The Little Voice: A rebellious novel

by Joss Sheldon

  I think I must have had ‘Stockholm Syndrome’.

  So I stayed on at school and I went to university. Not because I wanted to, please understand. Not because I saw any benefit in it. I did it because authority figures expected me to do it. My parents and my teachers expected me to do it. My society expected me to do it. That’s what middle class white boys were supposed to do. And so I did it. I did it for them. It was selfless. It was subservient.

  I spent another five years in the school system that had stifled me so much already. I was rejected by my first choice university, so I went to one which I didn’t really like. And I attended most of my lectures.

  I was told; ‘This is the scientific truth - there’s no point questioning it’. ‘This theory holds true if we assume A, B and C’. And, ‘You can read about alternative points of view - but they won’t be on the exam’.

  I learned how to argue. They called it ‘Debate’. I learned how to worship. I learned how to become an eager worker and a passive consumer.

  But I didn’t learn anything practical, like how to purify water, build a home, start a fire, grow food, or survive without the help of corporations.

  I smiled. I pretended to be happy. I told myself that other people were worse off than I was. I mean, I had food and shelter, after all. Some people didn’t even have that. Who was I to complain?

  I made the best of a bad situation.

  I even got myself my first ever real girlfriend, Georgie; a feisty lass who had a sharp intellect and an even sharper tongue. She wore perfume which was moreish beyond belief, and clothes which had a casual sort of elegance. Her hair was luxurious and her skin felt like silk.

  I almost felt happy when I was with Georgie. I got butterflies in my stomach whenever I saw her. Sometimes she’d say things which really resonated. Things which gave me goose-pimples.

  We breathed in time when we slept.

  Yeah, Georgie was great. She made me feel like a real human-being. She really helped me through those ambivalent years. I thought she was ‘The One’.

  I made friends at university too. We stayed in touch after we’d graduated.

  And I actually did quite well. I guess it was down to my All or Nothing Personality. Even though I didn’t want to go to university, I did want to succeed whilst I was there. I was ‘All In’.

  But I don’t think my parents ever appreciated the sacrifices I’d made for them. My dad did give me some money, as a reward for doing well. That was nice. I appreciated the thought. But it was a reward for doing well. It wasn’t a ‘thank-you’ for going in the first place. My dad never said ‘thank-you’ for going to university. Never. Not even once.

  My mum was also pleased with me for getting good grades:

  “Oh Yew!” she cheered. “You’re such a good boy. I’m so proud of you, my angel. You’ve exceeded my expectations!”

  But she didn’t say ‘thank-you’ for going to university either.

  That hurt. It hurt so much. I felt like I’d been stabbed in my chest with a rusty dagger. Like someone had ripped my heart out and kicked it through an open window.

  I gave those people five years of my life! Five years!

  Well, that betrayal took its toll. It really stretched our relationship. We still saw each other every now and again. But there was no warmth. No love. Not much of anything at all.

  A massive chasm opened up between us.

  We just sort of drifted apart.

  FIFTEEN

  I was told at school that I should stay on in school. Funny that. My teachers said my life would be better if I got an education. They said it’d help me to get a good job.

  But it didn’t.

  I never got a good job, even though I applied for hundreds of graduate positions. I was never rewarded for my hard work.

  Of course, I put my university degree at the top of my CV. I made a big deal about my grades whenever I had an interview. But my interviewers never seemed that interested. They always stuck to the questions which had been pre-approved by management:

  ‘Where do you see yourself in five years?’

  ‘What would you say were your biggest strengths and weaknesses?’

  ‘What three items would you want if you were stuck on a desert island?’

  ‘If you could be any animal, which animal would you be?’

  ‘Why are manhole covers round?’

  I wasn’t any good at those interviews.

  They say that interviewers judge you within the first few seconds of making your acquaintance. If you make a good first impression, you stand a good chance of getting the job, regardless of how well you do in the interview itself. Regardless of your qualifications or work experience.

