Panopticon

You’re sick of it. All of it. Stuck here staring into that stupid monitor, keying invoices onto an electronic ledger system. It’s a boring job, there’s no denying that, but then again, things could be worse. They can always be worse.  

There’s a rumble from deep in your stomach, more like a growl really, a grizzly bear that needs sustenance. You’re not sure you’ll make it to lunchtime; you could eat your tuna salad sandwich now, but then what would you have to look forward to at lunchtime? No, you’ll wait, that seems like the right thing to do.

You look around the open plan office. Whose idea was that? To be fair you used to like it, but now you wonder. The managers still have their offices that run adjacent on both sides. There is no privacy, not for you, stuck here, piggy in the middle. You wonder if this is essentially Bentham’s panopticon. From prison to workplace, what’s the difference? You’ve thought about leaving, but what would be the point, it’s the same everywhere. And anyway, it’s not all bad – you’re still able to daydream while waving your fingers over those plastic keys. It’s fool proof. During office hours they have your body, but your mind; well that’s still yours.  

You prefer to keep your thoughts and ideas to yourself. Not to be shared with work colleagues and certainly not with Sam, your long-time Geordie girlfriend. You wonder if your relationship has run its course? After all these things happen. Nothing lasts forever. There are things about her that annoy you, like the way she keeps flicking her hair over her shoulder, the fact she keeps saying like and man in that funny accent all the time. You’re starting to think she might suspect something might not be right. Maybe that’s the reason she tried to arrange that late booking to Barcelona, a vain attempt at smoothing over the cracks. You’ve seen it before, you’ve lost count the number of friends who’ve gone down that road; If it’s not a holiday, it’s a new house; if it’s not a new house, it’s a baby.  

Not a problem for you though, because you told her you couldn’t go cos  your boss, twat as he is, declined your holiday request due to it being such short notice. This is not strictly true, but it did happen once previously, and you really would like to go to Barcelona, just not with her.  

Everyone is tapping away on their computers, or speaking on the telephone. You look towards your manager’s office, through the Perspex glass; he’s on the phone too. He makes eye contact across the floor. He looks a little nervous, which is unlike him, as you’ve always thought of him as having the emotional spectrum of a wooden spoon. He holds your gaze and you hold his, before you crack first and look back to your screen. Your output was raised as a point of concern in your last end of year review; he’d pointed to a lack of focus.

Your manager rises from his swivel chair. His face looks pale. This is strange in itself as he’s always just back from some short break in one sun drenched paradise or another. He’s joined by two of the other managers. Like at a tennis match they all turn, heads in unison, to the glass, staring directly at you, and then back again following a cross court forehand. You get the feeling they’re talking about you. You wonder what it could be about. Sure, you make minor errors, but you’re just a clerk, it can’t be anything serious, can it?  

Then you have a terrible idea – that a huge amount of money has been embezzled or siphoned off. While your manager was on one of his sunny breaks recently you countersigned the cheques for Matt, the senior accounts clerk, and now he’s been off sick for the last two weeks. You wonder. He’d gotten you to sign more than 100k worth of cheques, a number of which were to beneficiaries you didn’t recognise. He told you everything would be fine. Maybe things are fine, for him anyway, he’s probably in Acapulco, on a beach, sipping Pina coladas, but you, well, you’re fucked.

The lanky figure of your manager is now by the door. It opens, and he gulps a deep breath as though he’s about to go under water. The two managers remain in the office, by the door, encouraging him with slight nods, like parents at the school gates as their progeny tentatively begins his first day of school. He’s walking slowly, towards you, without the usual smug smile. His gelled back hair is disheveled, a strip of dark hair plastered against his forehead looks like a crack, while his face glistens with sweat. Looming over you he clears his throat, Davidoff aftershave wafts in the air. He fiddles with some papers on your desk as though stalling for time, then looks back to his office, seeking something, but you don’t know what.  

You can feel the whole office staring at you. You’re trying not to look guilty.

‘Hi, David,’ your manager swallows. ‘Can you come with me, please, to my office? I’ve something we need to discuss.’

