It's Only Temporary

by Jamie Pearson

  Back in my office I once again logged on in the hope that my email inbox would contain a reply from someone who had seen the glorious opportunity to have me on their staff, after all it had been at least forty five minutes since I sent out my resume. It was empty.

  I began to search online for rented accommodation, eventually settling on the imaginatively titled “Flats4U.com”, selecting the “London” then “Three Rooms” options I began to search for my next abode.

  Almost immediately I found one, as it was situated only a few miles from the campus it appeared to meet all my needs. The advert stated a price of four thousand, seven hundred pounds. I assumed this was an annual figure and that it was potentially negotiable as the landlord helpfully suggested PCM. “Please contact me”, to discuss this further it seemed. There was a clear statement that a deposit equivalent of a month’s rent would be required.

  I calculated that this would be approximately three hundred and ninety one pounds. This could potentially cause me a slight difficulty as I had spent every penny I had on my summer trip to Egypt. My account currently showed a balance of two pounds seventeen pence. However PCM was an open invite to negotiate this and assure the landlord of my qualities as prospective tenant.

  Mother of God! What are you supposed to do, sell a kidney? PCM apparently stood for per calendar month so the young man at the letting agents informed me. As the rent was payable in advance I would have needed nine thousand four hundred pounds to be able to move in.

  I looked at several other properties that were in less salubrious areas but there was nothing I could even remotely afford. A sense of hopelessness descended over me and I realised I really only had two options, my parents or the housing office.

  I rationalised it was a case of better the devil you know than the one you don’t and with an air of despondency I called my parents, my mother answered on the fourth ring.

  ‘Hello luscious Linda here, what can I do you for?’

  Oh kill me now, I thought to myself.

  ‘Hello Mother, its Marcus.’

  ‘Marky! Quick Rob, its Marky on the phone!’

  She had always called me “Marky” and I had always detested it, at least they did not christen me that. I could hear my father in the back ground telling her to hang on.

  ‘Marky, I am putting you on speaker phone so your dad can join in.’

  ‘Hey Big Mac! How’s it hanging son?’

  I was regretting this decision already.

  ‘Hi Dad.’

  ‘So Son, to what do we owe the honour?’ my dad continued. He only ever called, me “Son” when he was feeling fatherly. The rest of the time it was “Pal”, “Mate”, “Dude” or the Cringe worthy “Big Mac”.

  ‘Actually I have a bit of a problem.’

  ‘Yeah? What’s up?’

  ‘I was wondering if I could come and stay with you for a bit?’

  There was a pause; it was my mother who broke the silence.

  ‘But it’s the summer Marky. You never visit us in the summer.’

  ‘I know, but I am in a bit of difficulty and was hoping you could put me up?’

  ‘For how long mate? my dad asked.

  Before I could respond I heard my mother say ‘It’s the Summer Rob!’

  ‘I hope for no longer than six weeks. I am happy to sleep on the sofa.’

  ‘Erm, you see pal the thing is we are not in a cottage. We tend to stay on a campsite during the summer, with the van.’

  “The Van” was my dad’s pride and joy, a VW Camper that was older than I was. He had restored it from the ground up and I had to admit it was in excellent condition.

  ‘Oh, I see. Is there an awning or something?’

  ‘No I am afraid not,’ my mother answered a little too quickly. ‘I am sorry love it just isn’t convenient at the minute.’

  Convenient? Neither was being unemployed and homeless.

  ‘Is something amiss in the land of the pyramids Son?’ my dad asked.

  ‘No Dad, everything is fine. Nothing to worry about.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Listen Son if you are really stuck.’

  My mother cut him off, she as trying to muffle her voice and I could imagine her with her hand over her mouth.

  ‘Not during the summer Rob! He won’t like it?’

  ‘It’s ok Dad. I will speak to you soon.’

  ‘Alright, bye Son,’ although he sounded far from alright.

  ‘Byeee Marky. Love you!’

  Not enough to have let me interfere with your summer though, I thought.

  ‘Bye Mother, love you too.’

  The housing office was the most depressing building I had ever seen in my entire life, a monstrosity of dirty grey concrete that was straight out of some Orwellian nightmare.

  With some trepidation I entered and was surprised to see that the interior was a stark contrast to the exterior. Outside the building was imposing and intimidating, inside it was simply horrible. The furniture was a uniform purple colour, the carpet was blue, the walls yellow and the staff were dressed in black business attire as if they were in mourning. This seemed to be appropriate in relation to the despondency you felt upon entering.

  A very large security guard with a badge that told me his name was Carlos and he was here to help approached me.

  ‘Afternoon,’ he said.

  ‘Actually the expression is “Good Afternoon” I think you will find. I assume you were greeting me? Otherwise you are simply pointing out that it is in fact past midday.’

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’ he asked his features slightly less than welcoming now.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He paused just long enough for me to deduce he had already formed the opinion that he was dealing with yet another idiot.

  ‘I was told to ask for Sharon,’ I offered.

  ‘Ah, so you do have an appointment, which desk is she on?’

