2 - Extracting Log From Eye

Yesterday - the first day of my commitment to publish 2,000 words a day - I was feeling great: mellow, poetic and centred. Today is only day two and already I'm feeling crappy: angry, scared and in pain. And that's just what this blog is about, I guess, for it's these little, daily upsets that stop us non-finishers from completing our projects.

I will not be stopped!

Yesterday, I discovered my part-time employer was saying less-than-nice things about me behind my back. I don't like lies and, if I lose this job, I'll lose the free house, power and a weekly allowance … angry and scared. This is not how my hero, Jesus would have felt. He would have forgiven and got on with the important stuff of life - he would have got over it and I still haven't.

The other thing that happened is that I got something in my eye and it felt like some twerp stabbed me in the eye with a needle and forgot to take it out again - it still hurts like hell. Hence the pain. Now, if I remember the words of my hero, I can only think of his saying something about taking the log out of my own eye before taking it out of my brother's. He reminds me that I must stop saying things about my employer behind her back, before I judge her for doing that. In fact, as I remember, everything I receive in this world is as a consequence of what I give to this world. I give lies and judgement and so I get it back. It is I who is the perpetuator here, not her. I am not a victim but a cause.

All of this I can change and I have spent the last half-day trying to be as my hero, forgiving, forgiving and forgiving again. And, the forgiving that Jesus talked about, is not the arrogance of saying, "You did me wrong but, as I'm superior to you, I'll be big-hearted and let you off your sin," but the forgiveness that says, "I realise I'm living in an illusion and nothing actually happened."

And, you know what? It's really, really hard to forgive. Really hard! But Jesus did it and, if I'm going to develop into any sort of half-decent human being, I'm going to do it too.

So nothing happened and my employer is a good person, doing her best with what she knows and she committed no sin - just an error.

So, on with another 2,000 words in the story of Arthur Bayly who could be about to get fired … who knows?

“Oh, um, ah, yes … no, not quite,” he said, returning to the real world with a bump and wondering what to do with the clean desk. Strangely, Mary seemed quite unconcerned about it.

“That’s alright, Arthur. I know it’s a confusing case and the burglary may not be all there is to it. I’m not really here about that, anyway,” said Mary, settling in the other chair in his office.

“There’s several things I’m still working on,” he said, a little too quickly. “I’ve got most of the reports and claims but some of them don’t quite tie up …”

“Arthur, Arthur, Arthur! It’s alright, really it is,” said Mary, trying to reassure him. “You’re jumpy today. Is everything okay with you?”

“Oh, it’s just my womenopause,” he said, attempting a little humour.

“Your what?”

“My womenopause. You know, menopause, womenopause …” he said. He sensed her mind glazing over, missing the joke. “Yes, I’m fine, just planning my day, you know, thinking ahead,” he said, trying to recover a little dignity.

“Right. Right. Good. Now I’ve forgotten why I’m here,” said Mary, leaning back, crossing her legs and adjusting her designer glasses. “Ah, yes, yes, could you come up to Mr Lord’s office – we’d like to have a wee chat with you.”

‘Oh, shit!’ was what he nearly said, hearing wee chat and the Mr Lord in the same sentence. A worm turned in his stomach. Thankfully, there was an infinitesimal space between thinking and speaking and he actually said, “Yes, no problem. What time, Mary?”

“Oh, how about ten – we’ll all need a coffee by then!” she said, trying to lighten the atmosphere, with little success.

“Yes, that’s fine, I’ll see you both then.” He said.

As she strode out, her solid figure and business suit created a small wind that rustled the leaves of his peace lily. He slumped back into his chair and felt anything but peaceful. A royal edict and attendance with the master executioner – what could it all mean? Redundancy? There’d been enough of them in this place and he was proud that he had hung in there, though precariously. Demotion? He wasn’t sure how a fifty two-year-old should feel with all those youngsters flying up the ranks – probably worse than redundancy, he thought. Promotion? Not likely. Transfer? He knew his wife wouldn’t leave the street she was born in. A reprimand? No, Sam Lord left the petty stuff to his subordinates, like Mary. His only real conclusion was redundancy – nothing else felt right. Though, as he thought wryly, that certainly didn’t feel very right at all!

