity was down because of low employee morale driven by what was labelled a ‘toxic work environment’. This led to production problems, quality control issues, and falling sales.
Something had to be done.
The new broom, as it was come to be known as, had made several far sweeping changes, one of which, to counter the discontent of its employees, was to institute the anonymous complaint. Any employee could make a complaint without fear of reprisals. In the past, those that had were vilified, demoted, or sacked. Now, the new broom had decided that employee input would improve the workplace, improve productivity, and provide the way back to the halcyon days.
Or so we thought.
Two phones, each on a bedside table, both chimed to indicate an incoming message.
I’d been staring at the roof, contemplating the start of a new week in a place where I had decided was not where I wanted to be. Beside me, still asleep, was the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, but she was not sure about making a commitment. She’d been down that road before, and it failed miserably and was taking it slow.
I told her slow was my middle name.
I leaned over and picked up the phone, more out of curiosity than anything else, but fascinated that both phones could go off at the same time.
“In the light of a host of complaints about the catering division, it has been decided that the staff cafeteria will cease operations at the end of the month. It has for a number of years been the subject of employee dissatisfaction and the result of an extensive investigation to the feasibility of keeping it going, given the economic climate and fiscal position of the company the only viable decision is to cease operations. Staff currently working in the catering department will be transferred to other positions within the company.”
How could this be possible? I had seen the feasibility study relating to the cafeteria, and it was ‘feasible’ to keep it going. They were right though, there had been a host of complaints, but that was because the catering manager had no idea how to run a large-scale cafeteria that churned out upwards of 5,000 meals a day. Even Olga, who was right here with me now, had said that it was the most poorly managed operation she had ever worked in.
I tossed the phone back on the bedside table and got back under the covers. Too early and too cold to get out of bed.
It woke Olga.
“Trouble in paradise?”
Paradise was her euphemism for work. She had become increasingly desponded as I about working there. In her case, as q waitress in the cafeteria, it was a job she could take or leave. For me, loitering on the fringes of middle management, not so much. Not if I wanted to keep the flash apartment and upscale car.
“They have dumped the cafeteria.”
I had expected her to leap up in indignation. It barely registered on the Richter scale. “And what did you expect?” She raised her head off the pillow. “They were never going to implement your suggestions, it would make Commissar Bland look like a fool, like the fool above him.”
Her analogy transposing our fearless leaders with those back in the old Soviet Union were always an insight to what she had experienced back home before she emigrated with her parents. Commissar Bland was a dictator, and not a man to cross. She cared little about him, and treated him, like the others did, as a joke.
“So much for the new broom,” I muttered.
“You are so naive Petr, but like home, change means no change, just different faces and words that all mean the same thing.”
Petr was her pet name for me, named after an old mentor of hers.
“Aren’t you the one losing your job. Doesn’t it bother you?”
“I will become best factory worker. We are very adaptable. You should try not to lose any sleep.”
She lay down again and snuggled closer.
…
I left her at the fourth floor where my office was located, and she would continue up to the next, the location of the cafeteria.
If I remember correctly, the current CEO when the factory manager, had always wanted to reclaim the cafeteria space for a new modernised production line, but the old guard had seen the benefit of keeping it despite the cost, as a means of keeping its workforce. Even twenty years ago, it would not have made a discussion topic, even in jest.
But times change.
Herman, another of the middle management fringe dwellers, and had also seen the need to have something to ‘bribe’ the workforce. We’d only been talking about it with others on our level the other day when all manner of rumours were drifting through our building.
He was loitering in the passage, obviously waiting for me.
“You’ve seen the message?”
I nodded.
“Hell of a way to kill an institution?”
I walked into my cubicle and dumped my bag on the floor. As a first act, the new broom removed all the offices, and put everyone into an open plan, where it was easier to communicate with others and removed the barriers walls and doors presented. The jury was still out on whether it worked, I could still never get to see the people I needed to.
He followed me in and sat in a chair in the corner. I sat on the desk, it was not a large cubicle.
“It was a drain on profits. The world has moved on from pandering to workforces. It seems dividends are more important. I’m sure this will not be the only change.”
