The Shift of Numbers

by Warrington, David

  On the bus, overhearing the mundane conversations of his fellow passengers, Gordon considered the gulf between the thoughts in his head and the reality of his situation, on the way to the job centre. He sighed. I’ve hated every job I have ever done, he thought, in a none-too-brief melancholic haze.

  *

  Mary worked at the job centre. She had worked there for 5 years. She liked her job and felt like she was providing a valuable service to the local community. Her job mainly consisted of checking up on the people she was trying to get jobs for. To get any money off the government her ‘clients’ had to prove that they were looking for work and were making an effort. To quantify the effort of looking for a job, the ‘clients’ had to show that they had actively applied for at least 3 jobs a week or no money would be forthcoming. All of Mary’s ‘clients’ had to meet up with her on a weekly basis to prove themselves worthy of their 55 pounds a week payment from the government.

  Gordon had been seeing Mary for the last 2 weeks and he found it to be a soul-crushing task. After their allotted 15 minutes of Mary asking him to justify what he had been doing for the last week, Gordon felt sucked dry of any self-worth. He was considering this under the cold glare of the office lighting, when the electronic bell sounded. That meant it was his turn next. Looking round to see if anyone else was next in line and realising with dismay that there wasn’t, he walked slowly over to Mary’s desk. She watched over the top of her glasses as Gordon sat down opposite her. He looked across the desk at Mary’s lined and wrinkled face, hidden behind oversized thick-rimmed glasses with that bit of string attached so she could hang them around her neck. Because of a trick of the bright office lights her glasses seemed to reflect Gordon’s face back at him, only he had an extended forehead and a giant chin. He thought about all the lines on her face as she hacked away noisily at the keyboard with nicotine-stained fingers. It seemed she had a wrinkle for every ‘client’ she had made feel small and worthless, the opposite of laughter lines.

  “Hello, Gordon. How has your week been?” she said with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. This was her 17th ‘client’ of the day. Gordon blinked out of his thoughts and replied, looking at his watch under the table.

  “Okay, not bad.”

  “Have you brought your card?” This was a small piece of card that a ‘client’ was supposed to fill in and contained the 3 jobs they applied for in the last 7 days.

  “Yes.”

  Mary glanced at the card briefly and wrote something on a blue piece of paper. Gordon pretended to have an itch on his hand so that he could look at his watch again. 1 minute had passed.

  “Everything seems okay. There are 3. Did you visit Pearson’s Plastics or did you ring them up on the telephone?”

  “I phoned them up,” Gordon replied sounding more defensive than he should have.

  “Okay. Did you do anything else this week to try and find a job?”

  “Erm, no.”

  “Did you look through the local paper at all?”

  “We don’t have it at home.”

  “Well, we have several copies at the job centre, if you can’t afford to purchase one.”

  The phone ringing on Mary’s desk broke the next 30 seconds of silence.

  “I’ve just been told that my next job seeker is not going to be able to make it. So I’m going to extend our session and get you to fill out a J13a. It will tell us what type of job most suits you. Okay?”

  Gordon’s heart fell into his stomach as he smiled and nodded.

  “You’re also going to have to come in tomorrow as well to learn some interview skills. Okay?”

  *

  6 days later, Gordon woke up to his father shouting his name from the bottom of the stairs. “GORDON, PHONE. GORDON, GET OUT OF BED. IT’S THE JOB CENTRE. IT’S FOR YOU.”

  “Oh, bugger,” thought Gordon. “They will know I was still in bed and it’s nearly 2.”

  “Hello.”

  “Hello. This is Mary from the job centre. I didn’t want to disturb you but the results of your J13a have come back.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “It seems that you are ideally suited for working in a customer service role or manual labour. It amazes me what technology can tell us.”

  “Yes, me too.”

  “I’m phoning because, based on your results, there are two jobs that the computer thinks are 96% perfect for you: number 1, carrot picking for the Carrot Corporation™; number 2, a café just down the road from the Carrot Corporation™ is looking for a customer service representative. What do you think?”