  ‘Destitute and Desperate,’ I said.

  He laughed, ‘That’s funny mate, good one. Follow me.’

  Glad to be back in his good books I followed Carlos to a small waiting area, where I sat myself on one of the hideous chairs.

  A young woman with a clipboard, who appeared to have had too many espressos before she came to work, approached me at a near run.

  ‘Who are you here to see?’

  ‘Sharon.’

  ‘OK, your interview will be shortly.’

  As she walked away I was apprehensive. “Interview?” I had no idea there was an interview. How big would the panel be? Did I need references? Should I have brought my resume? Did I need to think of some relevant questions?

  I looked around the room in the hope of gaining some insight but all I saw was a poster informing me that I should check my testicles. Was that part of the process as well?

  A few minutes later Sharon approached me, she was also dressed in black but had made an effort to lighten the mood with enormous gold hooped earrings. When she smiled I realised the earrings matched one of her teeth.

  ‘Mark?’ she said.

  Before I had chance to correct her she gestured for me to follow her. We passed several desks that seemed to offer no privacy what so ever. At one I heard the staff member say to a man who I assumed was going to the Gym later as he was dressed head to toe in a tracksuit, ‘It is very simple, if you hold illegal raves in your flat you run the risk of getting evicted.’

  ‘Now then Mark,’ she said as we sat down. ‘You are in a bit of a pickle I understand?’

  ‘You could say that, this morning I had a career and an apartment. Now I am unemployed and facing eviction at the end of the week. I am forced to throw myself on your tender mercies.’

  ‘OK,’ she said. However the way she elongated both the syllables indicated to me that she had perhaps not fully comprehended the meaning of that statement.

  ‘So Mark, how are you spelling that M, A, R, K?’

  ‘With a “C”. M, A, R, C, as its Marcus.’

 
‘Oh that’s nice. Marc with a “C”.’

  ‘U S,’ I added.

  ‘Pardon? I’m a what?’

  ‘No. You’re a nothing. Well not a nothing obviously, as you must be a something. What I merely meant was that my name is Marcus not Mark with or without a “C”, but Marcus hence the U S on the end. So when I said you are a nothing what I meant was that I was not referring to you in anyway what so ever. You are obviously a something; dare I suggest a hard working professional?’ I felt it was probably best that I stopped talking at that point.

  ‘I see,’ she said, although I somehow doubted it.

  ‘So, you need accommodation by the end of the week?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Is there no-one you can stay with?’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘Well friends, family, someone like that?’

  I had to think about this for a moment, friends? I was well respected as an academic but like most highly intelligent people found that I was more comfortable focussing on academic development rather than wasting my time on small talk. Hence I was spared the unpleasantness of meaningless social interaction with people I had nothing in common with.

  ‘Well I do have my academic peers.’

  ‘Can they help?’

  ‘Help?’

  ‘With your situation, put you up for a bit?’

  ‘Why would they do that?’

  ‘Well because they sympathise and want to help.’

  ‘Oh I see.’ The thought of demeaning myself and asking a colleague for temporary accommodation had not occurred to me. Did people do that?

  ‘I am not sure if anyone would do that. They are all on holiday until the end of the summer, by which time I assure you I will have resolved this situation. People with my level of qualifications and experience do not remain unemployed for long.’

  ‘Ok, family?’

  ‘Parents and I have already tried them. Not an option I’m afraid.’

  ‘I see. How many dependants do you have?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Do you have children?’

  ‘Good lord no! Why on earth anyone with half a brain would want to voluntarily expose themselves to repugnant midgets quite frankly beggars belief.’

  ‘So that’s a no then?’

  As she said this I spotted a framed picture of her and two little girls who looked exactly like her.

  ‘Your sisters?’ I asked hopefully.

  ‘My children,’ she replied without looking up.

  ‘Now as I am sure you are aware as a single adult you do not score very highly in terms of housing points.’

  ‘Score? Points? Was it some form of sporting event? Did I have to answer questions? Would there be one of those cringe worthy audience phone in votes? Before I could contemplate this any further Sharon carried on.

  ‘I have one place available; it is quite small and is not suitable for families. It has been offered to a few people but so far it is not taken.’

  ‘OK, well maybe I am in luck then?’

  ‘Hmmm, maybe. The Landlord has indicated that some, TLC experience would be beneficial.’

  Yet another abbreviation was the whole of the accommodation sector shortened to three letters? Perhaps it was to avoid the need to spell correctly?

  However I knew what that meant, “Teaching and Learning Centre.” There was one at Luci and I was part of the quality commission involved with its delivery. It made perfect sense that any discerning landlord would prefer a tenant of quality, an academic professional, residing in their property.

  ‘TLC, of course. I actually have extensive experience of contributing to the TLC programme.’

  ‘So that does not bother you then?’

  ‘No of course not. We all have to make the effort to improve things, bring our talents to bear so to speak.’

  ‘Right. I assume you want it then?’ she said.

  ‘Yes please.’