“Like managers losing their cars and credit cards, except for the upper echelon. I don’t think you’ll see them close the executive dining room.”
Yes, it was only a matter of time before that morsel would raise its head under the banner of hypocrisy.
“Probably not. But remember, we used to build cars once, and it was good advertising to hand them out to all and sundry. Now, trying to do the right thing costs too much.”
My phone on the desk rang and startled me. It was still quiet, the bulk of the cubicle population hadn’t arrived yet. My guess they were gathering in coffee shops discussing the news.
I picked up receiver mid ring, then said, “Yes?” I refused to follow the official answering sequence advised by the new broom.
Hesitation, then, “O’Hara from Administration. Can you come and see me, nine a.m.?”
Why? There was no way anyone could know I sent that memo, and I wasn’t on management’s radar, it had been O’Hara himself who told me to keep up the good work, the coded message that said I was not on the latest promotion list.
“I’ll see you then.” I was not going to say ‘yes, sir’ like other management hopefuls. O’Hara was not someone who could be buttered up, a fact only I seemed to be aware of.
“Who was that?”
“O’Hara.”
“Then your days are numbered. He never calls except to say you have a promotion or you’re fired. You aren’t on the promotion list.”
“How can you be sure?”
No one was supposed to know who was on that list for sure, it was a closely guarded secret. Herman said he knew someone who knew someone who knew Herman’s PA, and had been told who was on the list. So far, in the last two lists, he had been right about us two.
Perhaps he was right. I was going to get fired.
“Have I ever been wrong?”
Technically, no. But I never got any other names of those who were on the list. Maybe it was better to wait, and be disappointed then.
“Well, we’ll soon find out.”
…
It took twenty minutes to walk from the old administration building to the new, built recently on the outskirts of the company site, on what was once the carpark. The carpark had been relocated under the new administration building, and it gave management the perfect excuse to charge us to park our cars.
A Lot of employees had switched from car to the train, less than the weekly cost of the carpark. Another new broom initiative; getting people out of cars and onto public transport, their contribution to easing global warming.
None of us, other than those in the new administration building had passes, so we had to sign in as visitors on the ground floor, even though we spent a lot of time travelling back and forth, and visiting other members of our departments who had been moved from the old building.
No, not a new broom initiative, just the result of an obtuse security chief.
Getting the pass made me five minutes late, and O’Hara didn’t like tardy people.
A glare followed me from the door of his office to the seat in front of his desk where he motioned me to sit. The offices were better here and were offices not cubicles. Everyone else wanted to be transferred to the new office. I didn’t. Too far away from Olga.
“I called you over to discuss the ten-point plan to save the cafeteria.”
“What ten-point plan?” Perhaps they did know who wrote the memo.
“I had every written complaint checked to see whose writing it was. Next time, write it on the computer and print it out.”
I shrugged. “I did it for a laugh. Nothing’s going to change in this place.”
“You sound like you don’t like working here?”
“I do. Most days. Today, though, is one reason to leave. That cafeteria has been here since the day the factory started. The employers, once, were involved in getting employees housing, even had their own estate, and assisted them to buy cars. It was a novel thought in an age where employers, well, some employers, considered their employees assets.”
“We still do.”
I shook my head. I guess if you wanted to be in management you had to believe and repeat the new mantra. I’d heard about the management team building conferences.
“So, we’re going back to our original values?”
“This is neither the time, nor do we have the fiscal viability. But it seems some of the board members consider your proposals need fleshing out into a plan with costings so they can make a more balanced judgement.”
“Unfortunately, you just uttered the two words that make that idea redundant, fiscal viability. There is no possible way in this current world we live in that a cafeteria would ever be viable, unless we charged five-star restaurant prices for the meals.”
“Humour me and do it anyway.”
“Not my department.”
“Fixed. You now are temporarily assigned to ‘rebuilding and restructuring’. You can add three others to your team. You have a week.”
“And if I say no.”
“It’s that or your resignation. You have been given an opportunity, take it.”
