Payday

Solomen Holmes

There’s nothing disappoints me more than payday. Staring at that excruciatingly low number long enough, so that I can maybe attain some sort of psychic powers to alter the figures. Just one digit, one single minute digit to help me attain something. Another month passes and my response stays the same. Just one digit. One minute figure would signify a whole paradigm change: I could get that new sofa; I could get my apartment renovated, new drapes, new trousers. The possibilities would be endless. But alas another month passes and there’s no luck in the psychic abilities department. Maybe I should consider asking for a raise. But of course I won’t, not even I could argue a point for myself which justifies such a cause. I earn a horrible wage, for a low paying job. I work horribly, so fair is fair. Another month passes and still no change. I’m slowly losing the will to live and swiftly turning to nihilism. I’ve been reading up a lot about psychics and ‘The Power of the Subconscious’.

Apparently, you can read a person inside out just from their hands. You can identify tiny details about their personality just from the look in their eyes. Some claim that they can speak to the dead; that they can discover who they were in a past life. But there’s nothing about digits; just one little digit. The months continue to go by with each day of the calendar year mocking me. Mocking me with the way that the digits rise every day. Then reminding me at the end of the month when the number reverts to zero that payday has arrived. I’ve still attained no progression. I continue to think about asking for a raise but whilst still being ordinary I can’t possibly follow through with that.

That fact echoes repeatedly around my head as another month passes me by.

Still no supernatural powers, and no bloody digits. Absolutely nothing of note to report, as per usual other than this ongoing hindrance that keeps itching at my sanity. So as I stand at the photocopier minding my own business (as I’m the only one who really cares to mind it) I notice Peter waltzing down the corridor like it’s everybody’s business (as it’s really quite hard not to).

“Steve, would you mind quickly copying these?” He holds out an ungodly amount of paperwork and I struggle to fend off a look of disgust.

-‘Sure’, I say monotonous.

He gives an assured one-sided grin, clicks with both fingers and points to me as if I’m The Man. 172

As he would say before twirling off in the opposite direction. He’s so cool and it makes me physically sick. But I suck it up and begin the tedious task of copying it all because I’m too polite to do otherwise. Staring glumly into the never ending abyss that is Pete’s sales reports.

Why do I help these god- awful people out? They wouldn’t do the same for me. I don’t know this for sure as they only talk to me when they want something. I’m too nervous to start a conversation; let alone ask for a favour. So I guess I’ll continue brainlessly scanning their documents for no personal gain. It’s atrocious really but I suck it up and accept reality. That reality seems to just consist of long days. In bland looking offices. Clearing up mess, for everyone else. Having only other people’s conversations as ‘entertainment’. That’s all my life is really; just being a spectator for others’ endeavours. Walking into rooms and saying nothing while I see others walk into rooms and say things. Occasionally stooping to do some photocopying, copying mundane pointless documents. Dear god, is this all there is to life? Is it just people walking into rooms and saying things? Forever. A huge emphasis on the mundane and a lesser emphasis on that which is interesting. If something’s interesting then it doesn’t happen a lot. If even at all. Is this what mankind has amounted to? I begin to have a spout of depression until a single conversation, makes reality seem a lot more like fiction.

“Excuse me?”

Wait, what? Dialogue? Actual human contact, I’m not conditioned to this, just carry on? What do normal people do in these situations? Wait, I swear that I’m normal.

“Sir? Are you still using the copier?”

Not just any human voice, a female voice! I look up to find a radiant smile beckoning me to make a response. Time seems to stop. In a split second I take in the entirety of her essence. The messy, ravenous hair-do that seems wholehearted, articulate, and planned. Spectacles dangling as rock climbers do from the crevices behind her ears. A turtle dove fabric smothering her upper half in unrivalled professionalism. A crow black skirt screaming for a visceral response.

“Urm, I. I. I’m urm… Nope.” I make my frantic debut of a reply. I just continue to stand there blankly, astonished by the fact; she’s communicating with me.

“So, would you mind stepping out of the way?’ she continues..

“Oh yeah sorry - I’m not particularly practised in the way of human communication,” I say as I grab my paper and begin to leave.

“Well, that sentence you used just then tells me otherwise, Mr…?’ she awaits a reply.

-“Johnson, but just call me Steve. And your name is?”

“Sally, Sally Robins, pleased to meet you.” She holds out her hand. She’s not even slightly alienated by my presence; she must be new here. But I shake her hand politely and give what I believe to be a smile. It’s quite difficult to tell nowadays; I barely even manage a frown. Just an incessant glare of emptiness. But no - I’m almost certain that this handshake induced a smile. Well, that’s new. With that simple act of friendliness, things are looking up.

“Sorry, but I’ve never seen you around here before. Are you new?”

“Lil’ old me? No, no, not at all. I’m one of the nameless fiends from the office below, y’know us outsider types.”

“Sounds like my cuppa tea to be honest,” I say confidently. Hang on, confidently? “Oh, a cuppa tea? Did you wanna?”

Woah, she’s a little forward. I’m not prepared for this; how do actual people react in these situations?

“But I don’t know you”

“Isn’t that what going for a cuppa tea is meant for - getting to know one another?”

“How do I know that you’re not some sort of psychopath?”

‘Well, do I look like a psychopath?”

“No… But they never do, do they?”

“Well, I suppose that’s a risk that you’re going to have to take. Exciting isn’t it?” she says, a confident smirk stretching across her face.

“Okay, yeah sure - tea sounds nice.” God, I feel like Casanova.

“Good, I’m glad.’ She smiles. “So, I’ll meet you in reception straight after work?”

“Yes, you will.’ And with that she struts away from the photocopier, her papers dangling carelessly from the grip of her red fingernails. Ahh red fingernails.