  ‘Would you like me to arrange your rent to be paid directly to the landlord?’

  ‘Is that how it normally works?’ I had no idea.

  ‘We advise it, once you have signed on at the job centre the will inform us of your status and your landlord will get paid directly. That way there is no chance of rent areas occurring.’

  ‘OK, in that case yes please.’

  Sharon made an appointment for me to meet with a Job Centre advisor through her electronic database and presented me with a print out of my appointment with “Jon” the following day.

  She gave me the address of the flat and the contact details for the Landlord, telling me to call him tomorrow. This would give her chance to contact him and confirm my details beforehand.

  I walked back to my apartment feeling quite pleased with myself. In the space of one day I had recovered heroically from adversity and acquired a bachelor pad on the exotically named “Henrietta Street”.

  I checked my inbox again, other than some automatic out of office reply’s it was still empty. This was not to be unexpected; after all it was the summer. I was convinced that faculties across the country and even the world would soon be checking their inboxes before the new term began. Then I would be inundated with choices.

  This situation was only temporary.

  Chapter 2.

  The following morning I elected to go to my office and re check my inbox in case someone had responded overnight, they had. Two were from UK based Universities and one was from Italy, I opened the first one.

  Dear Mark, thank you for your inquiry however the University of Central Yorkshire no, longer offers Egyptology as a course option. Therefore we will not be taking your inquiry further.

  Moving onto the second one I saw that it was from Bertie, an esteemed Professor who had achieved tenure at University in the North West, essentially he had a job for life and would be a great ally to have.

  Marcus old boy, how the hell are you?

  Not too good I assume if you are forced to tout around for work? Well chap I must say that I found your paper on the consistency of clay in Egyptian pots gripping, absolutely gripping.

  The pain of it is however that our Egyptology department is in “A state of contraction” I am told – whatever that means? I myself am being put out to grass as they say and am now heading up the academic rigour process.

  So my old chum, I am sorry but I cannot be of service at this time.

  Best of Luck

  Bertie.

  The third was from someone at the University of Milan.

  Sir, thank you for your email and attachment.

  Please could you care to explain what the attachment is? We have asked everyone in the office who speaks English but we do not understand why you have sent us this document?

  Are you hoping to learn to speak Egyptian? If this is the case we are sorry to tell you that we do not teach languages here. We have done an internet search on your behalf and are pleased to advise you that your best option for your studies is the London Institute of Cultural Investigation. They have an Egyptian department.

  Yours,

  Giuseppe Basini

  Well at least I had received some responses; it was just a question of time before I was made a suitable offer. I was not sure what I was going to do about accessing my online correspondence once my office was closed to me; perhaps my new abode in Henrietta Street would have Wi-Fi access?

  I made my way to the job centre for my appointment with “Jon”. It was located in a building that was just as ghastly as the Housing Office, however they had attempted to hide this by creating a facade of smoked glass and sliding doors. It seems the budget for this make over only extended to the ground floor though. Perhaps now I was unemployed I was not expected to raise my eyes from the pavement?

  Bracing myself for more garish colours I crossed the road and entered the building. The inside was seemingly designed by an IKEA fan, it was a mixture of laminate flooring and chrome fittings. I approached the reception desk and spoke to a smartly dressed lady who gave me a
ticket and gestured for a security guard to escort me to meet Jon.

  Jon looked like he was about twelve years old, in fact he reminded me of some of the students I saw on Campus, big jumper, messy hair and a pair glasses with round frames to give him the ‘studious’ look.

  ‘Marc!’ he said whilst simultaneously gesturing for me to sit opposite him and giving me a beaming smile. ‘It’s great to see you. How are you?’

  Slightly taken aback by his over familiarity, I responded ‘Well, not great obviously. Yesterday I had a job but now I don’t,’ as I sat down

  ‘Yes, yes. Let’s see what we can sort out for you,’ he enthused. Directly behind him was a poster, most of which was obscured by his head and to one side by a partition. As a result all I could see was part of the banner across the top which effectively meant from where I was sitting Jon was underneath the word “Dick”.

  He started to ask me questions that I assumed came from the same crib sheet which Sharon had used the day before. Maybe the poster was not an optical illusion after all?

  I attempted to move my chair to get a better angle but found that bizarrely it was bolted to the floor. As I looked around I could see that in fact all the furniture was bolted down, quite how any one was expected to make it past the security guard with a chrome occasional table under their arm was beyond me.

  So not only was I now no longer able to undertake my job or live in my apartment, I was also not allowed to move the furniture to be more comfortable. This seemed to sum up my situation quite concisely I felt.

  ‘Listen Jon, I answered all of this yesterday for Sharon. I am sure that somewhere you must have access to her notes and then can focus on asking me more pertinent questions regarding my employment?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said in a faraway voice. ‘Sharon.’ There was a pause as he looked away into the middle distance. I found myself looking over my shoulder to check what had grabbed his attention but all I could see were some fire extinguishers. He then seemed to re-join the present, ‘How is Shazzer? Lovely girl.’