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{shark} rowan martin Tom was an automaton. At exactly four minutes to the hour he licked the last envelope containing the last piece of mail to be sent to the last customer of the day. At the same time, an ambidextrous chimp, he shut down his computer, tidied his desk, stacked his mail, scooped up his coat and put his chair under the desk and then there was no sign Tom had ever been there. His mail was tucked beneath his left elbow and he checked the bottom of his bag for dust. I leaned forward confidentially so my face was near the little cubicle barrier between the monitors. I stared, intently, at the bridge of his nose, at the geometry between his eyebrows. I spoke thus: “Every morning, at around half past seven, I shave my baby.” He stood, stared, as if expecting confirmation. I nodded my head. “Mmmm-hmmm.” We remained so for some time. Then the chimp whirred back to life. The shoulder strap on his bag was adjusted, the mail swapped from left elbow to right, and while doing so he gracefully left the office at exactly six. He entered the elevator, he entered the foyer, and then he entered the streets, where it rained, heavily. It took me rather longer to finish; I went back to pecking at keys. I, unchimplike, dropped my mail and knocked over my chair and had to shut down my computer two times more than anyone else, but when I made good my escape, the rain had finished. Morning – I could hear screeching. As I swept through the glass doors a mini-tube of Smarties hit me on the right breast. Theresa was crawling on the floor, sobbing. Carina stood on her chair, throwing tiny packets of sweets at colleagues, at cleaning ladies, at passers-by on the street, at valuable breakables. Terry and Emma were screaming – coffee had been knocked over and spilled onto keyboards, mail, clothing and were calling Carina nasty names, including Bitch, Idiot, Drunken Hoor, and Cunt. The team leader stomped up to me and demanded I pick the Gummi Bears out of her recently permed and heavily gelled hair. I did so, eating the least contaminated as I went. “Smell this!” I sniffed her hand. “Mmmmm,” I said. “Asda!” She cackled. “Fucking Asda! Tenner a bottle!” “Oooooh,” I said. “Has anyone seen my glasses?” Theresa spoke weakly from the floor. “Fuck no,” said the team leader. Tom sat with his back to us but he did join later in when we sang 'Happy Birthday' just before lunch. His name was on the card, but he left no witty message, and chose not to write his name on the back of the 12” x 16” photograph of the massive pierced cock somebody managed to find somewhere, even though all the other boys did. He even kissed Carina on the cheek, just above the jawline, quite close to her ear. It was a dry kiss and not at all wet. Tom and I were eating cake. Icing stuck to the corners of his mouth and I am certain that I had crumbs and perhaps jam on my chin. We had a plastic cup of champagne each. Our colleagues had gone to Antipasti to take advantage of the 'Two Courses for ₤6.95' offer, and to take advantage of the cheap house red, and also maybe to take advantage of each other. Tom used his napkin like a girl and he did not scrunch it up afterwards but rather folded it into a rectangle before placing it neatly in his wastebasket, which had no waste in it. I had him on the floor of the mailroom, beneath a “HAPPY BI THDAY” banner. When he stood up afterwards the 'R' was stuck to the back of one of his thighs, which were curiously hairless. Later, when we resumed our stations, he asked me, “Is it true, what you said about shaving your baby?” “My son is fifteen. Any shaving he does, he does it himself.” Tom looked briefly unhappy. Then, his face flattened and lost its shape and form and colour like recently sifted flour, and he looked exactly like anyone else. I kept that 'R' and I used thumb tacks to attach it to the wall behind my chair. I could see it clearly if I turned slightly; Tom could see it clearly anytime at all. |