  *

  Michael’s job was going well and he had gotten his biannual review out of the way and had promised to take the kids camping at the weekend. He also now rented a small allotment that produced some of the juiciest, loveliest carrots he had ever seen or tasted.

  3

  "The working men have no country. We cannot take away from them what they have not got."

  Karl Marx

  Gordon arrived at his old place of work as a customer. It felt quite liberating. The owner, his old boss, wasn’t there and 2 new members of staff were serving breakfast. It was just after 8 o’clock and he and 27 of the other employees of Carrot Corporation™ were waiting for their breakfasts. This was Gordon’s first day at his new job. He had gotten sick of having no money and the ever-increasing pressure Mary was putting him under, so he had an interview with Bill and he got the job. His fellow workers had been very nice to him and they all welcomed him to his new family, as they put it. They explained to him about his working day over a breakfast that was provided free of charge. They all winked at each other and patted each other on the back when the free breakfast was mentioned. The foreman explained to Gordon that they were very proud of their free breakfasts, as they had to strike to get them back when the boss stopped them.

  At about a quarter to 9, the workers started walking up the long road to the farm. Upon arrival at the farm, Bill was waiting at the gate looking at his watch. When the last person had passed through the gate he stopped looking at his watch and said, “We’re in field 3 today. You lot get started. Where’s the new boy?”

  The foreman pointed at Gordon, then said: “Come on lads, you heard the boss.” They all started walking down the lane behind the foreman.

  “Right then, lad. You ready for a hard day’s work?” said Bill when the others were a little way down the lane.

  “Yep,” said Gordon.

  “Follow me then, I’ll give you the tour.” Bill turned and climbed over the nearest wooden fence, struggling with his ample frame. Gordon followed suit and they walked in silence for a while on the paths between identical looking fields. Bill stopped, deciding he had reached his destination. It all looked the same to Gordon.

  “You eat carrots, my boy?”

  “Never really been that fond of them,” Gordon replied honestly.

  “Me neither.” Bill did a little belly laugh. “But you should know a thing or 2 about them. Only professional after all.”

  “I suppose.”

  “No suppose about it, lad. Take a look at these.” He removed 4 carrots from his deep jacket pockets. “What do you make of them, then?” Bill looked proudly at his outstretched hands.

  “Erm…”

  “These,” he paused as if listening to a drum roll in his head. “…are carrots. Daucus carota, of the variety sativus. Belong to the parsley family they do.” He pronounced the Latin as if speaking a posh foreign language reserved for special occasions.

  Gordon nodded.

  “We grow several varieties here. My motto is, ‘If people’ll eats ’em, I’ll grows ’em.’ Take a gander at this.” He held up the 2 carrots in his right hand. “These are fresh market carrots. Notice they’re longer than the others, and thinner. This 1’s the Imperator and this 1’s the Nantes. Both delicious, I’m told. Goes straight into the shop as is. This little fella,” he held up a small carrot, about 3 inches long, “is a baby carrot, for them gourmet types. And
this 1 goes off to the factory,” holding up another carrot, not as long as the fresh market, but fatter. “…gets diced, frozen in packets or put in tin cans. Bet you didn’t know that?” asked Bill.

  “No, I didn’t,” replied Gordon.

  Bill put the carrots back in his pocket and turned towards a field. “You see them rows?” He pointed toward the straight lines of green foliage covering the field. “The seeds are planted in them, ’bout half inch deep, foot apart, depending on the type of carrot, of course. Takes about 100 or so days to yield a crop and in this warm climate we can keep going all year round. I harvest them with my mechanical digger, best thing I ever bought…” Bill seemed to lose his train of thought and stood in silence for a moment. Gordon coughed.

  “Right then,” said Bill suddenly. “Follow me lad.”