I shrugged. I’d heard about the new broom’s method of culling. Give them jobs that they can’t possibly find a solution to. Devious, but devastatingly effective. One last hurrah before being tossed on the executive scrap heap.
When I came out of his office, Herman was waiting in the outer office.
“You too,” I said.
“Nine of us. Sounds like there’s a new project in the wind.”
I didn’t burst his bubble. Ten more budding executives were getting the push. I sighed.
At least now Olga and I could go visit her family on the shores of the Black Sea. There was no excuse not to.
Today Jack is about to become as confused as he ever will be. Well, maybe not as ever, but it’s the start of a time when he will not know what is happening.
Firstly, there’s Maryanne. Whilst the full extent of the enigma she she will be for nearly three quarters of the book, may need a little adjustment when it comes to the first edit, I know something about her now, and those characteristics will gradually be dropped in front of the reader.
Some will say, after this chapter, that she is trouble. Jack has known that from the start, but that assessment really comes from a distinct lack of understand of women in general. Yes, he had had girlfriends, but not like Maryanne.
And, before you asked, yes, she is, in part, modelled on a woman I once knew, and she was nothing like any other woman I had known. She was genuinely a beautiful soul, and very much misunderstood.
Jack is fortunate in that he is hesitant to take that last step, though I suspect he might want to, but there are reasons for holding back.
These will be more apparent in the next chapter … I hope.
It’s written in my head, and I’m tempted to stay up and write it, but it’s late, and life other than being a writer will impinge on my time tomorrow.
Today’s effort amounts to 2,018 words, for a total, so far, of 22,612.
Sometimes they’re your fault, sometimes they’re not.
The accident I was in was not. Late at night driving home from work, a car came speeding out of a side street and T-boned my car.
It could have been worse, though the person who said it had a quite different definition of the word worse than I did.
To start with, I lost three months of my life in a coma, and even when I surfaced, it took another month to realize what had happened. Then came two months of working out my recovery plan.
If that wasn’t trial enough, what someone else might describe as the ‘last straw that broke the camel’s back’, my wife of 22 years decided to send me a text that morning, what was six months in hospital, to the day.
“I’m sorry, Joe, but enough is enough. I cannot visit you anymore, and for the sake of both our sanity, I think it’s time to draw a line in the sand. I know what happened isn’t your fault but given the prognosis, I don’t think I can cope with the situation. I need time to think about what will happen next and to do so, I’ll be going home to spend some time with family. Once again, I’m so sorry not to be doing this in person. I’ll let you know what I decide in due course. In the meantime, you have my best wishes for your recovery.”
In other words, goodbye. Her family lived in England, about 12,000 miles away in another hemisphere, and the likelihood of her returning was remote. We had meant to visit them, and had, in fact, booked the tickets shortly before the accident. I guess she couldn’t wait any longer.
My usual nurse came in for the first visit on this shift. She had become the familiar face on my journey, the one who made it worth waking up every morning.
“You look a little down in the dumps this morning. What’s up?”
She knew it couldn’t be for medical reasons because the doctor just yesterday had remarked how remarkable my recovery had been in the last week or so. Even I had been surprised given all the previous negative reports.
“Ever broken up by text?”
“What do you mean?”
“Frances has decided she no longer wants to be involved. I can’t say I blame her, she has put her whole life on hold because of this.”
“That’s surprising. She’s never shown any disappointment.”
“Six months have been a long time for everyone. We were supposed to be going home so she could see her family. Maybe that’s what it’s all about.”
I gave her the phone and she read the message.
Then she handed it back. “That’s goodbye, Tom. I’m sorry. And no, I’ve never had a breakup by text, but I guess there could always be a first time.”
She spent the next ten minutes going through the morning ritual, then said, “I’ve heard there’s a new doctor coming to visit you. Whatever has happened in the last few days had tongues wagging, and you might just become the next modern miracle. Fame and fortune await.”
“Just being able to walk again will be miracle enough.”
That had been the worst of it. The prognosis that it was likely I’d never be able to walk again, or work, and the changes to our lives that would cause. I knew Frances was bitterly disappointed that she might become the spouse who had to spend the rest of her life looking after, and though she had said it didn’t matter, that she would be there for me, deep down I knew a commitment like that took more internal fortitude than she had.