My God, an hour to fret over it! Okay, old chap, remain calm, act busy and professional, smile, breathe, think, be logical. Oh God, redundancy! How humiliating, after all the years of service. People walked past his office looking in, smiling. What did they know? Probably deciding who would get his office this afternoon; smirking that it wasn’t them.

He turned his computer on, retrieved a few random files from his filing cabinet, tried to look busy and tried not to imagine the awful things Mary and Sam had probably said about him, were saying about him right now. He felt so little, so out of control, so sad that it had all come to this, that none of his dreams had eventuated, that he had retired, been retired and, well, just faded into the woodwork – unseen, without achievement, without purpose, without acclaim or even acknowledgement. Arthur … Arthur who? Exactly! Just a nobody gone nowhere.

His hands busied themselves as his mind went berserk, driving him deeper into depression by the minute. Why couldn’t they get it over now? Still forty minutes to go and on and on his thoughts stumbled, conjuring up the embarrassment of the “wee chat”, the humility of leaving in front of everyone else in the office, of explaining to Joan, his wife. He could imagine her hands running through her thick, greying hair, standing there looking stunned for a minute. And then there’d be the accusing looks he knew so well. And the quiet vile she was so good at, so practised at. Never shouting or getting agitated, she’d give her measured opinion  – his blandness, his lack of ambition, his lack of anything approaching exciting or passionate, his nothingness destined for nothing but nothingness. And on and on she’d go. As usual, he’d not have the words or the power to reply which would prick her ire even more and her flow of words would quicken and rise in volume, imperceptibly. Eventually, when she’d repeated herself often enough, she’d turn and walk out, head high, and commiserate with her mother, six houses up the street.

Oh my God! Still half an hour to go! He kept his hands busy, the papers moving, the mouse flitting about on the computer screen, his pen scribbling … all useless actions in an attempt to stave off the painful and humiliating thoughts that wouldn’t go away … that just kept gnawing at his soul.

Then he’d have to tell his son, Martin, if his wife didn’t first. Martin was always pleasant, polite and respectful with his father but Arthur knew there was disappointment, even shame, there. Martin was a partner in the law firm, Shaftsbury Burton, and could never understand his father sticking with the boring insurance job, with no hope or ambition for promotion. The unsaid disappointment of his father’s redundancy – let’s be honest, his father’s sacking – will probably be harder to bear than the studied wrath from his wife. At least there was something to argue against, with her, if he’d ever have the gall to do it.

Oh dear, five minutes to go! He quickly tidied his desk a little, trying to keep his trembling hands busy. With a deep breath he mentally girded his loins, stood up and purposefully strode from his office, slipping on a pen that Mary must have dropped. He lurched into the door frame. Nothing hurt except his pride. He looked left and right in acute embarrassment, composed himself as best he could and strode up the corridor towards the lift with a little more caution. Thankfully, in the lift, he had a sweet moment when no one was looking and he was safe. At the twelfth floor the doors opened and he emerged into the corridor which exuded the smell and feel of power and opulence, somehow. He walked the long walk to the receptionist’s desk. A young girl looked up and he announced himself. She put down her nail polish, asked him to take a seat and said she wouldn’t be a minute. She spoke into her intercom machine and then disappeared through double doors. She returned, seven and a half minutes later, and asked him to go in as Mr Lord was expecting him.

He stood up, adjusted tie, suit, brushed shoes on legs, sighed, breathed and marched off through the large doors that proved to be heavier than he expected. A trifle embarrassed in front of a slip of a girl, he heaved again and burst into the spacious office, looking around quickly for falling guillotines.

Leaving Work

Monday, 5^th March 2012, 10.07 a.m.

“Come on in, Arthur, take a seat,” said Mary, smiling.

Arthur faltered, trying to take in the rich expanse of the room, trying to reconcile it with his glass box five floors below, trying to assess whether she was actually as friendly as she looked.

“Yes, come on in, old chap,” said Sam in his booming voice, easing his ample frame a little out of his upholstered leather, behind his expansive and clean desk. “By jove, we aren’t going to eat you, you know. Take a seat here, Arthur.” Sam had never used his name before – a bit disconcerting, really. Sam was power-dressed in the typical business costume – dark, pin-stripe suit, white and blue checked shirt and white, black and red striped tie, an eye-straining combination that the aristocracy fondly think of as good fashion sense.

