Blood-red numbers
This month is busy with the launch of two journals that my work will be published in, Untitled and Page 17. Also on the 22nd of November at 8:30pm, I will be performing my poetry on motherhood with Maxine Clarke, Vicki Thornton and Geoff Fox at Brunswick Hotel. Everyone is welcome.
The Untitled pocket book is co cute, it fits comfortably in a handbag and can be purchased at Readings or from the Untitled website. There are only about 10 writers in the book, and over one hundred submitted so I’m really happy to have been selected. Blood-red numbers is actually the first short story I ever wrote(apart from the short-stories I wrote in high school). Blood-red numbers, was inspired by my experiences of working in the corporate world. Here is an extract below(I’ve asterisked out some rude words!):
Who says you can’t have everything in this world? I want to have it out with that person, yell in his face, beat him down, obliterate him. Who says you can’t have that wad of cash and eat p***y too? I reckon you can get high on the scent of cash – on that smell of too many thumbprints sweating over that bank note. One day I won’t have to carry credit cards. I’ll have so much cash in my pocket you won’t know the difference between that and my hard c**k.
A mansion in Toorak sounds nice. A Ferrari – red, shiny, smooth. That, and to command the attention of a room just by walking in.
I like the title Head of Programming – I like it a lot.
I prefer CEO but patience must be exercised.
My reflection stares back at me: I’m young, attractive, important.
Attractive, young, corporate.
Swallow with entire face, force down the lump. There is swaying, unnoticeable to the eye but enough for mild nausea, the effects of over-confident mingling in the clouds, fifty floors up from the Earth’s surface.
Shake myself off, adjust tie and exit the men’s room, black shoes tapping and important against polished, timber floors.
In the room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Melbourne skyline, humans disguised as corporates dangle elegant glasses filled with expensive fluids. Trays float on the hands of tired waiters dressed in white, wearing rehearsed smiles. The room is buzzing at the reward of food. Smoothly integrate into a conversation with colleagues, chatter and smile, eat and chatter, but the food does not fill the hollowness as expected. Strange. A waiter presents a sausage-roll platter. I take one, dip, bite …what is that? It tastes like …blood? I gag, choke – they watch me with bewilderment. There’s no choice but to swallow. Smile at colleagues, all of them strict followers of the cult that is corporate. Strict.
I am them.
There’s Bob – Head of Programming. Mid-forties Bob is a big guy (width-wise), has no wife, no family and attends all work functions. He’s standing by the window looking out at almighty buildings shooting up into the endless orange sky. He is high on corporate finger-food. The lights in the buildings burn bright, melting the planet, employees working all weekend to meet that deadline. Employees like everyone in this room. Should talk to Bob, make sure he hasn’t forgotten about our meeting tomorrow. It is of importance in the corporate paradigm, where everything lost will be realised.
Clear my throat, swallow the blood and head over. Extend my hand, a firm handshake to emphasise my keenness in climbing the ladder in this billion-dollar bank. Schmoozing takes place, words of work, project deadlines and share prices, but soon the conversation dries up and we’re left nodding and swaying, eating and nodding.
Do you still see Tania?
And I have to blink at his words, loosen the strangling tie around my neck. Do I still see Tania? What the fuck, what the fuck, do I still see Tania? The urge to pick up a chair and smash it across Bob’s head compounds. I dig my fingernails into my palms. Why would I want to talk about my ex-wife at work, you dickhead? But this isn’t technically work, is it? This is a work function that employees are expected to attend in their own time. Ha! The mockery of own time, created by corporates as part of brainwashing of fresh students plucked ripe out of uni. Own time is theirs for the taking. An employee that believes otherwise and refuses to work more than their contracted hours will be punished with poor performance appraisals, promotions and pay-rises withheld for the worthy. And strict followers that relinquish rights to own time, they will frown.
You okay, mate? Bob scratches his head.
Then a sudden change, the lights in the buildings outside switch from white to red, numbers popping up all over them {12.31 87.95 55.34} and so on and then blood, streaming down the sides. Clench fists to stop myself from ramming Bob through the window, smashing the glass through the numbers, and watching him freefall fifty storeys down and splatter on the footpath of Bourke Street. Shake my head to erase the numbers. No luck.
Here, sit down, I’ll get you some water.
Sit on a chair. Bob disappears. Dig the nails deeper. Mate, drink this. He hands me water – gulp it down.
Tomorrow, mate, tomorrow I’ll get what was promised. Smashing you through the window would be a CLM (Career Limiting Move).
Take a deep breath, smile. I’m okay, thanks.