She ran her own business, managed three children into adulthood, and had a life other than what we had together. When I was fit and able, and nothing got in the way, it had worked. Stopping everything to cater to my problems had severely curtailed her life. Something had to give, and it had.
But, as I said, I didn’t blame her. She had tried, putting in a brave face day after day but once the daily visits slipped to every other day, to once a week, I knew then the ship was heading towards the rocks.
This morning it foundered.
I pondered the situation for an hour before I sent a reply. “I believe you have made the right decision. It’s time to call it and going home and take some time to consider what to do next is right. In normal circumstances, we would not be considering any of this, but these are not normal circumstances. But, just in case you are worried about the effect of all of this on me, don’t. I will get over it, whatever the result is, and what you need to do first and foremost is to concentrate on what is best for you. If that means drawing a line on this relationship, so be it. All I want for you is for you to be happy, and clearly, having to contend with this, and everything else on your plate, is not helping. I am glad we had what time we had together and will cherish the memories forever, and I will always love you, no matter what you decide.”
It was heart-felt, and I meant it. But life was not going to be the same without her.
…
I’d dozed off after sending the message, and only woke again when my usual doctor came into the room on his morning rounds, the usual entourage of doctors and interns in tow. I’d been a great case for sparking endless debate on the best route for my recovery among those fresh out of medical school. Some ideas were radical, others pie in the sky, but one that seemed implausible had got a hearing, and then the go-ahead, mainly because there was little else that apparently could be done.
That doctor, and now another I hadn’t seen before was standing in the front row, rather than at the back.
The doctor in charge went through the basics of the case, as he did every day, mainly because the entourage changed daily. Then, he deferred to the radical doctor as I decided to call her.
She went through the details of a discovery she had made, and the recommendation she’d made as a possible road to recovery, one which involved several radical operations which had been undertaken by the elderly man standing beside her. When I first met him, I thought he was an escaped patient from the psychiatric ward, not the pre-eminent back surgeon reputed to be the miracle worker himself.
It seemed, based on the latest x-rays that a miracle had occurred, but whether it was or not would be known for another week. Then, if all went well, I would be able to get out of bed, and, at the very least, be able to stand on my own. In the meantime, I had endless sessions of physio in the lead-up to the big event. Six months in bed had taken its toll on everything, and the week’s work was going to correct some of that.
It meant there was hope, and despite what I said and thought, hope was what I needed.
There had been ups and downs before this, fuelled by a morning when I woke up and found I could wriggle my toes. It was after the second operation, and I thought, given the amount of pain killers, it had been my imagination.
When I mentioned it, there was some initial excitement, and, yes, it was true, I wasn’t going out of my mind, it was real. The downside was, I couldn’t move anything else, and other than an encouraging sign, as the days passed, and nothing more happened, the faces got longer.
Then, the physiotherapist moved in, and started working on the areas that should be coming back to life. I felt little, maybe the pain killers again, until the next, and perhaps the last operation. I managed to lift my left leg a fraction of an inch.
But we’d been here before, and I wasn’t going to hold my breath.
…
Annabel, the daughter that lived on the other side of the country, finally arrived to visit me. I had thought, not being so far away she might have come earlier, but a few phone calls had sorted out her absence. Firstly, there was no much use visiting a coma patient, second, she was in a delicate stage of her professional career and a break might be the end of it, and thirdly, she accepted that I didn’t want to see her until I was much better.
She was not very happy about it, but it was a costly venture for her, in terms of time, being away from a young family, and just getting there.
Now, the time had come. She had a conference to attend, and I was happy to play second fiddle.
After the hugs and a few tears, she settled in the uncomfortable bedside chair.
“You don’t look very different than the last time I saw you,” she said.
“Hospitals have perfected the art of hiding the worst of it, but it’s true. The swelling had receded, the physios have revived the muscles, and I have a little movement again.”
“The injuries are not permanent?”