  Unfortunately, I’ve never been able to make good first impressions. I’m not attractive enough to wow people with my looks. I don’t have enough charm to weasel my way into their good books. And I look awkward when I try to mirror their body language.

  Yeah, you’re supposed to do that. Psychologists say it helps to build rapport. But that sort of thing has always made me feel uncomfortable. It’s always made me feel dishonest.

  So, after five years in further education, with an overdraft which was growing by the day, I was left with no choice but to take a job in a call centre. I became a charity fundraiser.

  Georgie, meanwhile, got a much better job. She left me and moved in with a more successful man. And I can’t say that I blame her; her life was going places and mine clearly wasn’t. But being dumped like that did leave me feeling low. My skin stretched taut. It made my skull feel like it was being crushed.

  I spent night after night crying into my pillow. As soon as I stopped crying, I began to feel angry. I punched my pillow, over and over again; ‘Bish! Bash! Bosh!’ And then I began to feel lonely. I hugged my pillow as if it was my partner.

  Yeah, my pillow took a hell of a beating during those weeks.

  I went on the rebound. I had a fling with the girl who sat next to me at work, Steph. She was nice; her eyes were like slices of kiwi and her mouth was like a segment of plum. But we didn’t have much in common. Our relationship was intensely physical, but Steph never gave me goose-pimples like Georgie did. My heart never missed a beat when I saw her. And, although I’m not proud of it, I did resent her for holding the same position as me, even though she hadn’t earned any formal qualifications.

  Anyway, I digress. I was talking about my job…

  It’d be wrong to say that my job was bad. It paid enough for me to get by, working conditions were safe, and I got along with my colleagues. But it’d also be wrong to say that my job was good. It didn’t pay well enough for me to buy a flat, the work was tedious, and the system creaked under the weight of a million bullshit rules.

  You had to sign in when you arrived. You were fined an hour’s wages if you wore odd socks. If there was a logo on your shirt, you had to cover it up with tape. If you were unshaven you were made to shave with a one-blade razor. If you wanted to eat a banana you had to cut it into slices, so it wouldn’t look like you were performing a sexual act. There was a strict ‘No sex in the conference room’ rule which everyone had to obey.

  You weren’t allowed to say the word ‘problem’, only the word ‘challenge’. We didn’t have ‘Bosses’, we had ‘Team Leaders’. Anyone who didn’t donate was called a ‘Future Donor’ or a ‘Yet To Give’. We couldn’t ‘Brainstorm’, because it sounded too dangerous. We had to have ‘Idea Showers’ instead. We were told to take a ‘holistic, cradle-to-grave’ approach to our work. We had to use abstract concepts like ‘Incentivisation’, ‘360 degree thinking’ and ‘Pre-preparation’.

  If you were in the middle of a call at the end of your shift you had to stay late to finish it, but you weren’t compensated for your time. You had to take breaks, whether you wanted to or not, but you didn’t get paid for them. The company changed your shifts whenever it liked.

  And then there was the work itself.

  I had to persuade the supporters of d
ifferent charities to donate money each month via Direct Debit. If they already gave by Direct Debit, I had to encourage them to increase the size of their donations.

  I loved the concept. I loved the idea of raising lots of money for good causes. I thought I’d be helping to make the world a better place; to end poverty, protect the environment, and advance the rights of abused minorities. Yeah, I genuinely believed that I’d be contributing to society.

  I do think I did make a difference. A small difference, but a difference nonetheless. I channelled my selfless urges in a productive way.

  But it would be false to say that everything was rosy.

  I sat at a set of desks which I shared with five other fundraisers. The waxy floor was illuminated by white light. The smell of pencil shavings wafted through the air.

  That prefabricated office reminded me of the school I attended as a child. But I didn’t consider that to be a bad thing. I didn’t feel the effects of my Nature Deficit Disorder like I had done at school. I actually felt at home in that office. That place felt familiar. I’d been in places like that for so long that they’d become the norm for me. It was almost as if my time at school had prepared me for that sort of environment.

