“Credit cards… never trusted ’em.”
“Me neither, me neither,” replied Michael with a chuckle, removing a creaseless 5-pound note from a large wallet.
2
“The slave begins by demanding justice and ends by wanting to wear a crown.”
Albert Camus
Gordon didn’t notice the smell of fried food etched into his nostrils, he was so used to it. He tried not to let a look of disgust or the absolute boredom he felt show on his face when he cheerily said, “Who’s next, please?” or “Yes, mate, what can I get for you?” Standing behind the counter, he imagined that it was impossible for others to understand the soul-destroying numbness that comes from a job of this type.
“Who's next, please?” A fat man, jowls dripping with congealed bacon bits and ketchup, stumbling under the weight of his hardening arteries, walked slowly to the counter, grinning happily, his fatty drug injection already taken this morning. The counter he had wiped only seconds earlier was subjected to the fat man’s greasy hand putting all his money down on it, separating coins from used shreds of tissue with stubby hairy fingers.
The contempt was hard to conceal, as was the rising level of bile.
“I want another cup of that shite you call tea in this place,” he exclaimed, pushing the coins along the counter, leaving a trail of something. A muffled snigger came from the other people in the queue.
The only reason they should be laughing, thought Gordon, was if it were half-price to join Weight Watchers. Even then they wouldn’t have let them through the door without soaking them all in bleach first. He thought of accidentally tipping over the tea urn on the counter. That would teach them.
“That’s 45p, please.” Smile, look at the floor.
“Keep the change young ’un.” said the chubby grin as Gordon counted out exactly 45 pence in filthy change.
“Cheers...Who’s next please?” he said as he handed over a mug of lukewarm brown liquid. The man scooped in 3 or 4 sugars, spilling most of it on the counter before moving to a nearby table.
Another fat man changed places with the first one as the drink from the previous night that helped numb the pain of this tedious life started to get its revenge. Sharp familiar twinges in the stomach brought life back into focus, along with the reality that this was going to be over soon, in only 6 more hours. That’s how he spent his time, serving customers, punters, other human beings he had no interest in or desire to please. But it was understood, he thought, that all those customers knew he hated working in this job. But then he supposed, why on earth would he do it...
It started as a stop-gap, a filler, something before doing something else. He didn’t know what the other something was, but he figured it would come to him. In the meantime, put the hours in and get a bit of cash.
But it disintegrated, that knowledge that he could do anything, replaced by nothing more than fear. It was a vicious circle. The job creating low self-esteem, feelings of helplessness, then contempt, all followed by a dessert of high cholesterol fear, fear of not being able to move on, brought about by the low self-esteem, repeat, repeat, repeat.
All Gordon wanted to do when he was a little boy was retire, no police chases or trips to the moon, just retire, as soon as possible. He watched his grandparents do what they wanted to do, whenever they wanted and it seemed like a dream lifestyle. All the while, his parents struggled to make ends meet in jobs that quite clearly chipped away at their sanity. It wasn’t that he had a difficult upbringing in the slightest, just that from a very early age he had subconsciously grown to despise working. If the opportunity was there to do nothing, then why on earth - he thought - do anything at all, especially if there was no joy in it.
Gordon worked in a café just down the road from the Carrot Corporation™. He had worked there for 4 years and didn’t like to talk about what he earned. His job had suddenly become a lot harder as now he had to wash up 12 more cups and plates and 24 more knives and forks every breakfast and lunchtime. He hated carrots and had never eaten one in his life and his eyesight was perfectly fine. He was getting very annoyed with the amount of work he was now expected to do and the way his boss, Ted, didn’t seem to want to pay him any more money for this extra work.
These feelings were mirrored up the road by the majority of Bill’s new workers who, at first, were glad to be in gainful employment, but had become disillusioned with the amount of extra hard labour that Bill expected of them, and wanted more money. Their discontent had quickly spread through the original workforce like a grumpy plague and, after several weeks, the mood on the farm was at breaking point.
That night, after declaring: “I’m off to the pub, you lock up,” Gordon’s boss had gone. This left Gordon alone with a veritable mountain of washing up and a very muddy floor to mop. Gordon had never been this angry in his life and after much debate with himself, he acted. Not one plate in the café was left unbroken, nor one fork unbent. He left, vowing never to return.
*
Bill awoke to the sounds of silence. “Must be early,” he thought and closed his eyes. Some time later, he was frantically shaken awake by the expensively adorned hand of his wife who informed him that he needed to go down to the fields sharpish. Throwing on his clothes, Bill made his way outside into the cool morning air and began searching for his workforce. He was by the barn when he spotted them in a neighbouring field. The majority of them had buried themselves waist deep in the earth and had painted their faces orange. The remaining workers, including the foreman were shovelling earth around them, securing them snugly in the ground. Bill strode over to them with a puzzled look on his sleepy face.
“What’s going on here? Have you gone mad?” exclaimed Bill.
Upon hearing this, the foreman jumped into a hole up to his waist like the others and shouted, “Strike, strike, strike!” as loud as he could. The workers and the foreman all put their hands by their sides and started swaying in unison, shouting “Strike!” over and over again. Bill scratched his head and walked back to the house.