  *

  Richard stood for a moment, hand resting lightly on the door, taking several deep breaths. The calm before the storm. These were the moments he savoured. Like placing an order at an expensive restaurant, sipping an aperitif, and wondering how good the venison really was. It didn’t even come close to the excitement he felt now. Glancing down towards his expensive shoes, he reminded himself how good he was at this. Another deep breath. You’re a tiger.

  His hands placed on each door, fingertips running gently against the wood, he decisively pushed. A wall of noise filled his ears and washed over him, at least a 100 people shouting, manoeuvring for position. Not to mention the others sat at desks, loudly typing into computer terminals, phones pressed to their ears. He loved it, making a point each day of arriving minutes after the market opened so he could make an entrance. The ‘floor’ as they called it in the trade was contained inside a huge vaulted building with a vast ceiling stretching upwards towards a glass-domed roof. The space underneath was at least the size of a football pitch. In the centre sat a large raised circular platform a few feet high. A ball-shaped array of television monitors dangled above, suspended by thick iron ropes, beaming out a constant stream of numbers and codes.

  This was where the action happened, men and women dressed in suit jackets of various garish colour schemes – indicating the brokerage house they worked for – vying for attention. There were at least 20 people crammed onto the platform, all shouting out in a seemingly unintelligible foreign language and gesturing a form of sign language. The 40 or so people surrounding the stage seemed quieter, more intent. Some gazed at the screens, or waited for some signal from a colleague sat at a desk. Then movement, a sudden flurry of coloured paper and scribbled numbers - a trade had taken place, a controlled chaos that fascinated those who knew the rules.

  Surrounding the platform and moving out in increasing circles were the decks, each 1 heavily laden with numerous computer screens and several phones. Each brokerage had a desk; the closer you were to the centre the more money you had. They were like islands, with each inhabitant wearing the national colours, rarely communicating - unless mutually beneficial - to the ‘foreigners’. The native language was the intricate and very secret set of hand signals used to communicate trades to the centre of the room. This was the Central House Stock Exchange, CHSE, pronounced chess by the locals.

  Richard, or Cinderella as he was known on the trading floor (for his usual late arrival), took up his seat. Next to him sat Chips, an aptly named larger gent with a passion for poker that bordered on obsessive. The other 2 in his team were relatively new and as such hadn’t earned a nickname. They were referred to as ‘shinies’, an antiquated reference to the wide eyes of newcomers.

  “Morning, Cinders,” said Chips with a flourish of his hand. “Shaz (Central House Association of Security Dealers Automated Quotation systems – CHASDAQ, pronounced shaz-daq or simply shaz.) has CC at 77. Your phone stopped ringing yet?” he added with a little laugh.

  “Funny… put some money down, you might be able to pay off some of your gambling debts.”

  “Forget you’re the funny one,” Chips smiled “…and I’m already in for 300.”

  “Really!” Richard exclaimed. “Your own?”

  “Nah, Wilson’s account. Wish it were though: 25k profit in less than 2 days.”

  “Good work…and a nice bonus.”

  “Keeps me honest.”

  “Just about…” Richard added, then realised that his team were all lounging about doing nothing in the midst of the frenzied morning trading. “You lot got nothing to do?” The shinies shook their heads in unison.

  “The float’s frozen again,” added Chips.

  “Why?” said Richard, already guessing at the answer. Unbeknownst to his team, Richard had also been dabbling in the international commodities markets, buying up options on most of the world’s carrot crop for the coming year and most of the next. Massive sums of money had been exchanged in 100s of trades. In an effort to hide these from his colleagues - whom he decided were too stupid to comprehend his plan - Richard had been rerouting the money in increasingly elaborate ways, a complicated sleight of hand that would have everyone regarding him as a genius when record-breaking profits landed on their desks. He smiled. Roar, you tiger, roar.

  “No idea,” said Chips. “What you grinning about? Still seeing things?”

  “Nothing,” said Richard quickly, straightening his face. “Take the shinies for a coffee, will you? I’ll get on to the board and see what’s going on.”

