Finish work at 6 pm.Home by 6.30. Shit, shave, shower and eat by 7.15. Out of the door and into the night by 8. This is my Friday routine. It’s been the same for years now.
Monday to Friday I work nine hour shifts, 9-6. I have an hour for lunch at 12.30. So I don’t really work nine hours but actually eight hours. Nine hours sounds better than eight though, so I tell people that I work 9-6 shifts, five days a week instead of – ‘Hi, I work 9-6 Monday to Friday but have an hour’s lunch break during that time, too, so actually I work eight hours. Not nine.’ Just makes me sound a better person than I actually am, saying I work nine hours a day. More of a valuable asset to society. I tell them what I do, the job description, and how I work so much harder then everybody else. I tell them I like to work for my money. They see me as a driven person. I pay my bills and my rent every month without fail.
I don’t tell them that I sometimes access other employees’ accounts so that I can delete clients’ details on their databases. I don’t tell them that when the office is empty, I rub my cock all over Janine’s chair and keyboard.
I work in an office, for an insurance company. My basic job description is to phone people up i.e. you, and then ask you what current insurance company you are with, and then tell you we have a better deal. I forget to tell you that our deal only lasts for a month, and after that we are ridiculously expensive. For every person I persuade to change over to us, I get a bit of extra cash in my wage every month. I get paid monthly, you see. I also write letters to people who have left any of our policies, detailing how sorry we are to have lost their business and that we hope they may be part of our family again, in the future:
‘Dear Mr/Mrs. Somebody,
We recently received notifications of you choosing to no longer be a part of Johnson and Co. Insurance. (fvck you, you cheap bastard) We would like to thank you for choosing us as your insurance provider in the past but we would also like to express our disappointment in you leaving us. Enclosed you will find a free post questionnaire (free because you won’t have to get up off your fat arse and buy a fvcking stamp) that enables you to tell us what you liked/disliked about Johnson and Co. Insurance.
Yours sincerely, (hope your new insurance provider is a scam)
Johnson and Co. Insurance.’
Sure, I sometimes get bored writing these out but when I feel my mind fading and slithering away to open mouthed daydreaming, I pull myself out of the fast approaching abyss and take a brisk walk around the office space or spin myself around in the chair or see how many types of underwear I can make out when my female colleagues walk past my desk. I slowly peek my head out from the plastic encasing that separates me from Mike, who occupies the desk next to me and observe some of the female derriere that strut past — the most popular are French briefs, then thongs, then plain old boring knickers (more than likely their time of the month). French briefs outnumber thongs by a 2:1 ratio. Then, when my mind is fulfilled, I get back to work.
At 5 o clock sharp, the place will empty until it’s just me and the buzz of computer screens. They’ll all go home, probably, to their partners, their kids, their dog, their TV, their bathroom, their life. On their way out of the office, they walk past me, like ants, all following each other, happy as fvck to be going home. I just stare right though them, reclining, staring out of the huge window that faces me at the other end of the office, watching the world go by and the occasional bird fly past until the last person leaves and then I get down to writing more letters out. It’s this peace that I work best in. Sometimes it’s like as if I’m in a dream because I write the letters out so quick and my fingers are careering around the keyboard like I’m fvcking possessed or something. It sometimes aches my hands, but I don’t care. I want to be employee of the month. And I never have been. Even though I do much more work than everybody else in this god forsaken place. I’m not appreciated, but I’ll show them all one day what it’s like to REALLY work. I’ll show them.
*
Friday night and I’m preparing for the night ahead, I eat a quick meal (usually beans on toast — carbohydrates, good stodge food), take one last, prolonged look in the mirror and stare at myself until I have to leave my reflection fixed there. I then check my wallet and leave my house, slamming the door behind me and putting the key in the crack in the wall next to the drain pipe.
This Friday is no different to any other. I’m wearing a new shirt that I bought from Zara Men last Saturday. The jeans I’ve got on are fashionably tight, not skin tight, and my package looks impressive. Skin tight jeans make your legs look too skinny, like you’re anorexic or something. Jack and Jones are usually the brand of jeans I wear but tonight I chose Levi’s — a change is good now and again. I’m wearing John Lewis Chelsea Boots in black. They cost me £100.