The note was attached to his door by 4 sturdy-looking nails and simply said, “We are on strike from this day forth until an hourly rate more suitable to our working conditions is agreed upon and breakfasts are again provided.” Bill read and re-read the note, all the while slowly shaking his head. He jumped into his new 5-speed tractor and drove down to the café. Upon arrival, he was greeted by the owner sweeping broken crockery out of the door.
“I thought we had a deal with the breakfasts. What’s going on? Why are you not serving my lads?” demanded Bill.
“Nothing of the kind,” said the owner in his most reasonable tones. “It’s that bloody lad. He broke all my crockery. I can’t get any more till this evening. I will be opening tomorrow at 7 o’clock, on the dot. I hope you won’t cancel the deal with the breakfasts.”
Bill appeared slightly less angry and asked the café owner what had happened earlier in the morning. The owner recalled the events to Bill and told him that all the workers had turned up just after 7 for their free breakfast and, when he informed them that he was closed for the morning, they started ranting and raving.
“They were all talking at once,” he told Bill. “All I kept hearing was that they were entitled to a free breakfast and that it was the last straw. Then they left, but not before stealing 3 tubs of my orange paint.”
“So you will be open tomorrow?” asked Bill, staring intently at the owner, daring him to say no.
“Tomorrow as normal,” came the reply.
Bill jumped back into his tractor and headed back up to the farm.
“That paint was expensive,” shouted the café owner up the road after him.
*
Richard was having a bad day. He was perusing a cookbook in an attempt to find some carrot-related recipes when his phone rang, and didn’t stop ringing all morning. The strike at Carrot Corporation™ was affecting the share price and lots of angry people were phoning him to complain about his lack of foresigh
t in predicting it and to try and sell their shares before the price dropped any further. Carrot Corporation™ shares currently sold for 112p.
*
Joan was also having a bad day as she had heard the news of Carrot Corporation™ on the local radio show. After much discussion with Pete, and several cups of tea, she decided to get Pete to call her stockbroker, Richard.
“Hello. Shure Stock. Richard speaking. How may I help you?” said a deflated voice.
“Hello. Is that Richard? It’s Pete, Joan’s husband.”
“Hello, Pete. How may I help you?”
“Well, it’s Joan. She’s worried about her shares. What’s happening? What should we do?”
“Well, Pete, I have been looking very seriously at the goings on at Carrot Corporation™ today. You must believe me that this is a very minor setback. Both you and Joan stand to make a lot of money if you just hang in there,” came the well-rehearsed reply.
“But the share price is going down.”
“Have you ever traded before, Pete?”
“Well no, but...”
“Well I have Pete…” interrupted Richard “…in fact I have been trading in stocks and shares for almost 12 years. All we are experiencing is a minor dip on an otherwise pentatonicly transverse upward curve. I’ve been over the figures with several of my colleagues and computed the results. It’s on an upward spike.”
“So it’s on the up?”
Richard didn’t need to see Pete to know that he was scratching his head. “In a manner of speaking… yes, it is, my friend. The strike will end soon and the stock price will rise again. You and Joan will both be very rich. I would only give the best advice to friends of my parents. Was there anything else, Pete?”
“Well…no. I suppose everything will be okay.”
This was Richard’s last phone call before the stock market closed for the day. He had a full evening planned too. He was trying out a new carrot risotto and he had just bought a juicer to make carrot milkshakes with. Richard’s fiancée was getting a little concerned with his new-found obsession with all things carrot. It seemed to her that in the last 2 weeks Richard hadn’t had 1 meal that didn’t contain at least 90% carrot.
*
It was official: after 2 weeks the strike was over. The share price had dropped to a new record low of 79p, but in Bill’s eyes things could only get better. Over the last 2 weeks all of his 27 staff members had arrived every morning, covered their faces with a fresh coat of orange paint and climbed back into their holes. It was agreed in the long and difficult negotiations that the workers new hourly rate would increase to 4.98 pounds per hour with a new overtime rate of 5.23 pounds per hour. The foreman was particularly clever in his inclusion of an overtime rate as he knew there were no carrots in the field at the moment and the workers would be called upon to work extra to rectify the problem. Bill’s current problem was that he needed to grow a large amount of carrots in a very short amount of time otherwise he would be dangerously close to going bankrupt. In the spirit of goodwill that had descended upon the farm he had decided to push all his current worries to the back of his mind and take the workers to the local pub to celebrate the end of the strike.
The local pub had a slightly damp smell to it and was constructed to look like an affable non-descript version of every other public house in the land. The builders had succeeded admirably and were awarded a contract by the brewery to build 14 other pubs in the country, all absolutely identical, apart from the name.
The workers were enjoying the drinks Bill had bought for them in the lounge while Bill, who had more pressing problems to think about, sat at a table on his own in the bar. Nursing a large brandy, Bill stared into the empty ashtray in front of him and considered his lack of carrots and what that spelled for the future: no wife, no farm, no money, no job, no prospects.
