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Member
Join Date: Mar 2007
Location: London
Gender: Female
Posts: 15
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Sarcasm is the only form of wit
Hey guys, this is my first proper attempt at writing in first person mode rather than from a narrators pov. I'd really like it if someone would take a read and tell me if it sounds ok? And by ok I mean if it flows together well and to make sure I'm not jumping out of point of view?
Working title! Thanks in advance.
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“Stand there, no just a little further back please. Look straight in to the camera. Don’t smile”.
Trust me love, I’m not smiling. I hate my photo being taken.
“There we go. All done.”
I hear a whirring noise coming from behind the desk. A few moments later the woman hands me a visitors pass. I glance down to take a look. Great. My face has a Jaffa Cake quality to it; slightly orange and puffy. It doesn’t matter what type of camera is used, if there is a professional photographer taking the picture or a chirpy looking receptionist, they all come out the same way; bad.
“Thanks.” For nothing I think. I attach the visitors pass to my jacket and hope to god that I can take it off soon; no one should see this photo. Self-consciously I run a hand over my hair making sure it doesn’t look as bad as it does in the photo. It feels ok, but one can never be too sure. I spy a reflective looking object over on the opposite wall; it’s not a mirror but it will have to do. The mirror type object turns out to be a picture of that phallic looking building in the city, what was the name of it again? Cucumber… pickle? I can’t remember. But I didn’t come here to look at a rude shaped building; I came to do my hair. I stare at the glass covering the picture; my hair doesn’t look that bad really. My brown eyes look black in the reflection and I lean forward to take a better look. I stick my head out so that it elongates my neck (thanks for the tip mum) and it’s then I notice that in this position I have a huge phallus sticking out the top of my head.
“Jessica Ellis?”
I turn around and come face to face with a suit. A blue suit. Nice. Does sarcasm work on oneself?
“Yes?” I reply. This must be him.
“I’m James. Thanks for waiting. Would you like to follow me?”
“Ok.” I walk behind him; the corridor isn’t wide enough for walking side by side. I wonder if he can feel my eyes burning in to the back of his head?
“I hope you had a good journey?” He asked without glancing back.
“Fine, thank you.” Actually, it was crap. Crammed on to the tube at early morning rush hour isn’t my idea of a good, or even an ok journey. Armpits may cushion the blow when the train suddenly stops but they don’t smell very nice. I wonder if he can feel my eyes burning in to the back of his arse? He turns around and smiles. Maybe he can.
“Here we are. Please, come in and take a seat.”
I enter the room and take the notice of the fact there is only one chair.
“Your lap or mine?” The words are out of my mouth before I have a chance to think about what I'd just said. Did I say that too casually? Too late to care now. Mr Suit stares at me for a second and turns red, that sun burnt in Malaga sort of red; but he doesn’t say anything. He turns around and heads back out of the room disappearing for a few moments. Perhaps I should leave the questions up to the interviewer next time? Mr Suit re-enters with a chair just as I finish that thought. Damn.
“Please take a seat,” he says whilst gesturing to the newly established chair.
“Thanks.” What else could I say? ‘Sorry for making a sexual innuendo during my interview; please don’t hold this against me getting the job, but if you do, please hold me against you?’ No I couldn’t say that. Not yet.
Forty minutes or so later I was bent over the chair that started it all. Mr Suit was now Mr Trousers-round-his-ankles. Ok so that didn’t really happen anywhere but inside my head but it made a nice distraction. The interview was turning out to be quite a bore; these things have to be scripted. I swear there must be a little union for interviewers where they all fight for the right to ask the same set of questions over and over.
“What do you think as a person you can bring to this job?”
As a person? What else would I be? Do I really have to answer this? Ok if you insist. I can bring ample boobage and can guarantee I’ll kill any office plant within a half-mile radius; even if it’s doesn’t require watering. “I think I can bring many positive qualities to this job.” Did I really just say positive? Eugh.
“Positive? Such as?”
Umm. Boobage! Think, think. Awkward silence in one’s own mind… lala… got it. “I find that if you walk in the office with a positive mindset, there is nothing you can’t achieve. I like to motivate others around me, I like to keep focused. I can bring structure to the role.” I once read that on a motivational calendar, the month was January. How depressing is that?
“What are your weaknesses?”
Chocolate. A quickie on a Sunday morning. Mashed potato. Books. “I hate to see potential go to waste; I always try to bring out the best in people, I can’t help it.” What a suck up. The most I’ve ever brought out in a person is a hard on. That counts right?
“Where do you see yourself in five years time?”
Blank. Nothing. Empty. Zilch. Nata. Brain.must.work. “Umm.” Oh, that was great. “I see myself in a job I enjoy whilst keeping work and home life balanced.” For a moment, I almost believed it myself Ha! I sit here wondering if I was in Mr Suit’s shoes (that sounds funny), would I employ me? How do other people see me? Perception is such a selfish ideal, so one minded; yet ultimately we’re only defined by the people that perceive us.
“Do you have any questions Jessica?”
I answer almost straight away. “How did I do?” And then wished I didn’t.
“Er. I don’t believe I’ve ever been asked that before.” Mr Suit shuffles around some papers and clears his throat before speaking again. “You did good.”
Good? I did good? Really? I’m surprised he didn’t add ‘kid’ on the end of that statement and then pat me on the head like a dog that just learnt the art of sitting when commanded. It’s not even grammatically correct for fucks sake. ‘Gee thanks Mister’, I imagined myself saying, ‘It’s awfully nice of you to give a girl like me a chance.’
