by Joss Sheldon
Yet the only pay-rise I received was tiny. And that wasn’t a result of my hard work; it was a pay-rise that everyone got after six months of employment. I never got promoted. I never became a head chef.
After a year had passed, Lorraine dumped me. She said that she ‘really liked me’. But we were just ‘too incompatible to be together’.
I didn’t even feel that bad. Not like when Georgie dumped me. My skin didn’t stretch taut. I didn’t cry into my pillow. I just accepted it. I just felt apathetic.
And then, after another four months had passed, I was turfed out of the apartment that Lorraine and I had shared. My landlord wanted to give it to his son. So I had to pack my bags and move into a claustrophobic studio flat.
Dear reader, as I regale you with this sorry series of events, I can’t help but think of a Lao Tzu saying; ‘If you don’t change direction, you may end up where you’re heading’.
Well, I didn’t like ‘where I was heading’; a life full of long hours and low pay, uncomfortable working conditions and little free time. I realised that I needed to ‘change direction’. That I needed to find a new job.
I was still optimistic. I was still hopeful that I could land a better job, with better working conditions. I was still hopeful that job would enable me to make more of a contribution to society and earn more money for myself. I still daydreamed about buying my own flat.
So I applied for other jobs. I applied for the sort of jobs I believed someone with my degree should be doing. And I was optimistic about getting those jobs, because I had work experience as well as qualifications.
I did get another job, but it was hardly the job I’d been hoping for.
Dear reader, I became an energy salesman!
I stood in a shopping centre, next to a pop-up stand, and I cajoled passers-by into changing their electricity supplier. I don’t think I ever saw myself doing that job for long, but it did pay slightly more than my previous role, so I still considered it to be a step in the right direction.
I trod the tiles of that shopping centre every day. I accosted thousands of bystanders. And I thrust flyers into the preoccupied hands of hurried folk.
The omnipresent white light, which reflected off of every surface, created an eternal midday. Yet I lived in a permanent dusk. It was always dark by the time I stepped outside. I became a stranger to the sun. And I went for a whole year without seeing a single rainbow. Even if I had seen a rainbow, I’d have probably ignored it.
I ploughed on.
I signed people up for ‘Fixed Plans’, ‘Indexed Plans’ and ‘Prepaid Plans’. I set up ‘Direct Debits’, ‘Standing Orders’ and ‘Customer Accounts’. I completed the paperwork, kept my stall in order, and grinned like a Cheshire cat.
On and on it went; day after day after day.
NINETEEN
My job was a bit of a drag. Pretty much every day was the same. But, every once in a while, something would happen which shook me out of my monotony-induced trance.
One day, for example, I saw a young lady walk by. She had a pregnant glow which shone right through her two-piece suit. The fine diamonds in her ears sparkled. And the red paint on her lips glistened.
I caught her eye.
And then my heart stopped. My stomach dropped. My face turned ice-cold.
I realized who it was.
It was Sleepy Sampson! Remember her? She was the girl who hummed during quiet time. The one who’d pinned me to the floor, after I’d scolded her, and said; ‘You’re not the boy we all used to love. You’re not the boy I used to love!’
Well, dear reader, there she was; all slinky lines and luscious bulges. Delicate warmth radiated from her cherry blossom cheeks. A coltish giggle danced on her chary tongue.
“Hey!” I called.
Sleepy Sampson ignored me.
That was normal; being ignored was part of the job. No-one wanted to be accosted by the pesky salesman. Most people pretended that I didn’t even exist.
“Sleepy!” I called out again. “Hey! Sleepy! Sleepy Sampson!”
And then she flinched. As if a ghost had passed through her, she almost shivered and she almost shook. Without moving her head, she turned one eye towards me.
My face reflected in her cornea.
She saw me. Her head shot round, dragging her body with it. Her face lit up; illuminated by the enlightenment of recognition and the innocence of surprise. White light flickered in her eyes and a pinkish flush swept across her countenance.
“Yew!” she sang.
I blushed.
“Yew! How are you?” she asked.
“I’m good. It’s great to see you. It’s been so long!”
“Sixteen years!”
“Sixteen years?”
“Sixteen years! I haven’t seen you since the last day of primary school. Do you remember it? We took photos on the grass and swore that we’d stay friends forever.”
“Yeah, I remember that! We all got given bibles. We wrote messages on the blank pages. And then we signed each other’s uniforms.
“If you’d told me back then that we wouldn’t meet for another sixteen years, I wouldn’t have believed you.”
“Me too! Where has the time gone?”
“Time flies.”
“It does. Just look at you! You’re not so scrawny anymore!”
“And look at you! You’re not so sleepy!”
“Oi you, you cheeky bugger! No-one has called me that in years.”
“So what do people call you these days?”
“Mrs Smith.”
‘Mrs Smith’ dropped her wrist to reveal the ring which took pride of place on her finger.
“You’re married?”
“Sure am!”
“Who’s the lucky man?”
“Brian.”
“Brian? Brian Smith? Chubby Smith? The boy with more blubber than a killer whale? The beast of the east? The man mountain of the water fountain?”
