Challenge Write a short story over 2019, serialised into concise, weekly instalments, where each episode must contain the previous seven Words of the Day from Dictionary.com.
Copyright © 2019 Christopher Harrison
Licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 4.0 International
I slurped at my tea during elevenses in the bleak room. Someone had changed the R to an L one day; it gave us cause to smile, until we realised there was one fewer mug.
"There will be no more biscuits!" we were told.
These neoteric times of austerity and healthy-eating meant one had to noodle their own solution. I brought my own biscuits from home. I dunked one in my tea, perhaps to auspicate in my mind's eye for a better tomorrow. Maybe I'd get fired. Maybe the government would collapse. Maybe I'd get chocolate digestives, next time. At least they gave us milk; a douceur of a concession to keep us compliant. It was a palladium to them, of course, what with the rumours of unrest percolating from the quarters that didn't even get hot water.
The topic of idle conversation inevitably depreciated to Mismatch Island, the latest hit reality show to expose the labyrinthine spectrum of human misery. Like an iceblink signalling unsafe passage to a ship's captain, it had become an allegory on society for the ruling classes; a tie-breaker to their question, "Should we just terraform Mars and leave them to it?"
"Did anyone see Misfit Island, last night?" asked Danny, with a pawky grin.
Nobody liked Danny, but he wasn't wrong. In this latest episode, having caromed from an earlier defeat in the pickled egg eating contest, Jez, the leader of the opposition, ultimately lost the people's vote. Each departure cues the impresario's welcome to the next islander: an ex-suicide bomber who, for legal reasons, we'll call Jack from Essex (they're all called Jack from Essex). Salvific, he joined bouncy castle attendant Sandra, from Bradford. Hashtag explosive!
"Oi oi!" came the phatic pronouncement, as Jack from Essex strode onto set.
This, of late, had become a trigger for me. I swear to God, if I hear it on the street, I can only ratiocinate that I'll punch its speaker squarely in the face before breaking down into uncontrollable tears. I digress. After the perfunctory introductions were done with, this pair of gadabouts upped the ante of conversation to the dizzying heights of what could be generously described as their careers.
"So what do you, like, do?" asked Jack from Essex.
"I own my own business," came Sandra's altiloquent response.
"Oh wow, that's sick, babe! Doing what?"
"Events and entertainment management, mostly." Sandra's delusion was palpable. "I've had some really high-end clients: celebrities; freegans; Illuminati. You name it!"
"Nice! So you must make a mint?"
Sandra quickly changed the subject, "So what about you?"
"Well, I'm kind of between jobs, at the minute. I quit my last one."
"Why's that?"
"I didn't like the commute."
As was the nature of the show, it would just be a matter of time before our hapless heroes were meshed together, legs -- and everything in-between -- akimbo, for all to gawk at. It wouldn't last, of course, but who needs love when you've got ratings?
"I'll tell you what, though: Sandra is proper fit!", Danny interrupted my soliloquy. Did I mention he's a prick?
"Please proceed to Meeting Room B," echoed a dismembered voice over the public address system; that same chilling voice with which they overdub blacked-out sex offenders on the nightly news. My soggy excuse for a biscuit dropped hopelessly into the gritty remains of my tea.
An all hands meeting could only mean one thing: some buzzwig from upstairs was going to give us a pep talk; a futile attempt to adrenalise the masses to their particular creed of corporate morality and, "Oh, by the way, we're going to milk you for everything you've got."
Heidi, the presumed-illegitimate daughter to the oillionaire family which owned the company, sashayed in to the meeting room with that look of vague contempt, masked by her fake smile and fake, well, fake everything, which comes so naturally to our masters.
"Hello, people!" she beamed.
We weren't people to her, of course, just an inconvenience. Still, she was a tiresome abstraction to us too -- like free market capitalism, or Thursdays -- so it was at least a balanced relationship. Her salutation was met with an enthusiasm that only the sweet release of death could surpass.
"Well, you all seem bright and cheerful!" I couldn't tell if she was being sarcastic. "Let's warm up this meeting with a little exercise. Whenever we speak, we must speak in lipogram."
"What the Hell is that?" the new guy interrupted. The more experienced amongst us looked sheepish and swallowed our tongues. He wouldn't be here for much longer; we didn't even know his name. Poor bastard.
"A lipogram?" Heidi regained her posture. "Well, it's when you have to avoid using a specific letter when you talk. It's fun! The idea is that it forces you to be more deliberate about what you're trying to communicate."
We all looked nervous. Was this a test? Heidi's gaze turned to me. I didn't care any more; it was time for some civil disobedience.
"Let's start with you and," she paused to think, "the letter S."
I felt as though I was in a fucked up episode of Sesame Street.
"So, as I see it, something--" I was cut short.
"Remember!" Heidi had become visibly shirty. "No letter S."
"Sorry! Should we start afresh?" I paused, with the best pensive face I could muster. "So, as I was saying, some--"
"Sshhh--" Heidi felt every eye in the room focused on her. "You know what? Forget it!"
Needless to say, any idiot could have prognosticated the consequences of my little stunt. I had plausible deniability on my side, but any perceived slight would have me answering to The Man; that inalienable synecdoche of the proletariat, whom count me proudly amongst their number. Sure enough, I was summoned to an ominously-termed consultation with HR the next morning.
My boss, Jamal, was invited to attend. I liked Jamal: he had bootstrapped his way up to his lofty position from a relatively humble background. We won't go into his origin story -- he isn't Spiderman or Jesus -- but my belaboured point is that he knows how to treat people respectfully. While we waited for the directorate to grace us with their presence, he engaged me in casual gibble-gabble to put me at ease.