Oh fuck, fuck fuck! You only go into the office if you’re about to be sacked. You’ve heard the stories and you’ve got the facts. Trevor was called in and fired for accessing porn at work. Christine was sacked for repeated instances of lateness. And now it’s your turn, but it’s more serious. You imagine sitting in court, pleading not guilty. The trial doesn’t go well and your barrister suggests you change your plea, beg for leniency. Prison life, you wonder how that would work out, especially with your claustrophobia. Would they let you off if you’ve been diagnosed with it? You recall documentaries on prison life. You hope to god you don’t have to share a cell with anyone called Tyrone, or Percy, or any name for that matter. You want a single cell.  

Something is definitely wrong. Your manager called you David; usually he calls you Bumfluff Dave, has done ever since you tried to grow that beard. You were hoping to be a hipster. Not anymore.

You follow him into his office and the door closes behind you. It’s three on one. Past, present and future. Your legs are blancmange, and your heart a trapped kangaroo, it’s not a good combination. You’re on the verge of tears. You’re holding out, second by second.  

‘Well, David. There’s no easy way to say this.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, we’ve just been informed...’

‘Honestly, I didn’t know.’

‘Huh.’

‘The cheques...’

‘What about the cheques?

‘Err.. Nothing.’

‘Well, you see...’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but your mother has just passed away.’

You can’t think, you can’t speak. Before you realise what’s going on there’s a glass of water shoved front of your face, which you take hold of. Eventually you stutter, ‘What?’

‘Your mother passed away last night. I don’t know the full details but I understand she had an aneurysm.’

‘An aneurysm?’

‘Yes. I don’t know much about these things but from what I understand I don’t think she would have suffered.’

‘Oh.’

Next a packet of tissues dangles face height, you ignore it before the arm, possibly the same arm with the water puts the packet on the desk.

‘I’m really sorry, David. We all are. I don’t know what else to say.’

You stroke your head.

‘I understand this must be a real shock.’

‘Yeah.’ And it is. You last saw her just over five years ago. A picture of health for a sixty-year-old. She had taken early retirement two years before that. You remember when she told you she was divorcing your father. He was against it but she went ahead nevertheless. She remarried less than a year later and your father died soon after that. You remember knocking on her door after being notified. Her new husband, Bob, had answered. You walked right past him and into the kitchen. You told her, straight up: that Dad was dead and she’d killed him. You left intending never to see her again.  

You didn’t realise you would never see her again.

‘I can imagine this is a tremendous shock. I’ll get your things from the office. Then get yourself off home to Sam. Take next week off. Call me the week after and let me know what you want to do.’

Your manager walks you out. The faces of your colleagues at their desks watch on; puzzled as to what’s happening. You feel relieved that you’re not going to prison, but sad your mother has passed away. You feel guilty that your initial feeling was of relief. Your manager hugs you as you leave. You wonder if you seem a little unresponsive; you’ve not felt any inclination to cry. Is this normal? You try and well up a few tears, but nothing happens. Your boss looks at you funny; maybe he thinks you’ve got trapped wind.

You decline his offer of a lift, opting instead to take the train. You remember how she always believed you over your sister, even when you were the one lying. She could never believe you would lie. You were the oldest. You loved her cooking. Nobody made spaghetti bolognaise like she did. She was inclined to over feed you a little, but you never complained.  

Now that she is gone you understand exactly how she felt. In Bob, she had found someone who made her whole, but in the process lost her son. You wish that you had just one more day, to say sorry. You wonder how Bob, will do. You don’t have his number. You have her number, listed as Mum.  

You unlock the door quietly. You see Sam appear at the end of the hall. She stands solemn, before smiling sympathetically. You can feel the tears welling up inside, like a dam about to burst, but she laughs… Why is she laughing? She holds out something in her hands, it’s an envelope.

‘We’re like going to Barcelona, man,’ she says.

‘Huh?’

‘Your Mam’s fine. Well, I think so,’ she giggles.

‘You called work? You made it all up?’  

She nods. Then flicks her hair over her shoulder.

Hallelujah! Here’s the excuse you’ve been waiting for. After all, nobody would expect you to stay with a girlfriend like that. You can tell her the truth. . ., but then you wonder. She has already bought the tickets. It would be a shame to waste them, and you have always wanted to go to Barcelona. She’s even managed to get you a week off work, that’s surely worth something. Then you remember. You need to see your mum. But maybe not now, maybe after the holiday, after all, you need to pack.