  “Okay, boss.” As they disappeared into the crowds, Richard slumped at his desk, concentrating to block out the noise. Perhaps I took too much. Perhaps they noticed. He pulled out a carrot from his pocket and absently began nibbling on it. As he relaxed, his vision began to tunnel, like someone was turning up the contrast. Before he could blink, the walls began to melt around him revealing the offices behind. He clenched his eyes shut for a few seconds and shook his head and everything returned to normal. He began typing, selling stock options, transferring the money from hidden accounts back into the main float. Several million later, the computer beeped happily and unlocked the CHASDAQ trading options. He estimated that selling them back had just lost the company close to half a million. A dent in the quarter billion he’d invested in the last 2 weeks.

  *

  “I have a special job for you. You won’t be working with the others,” Bill said cryptically.

  “Okay. What do I have to do?”

  “You are going to be fertilising my carrots. There’s a small hut down that way,” said Bill pointing into the distance. “I want you to make your way down there and speak to my scientist. He’ll tell you what to do. Okay?”

  “Sure.”

  Before Bill turned to walk away, he said, “Be sure to come up here at 11 o’clock so you can be measured for your overalls. Speak to the wife.”

  Gordon began walking in the direction that Bill pointed and some time later he found the hut. He didn’t have to knock on the door as a man who looked very much like a scientist was waiting outside.

  “You must be the new,” cough “…lad. Follow me.” They walked for a while to another field, the silence broken, as they walked, by the Scientist’s persistent cough.

  “Here we are, boy. Do you see the fence that goes round this field?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. This is field 7 and today you will be fertilising it.”

  “Okay.”

  “This is very important; I want you to listen carefully. Take this.” The Scientist handed Gordon a squeezey bottle and a pair of rubber gloves.

  “What’s this for?” asked Gordon.

  “You see those carrot tops?”

  “Yes.” Gordon presumed that the small green plants arranged in rows in the field were the carrot tops.

  “This is the most important bit. I want you to spray each carrot top once with the contents of that bottle. Do you understand?”

  Well yes, I’m not stupid, Gordon wanted to say but he just nodded.

  “Good, just once remember. There’s enough formula in that bottle to spray each carrot top once. It should take you all day
so stop for lunch at 12.30 and go up to the house. Report back to me at 5 o’clock. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  The Scientist walked off, leaving Gordon alone. He put the gloves on and started spraying. It wasn’t long before he realised how boring this job was going to be.

  By 11, Gordon had made his way up to a large rustic-looking house and knocked on the front door. A middle-aged woman answered the door and told Gordon to follow her. She had a type of tired glamour that had been faded by time, like a rundown seaside resort in winter that relied totally on the locals for trade. They made their way to a small room on the other side of the house that contained a table and a tape measure. Bill’s wife measured Gordon in silence, then said, “Your uniform should be here in a few days.”

  “Thank you,” said Gordon and turned to leave.

  “Before you leave I have a job for you to do. Will you follow me, please?” They walked out of the house and into the back garden. “I want you to dig something up for me. It’s just under that tree. The spade is over there.” She pointed with a hand covered in expensive-looking rings. Gordon obediently picked up the spade and started digging where Bill’s wife had showed him.

  “What am I digging for?” asked Gordon.

  “Money,” replied Bill’s wife. Gordon kept digging until his spade hit something; he put his hand into the hole and pulled out a very dirty banknote. Michael would have been most displeased.

  “You can leave now,” Bill’s wife said abruptly. “Take one of the notes if you wish. Just don’t tell Bill...” Gordon put one of the notes in his pocket and walked back down to his field to continue his spraying.

  *

  He continued spraying until lunch then he went back up to the house and ate, in the staff room, the sandwiches his mother had made for him. After lunch and back at field 7, Gordon was thoroughly fed up of spraying the carrot tops and it was only 2 o’clock. As no-one was around, he decided to have a break and sat down by the edge of the field under a tree. He was awoken to the sight of a man in a suit frantically pulling the carrots out of the ground.