“Oi! Stop it you little rascal. Brian’s not fat anymore. He’s a successful banker.”
“A banker? Good for him! And what are you doing with yourself?”
“Oh, you know, this and that. I’m a PA to the Chief Executive of a big firm. But I’ve been spending most of my time doing up our holiday home. It’s really been taking it out of me. Sometimes I think home ownership is more stress than it’s worth. But, you know, you’ve to plough on through.”
I giggled uncomfortably.
“Look, I need to be getting off,” ‘Mrs Smith’ continued. “The boss is a bit of a slave driver, if you know what I mean. But it’d be great to catch up. Do you fancy grabbing a coffee sometime?”
I nodded.
“Cool! I’ll be in touch.”
Sleepy Sampson swished her hair as she turned. Her feet glided away. And her form evaporated.
I froze.
I was gobsmacked. I just couldn’t fathom what had just happened.
‘How on earth could Sleepy Sampson be such a success?’ I asked myself.
She was the girl who slept through class after class. She hardly paid any attention at school. Her grades were terrible.
She was the girl who didn’t react when I wiped my nose on her sleeve. She didn’t care. She was indifferent to the world.
She was the girl who hummed during quiet time. She didn’t follow the rules. She didn’t try to please her superiors. She didn’t try to please anyone at all. She wasn’t selfless like me. She was selfish to the core.
Yet she was beautiful. She was happily married, with a good job and a holiday home. A holiday home! I couldn’t even afford to buy a studio flat, and she owned a holiday home!
It just didn’t seem fair. It didn’t seem right.
For the first time in years, my apathy gave way.
I was fuming. My face was on fire!
Like a fire-breathing dragon, steamy air poured out of my flared nostrils. My skin became reptilian. My eyes bulged.
People gave me a wide berth.
I ste
wed in the sloppy goulash of my fury. Lumps of my indignation, and morsels of my irritation, sloshed about in a soup of my despair.
‘How could she try so little and get so much, when I try so much and get so little?’ I asked myself. ‘Why should I subject myself to society’s demands, when someone like Sleepy Sampson can glide through life whilst staying true to herself? Why bother? Why?’
That same dull, gentle, element of doubt, which had pulsated beneath the surface of my conscious mind when I was asked to perform a religious ceremony, and when I was taken into a strip club, began to thud once again. And it wasn’t just a dull thudding. It was a real tub-thumping, heart-pumping sort of thudding. It was as if a new reality was being born; breaking the waters of my mind, dilating the shackles I’d placed upon my thoughts, and releasing my inner-child back into the world.
I had to grab hold of my stall in order to remain upright. My legs had turned to jelly. My head felt light and my stomach felt queasy.
I didn’t tidy my stall that evening. I didn’t complete the daily sales report. I just stumbled out into the evening hue and melted into the fuzzy blur of my twisted reality.
The air tasted of sulphur.
TWENTY
Lao Tzu once said; ‘A leader is best when people barely know he exists. When his work is done, and his goals have been achieved, they will say ‘We did it ourselves’.’
My boss, Dave, was nothing like that. I definitely knew he ‘existed’. He never let me say ‘I did it myself’.
Rather than suggest an objective and leave me to achieve it, he’d demand that I do things his way. That lanky, rangy man would tower over me, leaving me in no doubt that he expected me to do as he said.
Rather than praise my major achievements, he’d lambast me for my minor mistakes. He spoke like a lion. Sometimes he’d roar. But, more often than not, he’d simply purr with self-assurance.
And rather than say, ‘How do you think we should do this?’, he’d say, ‘Do it like this!’
Psychologists, such as John Sensenig and Jack Brehm, will tell you that such behaviour is a recipe for disaster.
Those men conducted an experiment in which volunteers had to react to a list of statements using a scale, with ‘Strongly Agree’ at one end, ‘Strongly Disagree’ at the other, and twenty-nine points in-between.
The volunteers were then told that they were going to write essays supporting or opposing five of those statements. The first, ‘Federal aid to church-run schools should be discontinued’, hadn’t elicited any passionate responses. The other four statements had.
The volunteers were split into pairs.
Volunteers in the ‘Low Threat Group’ were told that one member of their pair would choose whether to argue for or against the first statement, and that both members would then have to take that side. The person making the decision was allowed to ask their partner for their opinion. But when it came to the other four essays, both people were told that they could take whatever side they liked.
Volunteers in the ‘High Threat Group’, however, were told that one member of their pair would choose sides for all five essays.
The experiment was rigged. None of the volunteers got to choose sides. They were all put in isolated rooms. Then they were given a note, which they were told came from their partners, but which had in fact been written by a researcher. That note always asked them to take the side they’d originally taken in the survey, so there was no conflict.
A ‘Control Group’ within the Low Threat Group were given notes which said, ‘I’d prefer to agree/disagree with this, if it’s okay with you’. Those notes involved the volunteers in the process.
The rest of the volunteers were given notes which said, ‘I’ve decided we will both agree/disagree with this’. Those notes coerced the recipient.