Arthur moved uncertainly over the deep carpet, determined not to trip up, and sat in the chair indicated. His head was now below Sam’s and he felt slightly, no, considerably intimidated by the big desk, big chair and big man before him. Mary sat in a similar chair to his and he felt a little comforted. Not much but a little.

“Now, would you like a coffee or a tea?” Sam asked, smiling.

“Oh, is there time? I mean, ah, yes please,” said Arthur, expecting a handshake, a few words and a ‘goodbye’.

“Which one old chap – coffee or tea?” asked Sam, chuckling.

“Oh, just a tea, thanks Sir,” said Arthur.

“Chinese, Japanese, Indian or good old English Breakfast tea, Arthur?”

“Oh, gosh, ah, Chinese thanks, Sir,” said Arthur suddenly realising it might be the first and last time he tried something exotic.

“A man after my own taste.” said Sam, “And your usual, Mary?”

“You know me well, Sir,” she said, attempting to mix friendliness with deference.

Sam spoke into his desk: “Two Chinese and Mary’s coffee, thanks Tanya.” Then he turned back to Arthur. “So, old chap, I suppose you’re wondering why you’re here, yeah?” asked Sam, leaning forward over his mahogany desk, unaware that he looked more threatening than reassuring.

‘Actually, no, I come here every day, you stupid irk,’ his brain cried, while his mouth said, “Well, yes Sir, I am.”

“Right, just so … er … Arthur,” said Sam, obviously keen to repeat Arthur’s name for some reason. “Now, you’ve been here some time and Mary has been keeping an eye on you …”

‘SOME TIME!’ his head screamed, ‘thirty monotonous years and no one’s ever noticed me! Not once!’

“… and now we need to review things,” he said, obviously expecting applause.

“Review, Sir?” asked Arthur, his brain in turmoil.

“Okay, Mary, you tell … er … Arthur,” said Sam, waving his hand at Mary, as if passing a theatrical cue.

Tanya interrupted with a tray of cups and silence ensued while sugar, milk and stirring were administered. Sam leaned back, sipping his tea with obvious delight while Arthur held his cup and saucer gingerly on his knee, desperate not to spill any.

“Pop your cup on there desk, here,” said Sam. Now Arthur’s cup was a shoulder height and more difficult to get at. Should he be rude and forget it or should he attempt to drink it? His cogitations were interrupted by Sam.

“Now, where were we? Ah, yes, Mary …”

“Oh, thank you Sam … Sir,” said Mary, uncrossing her legs, brushing her skirt and turning to look directly at Arthur. “Now, Arthur, you’ve been here a long time …”

‘I want NEW information and I want it NOW!’ screamed his brain.

“… You’re a brick, Arthur, a brick. So reliable. Others have come and gone and you’ve always been here,” said Mary, leaving a deliberate opening for him.

“Oh,” said Arthur, at a loss for words.

“But, as you know, nothing stays the same. The recent credit crunch has taken its toll and so have the new financial rules. We’re being watched much closer now,” said Mary.

“Have I done something wrong?” asked Arthur, inwardly cowering as they readied the guillotine.

“Well, no Arthur, not at all. Of course not,” said Mary, smiling bravely. “It’s just that some of our connections, some people we know, are coming under greater scrutiny. Now, I’m not quite sure how to say this without alarming you.”

“Oh?” Arthur said, alarmed.

“Yes, I’ll come out and say it bluntly, Arthur,” said Mary, fiddling with her black, cropped hair. “You’re working on the Atkinson case, right?”

“Aah, yes, yes I am,” said Arthur, wondering if it was a trick question.

“And, well …” said Mary, unusually reticent to speak. “Okay, I’ll say it – there is a small security matter …”

“But I’ve kept everything quite confidential …” said Arthur, feeling an accusation sneaking up on him.

“Yes, yes, of course you have, Arthur,” said Mary, smiling uneasily. “The security situation has come from outside and … and, well, we feel it’s best … oh gosh, it’s best you’re not in your office, not actually in the building for a time.”

“Oh,” said Arthur as the ground began to dissolve from under him.

“Would you like to work from home?” asked Mary.

“From home?” asked Arthur. “Would that make things safer?”