But I don’t say that. I just nod and thank him for his time. The last five minutes of the interview is spent with Mr Suit telling me what I should expect to happen in the next few days. At first I thought he was trying to predict my life (I usually rely on the horoscope section in the Metro for this sort of information); then I realised he was talking about what to expect regarding the job interview. And there I was thinking he suddenly went all Mystic Meg on me.
I stand up out of the chair, give a little internal stretch and head towards to the door. Just before I go through the opening, Mr Suit calls out. I turn to look.
“In answer to your first question, I’d say mine.”
And that was that. I smile quizzically and then close the door behind myself as I enter the hallway. I manage to take about three steps before remembering my first question. ‘Your lap or mine?’ Shame colours my cheeks.
I don’t waste any time in leaving the office or the humiliating interview behind me. I step outside onto the cold, mean streets of London town. Actually, it’s not that cold today and technically it’s not that mean either; I just witnessed someone picking up a bag that a woman dropped. Shock horror. At least I think they were being nice, otherwise that woman might want to run after that man… who still has her bag…
I reach into my bag and root around for my phone; no one wears watches these days do they? I notice that there are two text messages waiting for me to read. I ignore them. The quicker I put my phone away the better chance I have of leaving this area without being mugged. It’s still before noon and I don’t actually have anything planned until around two. This leaves me in an interesting predicament. Do I make a surprise visit to Jeff’s place, or do I have a sneaky early lunch? Or! I could bring some food over to Jeff’s and...
“Big Issue love?” A slightly dishevelled looking man cuts through my thoughts and asks me probably what he’s asked about another hundred or so people this morning. And by the amount of magazines he’s carrying, I’m guessing not many were interested.
“What, um, no thanks.” Damn people trying to sell me stuff. I’m not buying what you’re selling. And for a quid, I could buy a book, a decent-ish book. I give a small smile and intend to pass him by, but it seems he’s been rejected one too many times today.
“The woman with issues doesn't want a Big Issue? I wouldn't want you to trouble yourself by helping someone out anyway.” He smirks at me as if he knows a secret that I don’t.
“And just what is that supposed to mean?” I retort. I stand a bit closer to him to make my point. He’s grinning now and I notice his smile is slightly crooked; it could almost be endearing if he didn't look so smug. I mean he’s the one selling magazines on the street corner and he says that I'm the one with issues?
His arm reaches out and I take a step back but I’m not quick enough. He pulls up my ID badge that is still attached to the front of my jacket and takes a closer look. Oh shit. I’ve forgotten to give it back to reception and I’ve been walking around wearing this thing…
He nods towards my ID badge and then laughs. “Like I said, it looks like you’ve got some issues already.”
How dare he. How very dare he. “You sir are very rude.” I rip off my ID badge and thrust it at him. “Here, you can keep this.” I gesture to the badge he’s now holding in his hand. “And when you take a look at it, remember that I’ll never be as ugly as you are on the inside.” If this were a movie I’d get a round of applause, but it’s not. So I turn around, stumble only for the briefest of seconds on my high heels, and walk away. Just like that.
I make it to as far as around the corner and then I feel the first tear begin to fall. I wipe it away but it’s no good, more follow. I start walking again so not to draw attention to myself. The last thing I want is for someone to ask me what’s wrong. I use the back of my hand to wipe away my tears, my little salt trails of shame. I look up. I’m outside the tube station; there’s a busker just inside and I can just about pick up the sound of an acoustic guitar amongst the bustle of London’s commuters. I head into the station and swipe my Oyster Card against one of the readers; the beep noise it emits becomes lost as I inch ever closer to the man with the guitar. He’s playing a bit fast but I don’t mind. I just stand there watching him. People push past me and some even tut as I make no gesture to move. The music fills my ears and then the man begins to sing. His voice is warm; soulful with a slight gravely edge to it and it makes me smile. He notices me watching him and smiles but carries on singing and strumming, this man was born to play.
“'Cause you had a bad day, you're taking one down
You sing a sad song just to turn it around
You say you don't know, you tell me don't lie
You work on a smile and you go for a ride…”
Before I realise it, I’m standing there singing along to the words. I close my eyes as if I’m on X-Factor and this is my one chance to shine. Only I’m not on X-Factor, I’m at a tube station and my singing has become even louder and probably more out of tune. I don’t care how I sound, I don’t care if people are staring, all that matters to me is that right now, I feel good. The Music Man stops singing but continues to strum; he gives me a broad smile and for that one moment, I don’t feel quite so foolish.
“You had a bad day, the camera don't lie…”
Too right it don’t lie I think to myself. A tear escapes but I let it fall. I feel release in singing and the tear that now leaves a trail down my face is no longer from shame or fear, instead from complete and utter freedom. People say to cry is to feel weak but it can’t be. Because it takes so much for the tears to fall.
“You had a bad day…”
Yes I definitely had one of those. The song comes to an end and I slowly open my eyes. I can’t believe what I’ve just done. The Music Man lets his guitar swing from his hands; the strap it’s attached to keeps it from crashing to the floor and he gives me a round of applause. But really, it should be me giving him applause. So I do. I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out some coins. I pick out a pound and drop it into his guitar case. I'd happily pay another pound for this feeling again; it beats buying a magazine from that stupid man. I let the rest of the coins drop into his case and when I’m done, I give the Music Man my biggest smile and say, “Thanks for giving me a bad day.”
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