The sun is starting to set but there is still sufficient light. This pleases me because it allows me to check my reflection in car windows when I walk past. My hair looks incredible. I used Frederick Fekkai Full Volume Mousse to style it. The product is probably the best I have ever used, you just add a squirt to your dry hair and it will last all night — it gives your hair increased texture and lift like no other. It is superb and I’m thinking about e-mailing the company to express my admiration. They might send me some coupons if I do that too.
I’m halfway into town and I’ve just passed K & M’s off license, owned by a couple in their 50’s named Keith and Mary. I used to buy a packet of chewing gums and a bottle of water from their shop before work but Keith, the hideous, obese prick, accused me of putting a Snickers bar in my pocket when I was in there one morning, about a month ago. I told him I didn’t do any such thing but he refused to believe me and I had enough of his ugly face talk-spitting to me so I unscrewed the bottle of water I had in my hand and poured the contents over the rack of newspapers they have. Fair to say, he wasn’t happy and he grabbed me by the collar of my new shirt. Like in slow motion, I imagined his chubby fingers, greasy and dirty, clutching on to the white collar and I went fvcking berserk. I swatted his hand off me, pushed him back onto the shop counter, brought my knee into his balls and whispered into his ear: ‘If you lay your stinking hands on me ever, ever again, I will kill you. And once your wife has finished grieving, I’ll be here to comfort her. Because of your stupid, unfounded claim that I have stolen from you, you’ve managed to lose a customer.’ He was breathing very heavily at this point, his breath smelt like stale coffee. I then proceeded to tell him: ‘Now I’m going to fvck off, and if you mention me hurting you to anyone, I will know. You’d do well to keep quiet.’ I then released my arm from his throat, brushed myself down and left the shop. The little tussle had spoilt my hair a bit, so I adjusted it when I got back in my car, which was parked directly outside the shop. I ate the Snickers bar during the drive to work.
I spit on the shop window as I walk past. I’m in need of a drink now, I really had to wrench some saliva from my throat just then. The local pub, ‘The Four Kings’, is just around the corner. A quick drink in there won’t hurt, as long as I can stand being around no hopers, alcoholics and people in their 50’s who still think they’re young enough to go out drinking. That’s got to be one of the most annoying personality flaws in anyone. Making an effort, thinking the clothes you’re wearing are fashionable when in fact they’re last year’s collection, mutton dressed as lamb. It really fvcking annoys me. They’re just embarrassing themselves. They don’t realise they look like fvcking idiots. I check my watch.8.21 pm. I might be lucky and early enough to miss the rabble. I push the oak door open and I’m greeted with the smell of tipped cider, old furniture and wood polish. ZZ Top’s song, ‘Sharp Dressed Man’, is playing on the jukebox; it can barely be heard over the drone of people talking.
Groups of people crowd around tables that are cluttered with pint glasses and bottled alcoholic drinks. There are two young lads playing on the fruit machine. They glance over at me when they hear the door closing. I’ve never seen them before and I stare back at them. They quickly turn away. I walk up to the bar, there are a few people waiting. I wait patiently while the guy next to me asks for a pint of Beck’s. I watch the barman pull the pint. His fingernails are dirty and he has a scab on his right hand. This guy seriously needs a haircut, his hair’s so long that it’s nearly dipping into the pint. He’s got a beard too. Fvck, he must be covered in bacteria. I feel sick. He’s turning me sick. I swear, if he tries to serve me, I’m gonna grab his greasy hair and rip it from his thick head.
I see a barmaid and flash one of my dazzling smiles. She walks over, looking.
“Pint of Stella please, love,” I say.
She looks around 20. Fairly big tits are pressed tight against her shirt and she’s got a nice arse that I take a look at when she bends over. Her face is off-putting. She’s got a jaw like a fvcking horse.
“2.50,” she says, as she places the pint in front of me. She’s got brown eyes.
I swipe a twenty from my Louis Vuitton wallet, loaded with notes. She snatches eye contact with me for a brief moment, takes the note and struts to the till, moving her arse as she does so. £17.50 change. She places it in my hand and I scan it quickly, making sure I’m not being short-changed.