“Oh, they’re permanent, but not as bad as first thought.”
“Pity my mother isn’t here.”
“She was, day after day, through the darkest period. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. But your mother is an independent woman, and she has always been free to do what she wants, and I would not have had it any other way.”
“But deserting you in the middle of all this…”
“It’s been very debilitating on her. I can understand her reasons, and so should you. She will still be your mother no matter what happens to us.”
There had been a number of phone calls, from each of the children, decrying her actions after she had sent a text message to each of them telling them what she was doing. She had not told them she was leaving, in so many word, but leaving the door ajar, perhaps to allay their fears she was deserting them too. Annabel had been furious. The other two, not so much.
“And this latest development?”
I had also told her about the miracle worker, and the possibilities, without trying to get hopes up.
“On a scale of one to ten, it’s a three. We’ve been here before, so I’m going to save the excitement for when it happens, if it happens.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
It was a question I’d asked myself a number of times, one that I didn’t want an answer to. Hope was staving it off, each day a new day of discovery, and a day closer to the idea I might walk again. I had to believe it would happen, if not the next day, the next week, month, year, that it would eventually happen.
For now, all I had to do was stand on my own two feet.
It was ironic, in a way, that simple statement. ‘Stand on your own two feet’. Right then, it seemed so near, and yet, at the same time, so far away.
I didn’t answer that question, but did what I usually did with visitors, run a distraction and talk about everything else. This visit was no exception. I had a lot of catching up to do.
It’s odd how some call the day of momentous events D-Day because to me nothing would be more momentous than the invasion of France during the second world war.
Others were not quite of the same opinion. It was going to be a momentous day.
It started the same as any other.
The morning routine when the duty nurse came to do the checks. Then the physio, now a permanent fixture mid-morning, just after the tea lady arrived. Deliberate, I thought, to deprive me of my tea break, and some unbelievably delicious coconut cookies.
Then the routine changed, and the escort arrived to take me down to the room where the physio had set up an obstacle course. It looked like one, and I’d told him so when I first saw it, and he had said by the time he was finished with me, I’d be able to go from start to finish without breaking a sweat.
In my mind perhaps, but not with this broken body. I didn’t say that because I was meant to be positive.
An entourage arrived for the main event. I would have been happier to fail in front of the doctor, the miracle worker, and the physio, but it seemed everyone wanted a front row seat. If it worked, the physio confided in me, there was fame and fortune being mentioned in Lancet, what was a prestigious medical journal.
Expectations were running high.
The physio had gone through the program at least a hundred times, and the previous day we had got to the point where I was sitting on the side of the bed. We’d tried this ordinary manoeuvre several times, previously without success under my own steam but this morning, for some reason it was different.
I was able to sit up, and then, with a struggle move my legs part of the way, and with a little help for the rest.
What was encouraging, was being able to swing my legs a short distance. IT was those simple things that everyone could do without thinking, that had seemed impossible not a month before, that got people excited. I didn’t know how I felt other than I missed those simple things.
Then the moment had arrived. Hushed silence.
There was a structure in place. All I had to do was pulled myself across, at the same time sliding off the bed and into a standing position. There was a safety harness attached so that if my grip slipped it would prevent me from falling.
It was probably not the time to tell them the pain in my lower back was getting worse.
So, like I’d been instructed, and going one step further than the day before, I reached out, grabbed the bars and pulled myself up and over, at the same time, sliding off the side of the bed. I could feel the tug of the safety harness which told me I had left the safety of the bed, and was in mid motion.
I could feel my legs straightening, and then very softly landing on the floor, the safety harness letting my body drop down slowly.
The pain increased exponentially as the weight came down onto my legs, but my body had stopped moving. I could not feel the tightness of the harness, but a rather odd sensation in my legs.
All that time I had been concentrating so hard that I had heard nothing, not even the encouraging words from the physio.
Until I realised, from the noise around me, that it had worked. I was standing on my own two feet, albeit a little shakily.
And I heard the physio say, in his inimitable way, “Today you just landed on the moon. Tomorrow, it’s going to be one small step for mankind. Well done.”
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 