Then, whilst writing their essays, the volunteers were asked to react to the statement again, using the original thirty-one point scale.
Here’s what happened:
Volunteers in the Control Group expressed a stronger belief, for or against the statement, than they had done in the original survey. They reacted positively because they’d been involved in the process.
But the rest of the Low Threat Group expressed a weaker belief. They felt threatened. They didn’t like being told what to write, even though they actually agreed with the opinion which was being forced upon them.
And the people in the High Threat Group expressed an even weaker belief. On average, they shifted their responses by 4.17 places on the scale, away from the view being imposed on them, even though they originally agreed with that point of view. They felt threatened by the idea of being told what to write about another four (much more emotional) issues.
This shows that when a person’s freedom is threatened, they will take steps to restore those freedoms which are under threat. They will move their own opinions on an issue away from the opinions which are being forced upon them, even if they originally supported those opinions.
Well, dear reader, that’s exactly what happened to me!
You see, my conversation with Sleepy Sampson had encouraged me to assess my situation. It had encouraged me to assess the way my boss was treating me.
My boss told me how I should hold myself, how I should smile and how I should approach people. He wrote my pitch. And he insisted that I use scripted answers to manage objections.
Most of the time I agreed with my boss’s points of view. I learned a lot from that rambunctious young man. But it was the very fact that he was telling what to do that really grated. I felt that he was threatening my freedom.
And so, in response to that threat, I started to move my own beliefs away from the beliefs which were being forced onto me.
It’s like Lao Tzu says; ‘The more laws and order are made prominent, the more thieves and robbers there will be’.
Well, my boss was big on ‘order’. It didn’t make me a ‘thief’ or a ‘robber’, but it did make me want to rebel.
For the first time since the egot died, I actually started to question authority! I questioned everything Dave told me to do:
‘Why should I stand as he tells me to stand?’
‘Why should I smile when he tells me to smile?’
‘Why should I use his script?’’
That subtle element of doubt, that dull thudding which resurfaced when I spoke to Sleepy Sampson, transformed into a new consciousness. It dominated my thoughts. It made me question everything:
‘Why should I obey my teachers, parents and bosses?’
‘Why should I conform to societal norms?’
‘Why should I bend to peer pressure?’
‘Why should I follow the law?’
‘Why should I deny my true self?’
My mind was a tangle of distinct but interconnected anxieties. A real fireball of anger. A real punching-bag of angst.
I’d done everything everyone had ever wanted of me. I’d followed all their rules. I’d respected authority. I’d gone to university. I’d worked hard, worked well and worked long hours. Yet I hadn’t been rewarded. I hadn’t been promoted. I wasn’t receiving a decent wage. And I couldn’t afford to buy myself a flat.
Something had to give. I mean, other people were earning good wages. Other people could afford to buy their homes. Even Sleepy Sampson was getting on in life. She owned two homes! And she’d never worked as hard as I had. The only thing she was good at was sleeping!
My mind was full of thoughts like these.
As if a cork had been removed from my subconscious, twenty years of bottled-up frustrations gushed out into my conscious mind.
I suppose you could compare my mental state to an elastic band.
An elastic band can be stretched to many times its natural length. It can be twisted out of all recognition. But there’s only so far you can stretch an elastic band before it’ll snap back into place.
Well, dear reader, I’d reached that point. Snapping point! I was snapping back into my natural f
orm.
The egot was dead. But I didn’t need it. I was thinking for myself, without its help. Its little voice had become a bellowing battle cry. And it was my battle cry. It was my little voice. It was mine, all mine!
Everything was clear. It was clear that I’d been living in a cage. It was clear that freedom was mine to take. It was clear what I had to do. I was my own clarity. Everything was clear.
Dave swaggered towards me. He towered above me. His whiskers twitched and his mane swished.
Without stopping to say ‘hello’, he immediately began to dictate terms:
“You need to stop using the word ‘we’,” he said. “You need to use the words ‘us’ and ‘our’ instead.”
But I was oblivious to that man. I was oblivious to the world.
I remember a sense of otherworldliness, as if I’d stepped outside of the physical realm. My legs lifted my torso, my frame stood tall, and my spirit stood still. My body melted away from my control.
I watched on as my body broke free. As it leapt up onto the stall. As it pounded its breast like a valiant ape. And as it puffed its chest like a swashbuckling superhero.
The faint sound of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony started to fill my ears. Delicate violin strings provided a melodic backdrop for the ballet which was unravelling on stage.
My boss opened his jaw, as if to roar.
My body performed a pirouette.
Flyers rose up beneath my feet and span around my shins like froth on a choppy ocean.
I felt an all-encompassing surge of bliss.
One leg rose up in front of my body, forming a sharp arrow which pointed out towards the soulless expanse of that hall. I held that position perfectly still, whilst lifting my chin with a pompous sort of grace. Then I leapt like a spring deer, in slow motion, with one leg pointing forward and the other one darting back.
Beethoven’s Ninth sounded glorious as it purred through the gears. Violas joined violins and cellos joined those violas. Double basses began to hum and flutes began to whistle.