“Thanks,” she says after I’ve put my change back in my wallet. I glance up, and she’s standing there smiling at me. What the fvck does she want? I haven’t asked for anything else. She looks me straight in the eyes — you’d swear she was studying oculesics. I look at her right back. She has to pull her eyes down to the floor. She doesn’t make any effort to walk away though – she is desperately trying to get me to talk to her. What a fvcking cheap slut. I shake my head and walk off to find a seat, my pint dripping a trail behind me.
I’m sitting in a worn corner seat. I’m assuming that it was once green but now it’s a grey colour. I have a small table in front of me and it’s covered with sticky beer rings. I’m afraid to put my pint down on the table, it might get stuck and tip over when I try to pick it up. My outfit would be ruined. There’s no way I’m letting that happen so I cradle the pint in my hands instead. The pub is filling up. Everyone seems so happy. Talking, laughing, hugging, shaking hands. The happy couples are walking in, smiling, hand in hand. Happy couples. It’s all a fvcking masquerade. Behind closed doors, I bet they wanna kill each other. Resent each other. To the outside world though, they’re perfect. It’s surprising how many people are living a lie. Two old men are at a table near me.
“I painted the living room yesterday.”
“Oh, yeah. What colour?”
“Cream. Betty says it goes with the furniture.”
Who the fvck would go out to talk about paint? Fvcking sad, lonely people. That’s who. I’ve had enough. I’ve got a quarter left of my pint. I down it. I need to piss and check my hair.
The toilets reek. The smell of stale piss festers in my nostrils. There’s small puddles of piss on the floor where some dirty bastards missed the urinals. The mirror is smudged with god-knows-what and someone’s rubbed the remnants of a bogey on it. It’s left a dirty path where the finger was pressed against the glass and the thicker parts are intermingling with the liquid mucus. ‘T.M. loves P.T.’ is etched onto the sink counter. Classy.
I can just make out my reflection in the blurry mirror. Jesus Christ, it makes my heart jump. I am so good looking. My hair is still set in place. No need to touch it, even though it’s hard for me not to. I might ruin it if I do. I curl my lips back, teeth are absurdly white and they are perfect. I brush my teeth five times a day — oral hygiene is very important. I also use breath freshener spray when I am out, women love a man with fresh breath. I once hit a man because his teeth were ugly as fvck. I probably straightened them out for the poor bastard.
It’s really annoying me now. I’ve tried to ignore it but the top of my skull is starting to grate. Stop fvcking giggling! There are two guys, from what I can make out, in the cubicle. They must be coke-heads or something. Maybe even a couple of queers. I’ve tried to ignore it but it’s impossible for me now. If I hear any more then I’m gonna kick the door through and stamp on their fvcking faces. Who’ll be giggling then? Me. There’s an empty pint glass by the bin, what a spot of good fortune. I pick it up. I still haven’t pissed yet — my reflection distracted me. My cock is burning now. I really need to go. I choose the urinal that hasn’t got a puddle of piss underneath it, although it has got a lone pube stranded near the hole where the piss goes. A snigger floats out from the cubicle. I piss in the pint glass, shake him off and zip up, being careful not to get my little man caught. The pint glass is warm as fvck. Uncomfortably warm.
The cubicle door gives way at the first kick. It catches one of the guys in the head when it swings open, the dull thud is satisfying. He flops to the tiles; don’t know if he’s knocked out so I press my weight against the door, constricting him to a tiny space. The other one turns his head quickly from the toilet seat.
“What the fvck?!” he shouts in a high, reedy voice.
I throw the pint glass at his face. Piss and glass shatter everywhere. He’s dazed but still manages to get up and he blindly staggers towards me. Like a zombie from an 80’s horror film. I kick him down. He gasps a little. Winded. I force his head onto the toilet seat while still pressing my weight against the door. There’s still no resistance from the other side but you can’t be too careful. I bring the toilet seat cover down onto the piss and glass guy’s head. BAM! BAM! BAM! Nice blunt sounds connecting with his head. His body wilts back against the wall. I lean off the door to see if his fellow coke-head is pretending to be knocked out. He’s not. His head is pressed against the wall, nice amount of blood coming from his nose, body curled like a fvcking foetus. I expected more of a fight, gotta be honest. Some of the piss landed on my shoes. Fvck’s sake. I go back to the sink, letting the cubicle door fall shut and then splash some water on my shoes. Then, with a paper towel, I rub down my shoes just to make sure they won’t get stained. As good as new.