“I know who you are,” came a voice from the gloom. The face attached to the voice belonged to a middle-aged man with very red cheeks and overgrown eyebrows.
“I would appreciate being left alone, please,” Bill responded curtly.
“I know all about your problem.” The face came a bit closer and the owner of the face sat down opposite Bill.
“What’s it got to do with you?”
“Well,” cough, “I know you need a lot of carrots and quick.”
“Well, friend,” said Bill leaning forward and looking as menacing as he could, “most people around here know that. What’s it to you?”
“I have a solut…” cough, “…ion”
“A what?”
“A solution.”
Puzzled, Bill looked on. “How could you have a solution? What’ya mean by that, squire?”
“I’m a scientist. I have a…” extended bout of coughing, “… a batch of super growing formula, especially for carrots.”
“You mean like a fertiliser?”
“A bit like fertiliser, only better. It will reduce the growing time of your average carrot by a half.”
“Really? Seems a bit far-fetched to me, does that.”
“I can assure you that, excuse me,” the Scientist noisily cleared his throat while Bill looked on with interest, “the formula (or fertiliser, as you put it) works perfectly well.”
“Well, how much would it cost me?” said Bill sceptically with a glint in his eye.
“I know your situation and it wouldn’t cost you any money as such. The share price as it stands is very low. All you would have to do is give me 50 thousand shares. Either from the half million you own or buy them for me.
Bill looked on bemused then pulled out a pen from his top pocket, writing something on the back of a beer mat. “So you want me to give you nearly 40 thousand pounds for a fertiliser that may or may not work. Thanks, but no thanks,” Bill laughed.
“No, no, perhaps I…” coughs repeatedly, “…didn’t explain it right. You keep hold of the shares until you see how well the formula works then you give them to me. You give me nothing up front.”
“Oh, I see. That seems a bit too good to be true. What’s to stop me from keeping the fertiliser and not giving you the shares after I’ve grown me carrots?”
“I will go to the press and tell them you have been using my formula.”
“What difference will that make to me?” said Bill, puzzled again.
“While the formula does work, and I can assure you of that, it’s not exactly been tested properly.”
After 2 hours of further debate, the Scientist held out a scarred hand, which strangely had no fingernails. Bill spat in his palm and with a handshake the deal was struck. Bill settled back in his chair and winked at Gordon’s boss who had just entered the bar.
“Drink, Bill?” he shouted, wiggling his hand in the air.
A thumb in the air replied. “And one for my new friend.”
*
If anyone had looked to the west on his or her walk home from the pub that evening, they would have seen a figure silhouetted in the moonlight. The shadowy figure seemed to be digging a small hole in Bill’s garden. Occasionally, a glint from what looked like gold bounced playfully off the figure’s hand.
*
“Would you believe it?” exclaimed Richard for the 100th time that day. The recipient of Richard’s astonishment was his bored looking fiancée. “I can see properly again. I told you that the carrots would work, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did, Richard,” replied his fiancée without looking up from the television guide.
“What do you want for dinner? I’ve just got this new cookbook,” Richard effused.
“I thought we could eat out for a change.”
“We can’t go out. Nowhere caters for my dietary requirements.”
“So we’re never going to eat out again?” came an exasperated response.
*
As Gordon waited for the bus he became acutely aware of the endless stream of cars going in the direction he wanted to go. It was a quarter to 3 in the afternoon and he was on his way to the job ce
ntre. He was the only person at the bus stop, the only person it seemed without his own means of transport. He passed the time by staring up the road past a distant hedgerow, expectantly waiting to see the top of a red double-decker bus. As he waited, it suddenly struck him the sheer amount of money that was speeding past his eyes: each car, from the clapped-out old banger to the luxury sports car, was worth something. On average he figured each car must be worth a few 1000 pounds, not to mention the money spent on fuel. Every few seconds, a different model sped its way past him, some with air-conditioning, others with furry dice.
As he waited, growing colder and considerably later, he wondered what the odds were that 1 of these cars would stop and offer him a lift. In all his years of waiting at bus stops it had never happened, so the odds must be quite low. He then thought about all the money that went into building these cars and the money individuals spent on them. Then there were the roads themselves, snaking all over the country with no real plan, connecting up everyone, haphazardly avoiding hills and water, like veins. Every evening, human cargo pumped out from tired cities to their homes on ever-narrowing roads. He wondered what would happen if all the vast amounts of money that went into building roads, cars and obtaining fuel were directed into public transport. What a magnificent system it would be, he thought. It would be nothing like this. Houses wouldn’t need to be on streets as there would be no need for parking; all the existing residential roads could be turned into lawns where children could play. Just clusters of houses all within a couple of minutes’ walk from a public transport station. Trams, trains, high-speed canal boats, underground super-speed trains or even more futuristically, he thought, capsules. Instead of trains, you get into your own capsule, tell it where you want to go and, whoosh, at high speed, you travel underground through a vast network of tunnels to your desired location. As he pondered this, the screech of overworked brakes and a big red object filled his daydreaming eyes.
The Shift of Numbers Page 2