  Well, I’d sit in that office every day, making call after call:

  “Hi,” I’d say. “This is Yew calling from Charity X. Is that Mrs Jones?”

  “Yes, who’s this?” Mrs Jones would normally reply. Mrs Jones tended to be a frail pensioner, with a broken voice and a kind but vulnerable heart.

  “It’s Yew from Charity X,” I’d repeat.

  “Ooo,” Mrs Jones would coo with an eager sort of trepidation. “Charity X! Oh yes, I like Charity X. They do a lot of good work with Issue Y.”

  “I’m glad you think that! Do you know what sort of things they do with Issue Y?”

  “I heard they do Thing A.”

  “Yeah, they sure do! And they also do Thing B, Thing C and Thing D! They’re out there every day, doing everything they can to tackle Issue Y. And do you know what?”

  “What?”

  “It’s working, Mrs Jones! I tell no lie; it’s making a real difference. You know, Charity X helped to reduce the effects of Issue Y by ten percent last year. It’s true! A full ten percent!”

  “Ooh. That’s nice.”

  “And they did it thanks to people like you, Mrs Jones. Without your support they’d be nothing.”

  “Well I don’t know about that. But I do what I can.”

  Mrs Jones tended to sound a little unsure by this point in the conversation. Her voice tended to shimmer with doubt. Her words tended to sound hollow.

  “Now, now,” I’d reassure. “Don’t put yourself down Mrs Jones. You make a real difference. A real difference! But, alas, it’s not quite enough.”

  “Not enough? Whatever do you mean?”

  “Well, our forecasts show that if we don’t act soon, Issue Y could grow by a hundred percent next year. It could double! And so that’s why we’re calling. We need your help, Mrs Jones. You can make the difference!”

  Mrs Jones would sound wary when she replied to that comment. Sometimes she stammered. Sometimes she sputtered:

  “That’s a terrible situation,” she would say. “But I honestly don’t see how I could help. I’m just a little old lady.”

  “Oh, but you can help Mrs Jones,” I’d reassure. “You really can! You see, Charity X needs to re-double their efforts to tackle the real and present dangers posed by Issue Y. But first, it needs to double its ‘Battle Fund’. And that’s why we’re calling you; to ask if you’d be kind enough to double your monthly donation. It’ll help Charity X to double their work!”

  “I don’t know about that,” Mrs Jones would reply. Her voice would crackle. It’d break. It’d go coarse.

  “I’m a pensioner you see. I don’t have any spare money. And I do donate to Charity X already.”

  “You do Mrs Jones. And it’s really appreciated. Your donations are making a real difference. They’re really helping us to tackle the problems caused by Issue Y. But, unfortunately, it’s not quite enough. If we’re going to beat Issue Y, once and for all, then we’re going to need you to participate a little more.”

  “‘Participate’ a little more?”

  “Donate a little more.”

  “I don’t have a little more.”

  “Oh, but Mrs Jones, you do! You really do! You just need to save a bit here and scrimp a bit there. Turn off your heating to save money on your electricity bill. Take a shower instead of a bath to reduce your water bill. Dig for victory! Scrimp and save! Then you’ll be able to double your donation. Just like that! Easy peasy, lemon squeazy! You’ll be able to help us to really tackle Issue Y.”

  “I’m not sure I could make those savings. I don’t take baths.”

  “You can do it, Mrs Jones. You can do it! I believe in you.”

  “Aww, you’re such a sweet young man.”

  “Thank-you Mrs Jones.”

  “But I can’t afford to double my donation.”

  By this point in the conversation, Mrs Jones would normally sound more secure. More cocksure. She’d have rediscovered the courage of her convictions. Her confidence.