"So, if you could be any Pokémon, which would you choose?"
"I want to say Slakoth, but maybe now wouldn't be the best time to mention that."
Jamal chuckled, "Nice one! I'd go for--"
Our ephemeral banter was interrupted by the arrival of HR, in all its pomp and self-importance. It was almost pantomimic, as this orangutan of a woman shifted her great heft into the meeting room, flanked by her murine lieutenants, scurrying desperately about her in a not-unprecedented attempt to avoid getting sat on.
"The book."
One of her minions deferentially heaved an enormous binder on to the table in front of her. It seemed to billow with dust as what I could only assume to be a thousand years of company policy, scrawled across a plexus of loose leaves and paper-clipped notes, came thumping down. This was HR's codex: document after document; countless amendments; revocations; revocations to revocations. The works. I'm only surprised it wasn't inscribed on to vellum scrolls, illuminated with the blood of peasants. Of course, she knew it all, in excruciating detail, but it would be against policy to not consult the book.
The hygge invoked earlier by Jamal began to wear off; we were in their world now and, while he had my back, there wasn't much he could do but nod thoughtfully. I had made my bed and it was time to grin and bear it. My mind -- when it wasn't mixing metaphors -- sought an out, but I didn't know the book and only that contained the answers. The sirenic din of the fire alarm, maybe? That would only delay, even with genuine fire. What event, what circumstance could bring this to an end?
"Thank you both for attending to discuss the events of yesterday," began the orangutan. She looked me straight in the eye, "In your own words, could you please describe what happened?"
Clearly, to them, I was inculpated with some heinous misdemeanor. Don't get me wrong, I knew what I was doing with my particular brand of low-key subversion, but the piercing stare of their prosecution did not seem proportional to what I saw as a harmless prank. I faltered under their disdain.
"I, erm... I--"
"Allegations have been brought before us -- and corroborated by several witnesses -- that, at approximately 11:35am yesterday, you had the temerity to verbally undermine and harass your superior, Ms. Heinsacker, in Meeting Room B."
My mind raced. How were my actions glorified into harassment? Who were these, presumably coerced, witnesses? What kind of name is Heidi Heinsacker? Alas, I was aghast and had no prebuttal to their line of enquiry. Jamal looked reassuringly towards me, while the HR stenographer scrawled down notes. The scratching of his pen jarred at my nerves; louder and louder. I was starting to panic.
"Err..."
"These are very serious allegations, which we must investigate fully. Your very reticence is in and of itself telling." Her hoggery for blood was alarming. "So I'll ask you again: Could you please describe the events of yesterday?"
I couldn't find a way out. The rigmarole and intensity had become too much to bear. I could no longer calculate coherent solutions. I don't know what happened: My mind crashed and I shutdown.
"Potatoes are not fruit. They are insects."
The scratching of the pen stopped. The room became deathly silent as the mischief of henchmen nervously looked up towards their leader for direction. She remained unfazed, perhaps with the very slightest hint of a furrowed brow, and began patiently flicking through the pages of the book.
"When I was a kid, I thought unbridled success was a synonym for bachelor," I continued unawares.
Jamal mustered genuine concern through the confusion and extended his hand towards me, "Are you OK, mate?"
His roborant gesture flipped something in my head. Was the recognition of a friendly face -- his simple act of kindness -- enough to take the edge off? It seemed so, as I began to feel calm and the clarity of dullsville returned. For all HR's faults, I was relieved that their policy called for his presence. This was probably not their intended purpose, of outsourcing discipline -- I'm quite sure it will spawn yet another amendment -- but he made me feel safe.
Meanwhile, the orangutan's leafing through the book had become increasingly agitated. I had my way out. If I can't think of a rule that will exonerate me, then I simply do something for which there is no guidance. The book is no help when the illusion of professionalism or the very fabric of the social contract itself breaks down.
"Try not to step on the hands of snakes; their laundry can't feed itself!"
HR's fearless leader had landed upon something that her look implied would break the impasse. Her syntastry of arcane policy would surely divine something eventually, so I had to up my game while the milieu of bewilderment was on my side.
"I'm bringin' sexy back!" I blurted out, half in song.
That attractancy did the trick and, in the distraction, I caught Jamal's worried eye for just a second and gave him an innocuous wink. His expression changed from perplexity to something I couldn't quite put my finger on. Nonetheless, I feel that he understood that there was no longer any cause for concern.
What other marvy nonsense could I come up with? The mad things one says when half asleep? Before I could think, everyone jumped as the book was slammed shut.
"It's clear to us that you have lost control of your wits, possibly due to work-related stress."
That was an interesting conclusion.
"At your line manager's discretion," she turned towards Jamal. "I recommend he be put on long-term sick immediately, and to follow up with a medical professional within no more than the next five working days."
"I agree," Jamal said, almost angrily.
I liked the sound of that. Perhaps I could escape the winter and become a snowbird for a few months. Soaking up the sunshine amongst the amphiscians in my enforced and sanctioned convalescence.
"On the matter at hand," she continued. "This will be decided upon based on your aforementioned medical assessment."
I wasn't out of the woods yet, it would seem. Plus I would have to keep up the charade for at least as long as this meeting endured.
"Do you understand?"
"Sausages."
HR rose in unison and filed out of the room with the stoicism of a machine. The very unit of onomastic indifference: their judgement delivered; their work done; all carefully minuted for posterity. When out of earshot, I sighed in relief.