  I was good at taking advantage of that confidence. I’d concede to it. I’d let Mrs Jones feel that she had beaten me down:

  “I know, I know,” I’d say. “Times are tough and you’re already doing a lot. I understand. So how about we do things on your terms? Mrs Jones, do you think you’d be able to increase your monthly donation by just twenty percent? Do you think you’d be able to afford that?”

  “Well, yes, I suppose I could afford that. That does sound more reasonable.”

  “Well then, I’ll just set that up for you now!”

  I’d hang up, tick a few boxes and call someone else.

  God knows whatever happened to all the Mr and Mrs Joneses we called. We never did find out.

  SIXTEEN

  I was good at my job. I wasn’t the best fundraiser, but I was far from the worst. I usually found myself in the top five of the leader-board which ranked us according to the ‘sales’ we’d made.

  That made me feel proud. It made me feel warm and cosy.

  I needed to be good. Fundraisers who didn’t meet their targets weren’t ‘offered any more work’. They weren’t sacked, as such, they just stopped being employed.

  But I’m not sure that my success ever made me happy. It’s not that it made me unhappy, please understand. It’s just that I didn’t really feel anything at all. I suppose you could say I was apathetic.

  Gone were the highs. Beethoven never provided a soundtrack for my soul. My heart never surged and my adrenaline never pumped.

  And gone were the lows; the punishments; the dread, pain and fear.

  I think it was the egot’s absence which bred that apathy.

  You may have noticed that I haven’t mentioned the egot during the last few pages. And that may seem strange to you. The first half of my story totally revolved around that character, and now it’s completely disappeared. I’ve barely mentioned it. Perhaps that seems odd. Peculiar. Inconsistent. Perhaps it’s left you feeling a little unfulfilled.

  But the truth is that the egot didn’t play a role in my adult life. I barely thought of it. I pretty much forgot that it had ever existed. I never heard its little voice. And that’s why the egot is absent in these chapters.

  Well, when the egot died it took my dissidence with it. My free-spirit. It took my ability to break free from my shackles. My ability to feel like I was on top of the world. And it also took the crushing pain I felt whenever I was reprimanded and punished. The anxiety and distress. It took the highs and the lows.

  I was left with an extreme sort of neutrality. A sort of neutrality which sucked every ounce of life from my being. But a sort of neutrality which, at the same time, also pretended to be my friend. I was grateful for it. I was grateful for being able to get by, steadily, without ever experiencing any emotional extremes su
ch as elation or euphoria, despair or fear.

  That neutrality bred a certain sort of numbness within me.

  Days merged into weeks and weeks merged into years. The present ate the past and then excreted the future. I literally killed time; lining up coloured sweets on my phone, reading trashy stories, and completing the daily Sudoku. Putting a ‘nine’ in this box and a ‘two’ in that one.

  Every day was the same.

  I spent an hour getting ready for work, an hour travelling to work, nine hours at work, and an hour travelling home. By the time I got back, I’d be so tired that I’d just eat my dinner, watch some dumbed-down television and browse the internet. I’d fall asleep. Then I’d wake up and repeat the whole process again the next day.

  Living that way helped me to fit in. Everyone in our office seemed to have similar lifestyles. We all walked around like zombies; with emptiness in our eyes and lethargy in our motions. We all seemed to conform.

  This sort of conformity is actually pretty normal. There was a psychologist called Solomon Asch who studied it.

  Asch performed an experiment in which a volunteer sat around a table with seven other people. The volunteer believed that those people were also volunteers, but they were actually actors. Psychologists are sneaky like that.

  Well, the eight participants were given two cards at a time. The first card had one straight line printed on it. The other card featured three lines of different lengths; marked ‘A’, ‘B’ and ‘C’.

  The participants were then asked which one of those three lines was the same length as the line on the first card. The answer was always obvious. So, in the trials where everyone gave their honest opinion, they pretty much always gave the correct answer.

  But then the actors started to give incorrect answers. On some occasions, they all gave the same incorrect answer.

  The volunteer, who only spoke after all the actors had responded, was faced with a choice; to give the correct answer or the popular answer.