This is a third person narrative response to one of the activities on the Creative Writing course that I’m studying at the OU: a portrayal of a person who is starting a new job… WARNING, it is a tad surreal (like Pulp Fiction, but on a much, much, much smaller budget).
6.6 Part2- someone starting a new job:
The initial few ‘thank you, but no thank you letters,’ made her chuckle, but she began to grow quite despondent after the seventh and wondered if she was ever going to get a position. After twelve refusals and copious interviews and presentations, Lucy White, the attractive, blond-haired, 6 foot, twenty three year old couldn’t believe her luck as she scoffed at the old wives’ tale about it being unlucky number thirteen. Finally, she had landed herself a graduate post at a reputable postal company, as a trainee management accountant.
As she walked into the claustrophobic, white reception area that was akin to a hospital waiting area on this overcast, wet Monday morning, she was greeted by a roly-poly, matronly figure with a short black utilitarian haircut, and whose nametag said Mrs Lemon.
‘Hello, I’m Lucy White the new graduate trainee. I’ve come to see Mr Ian Jenkins,’ she said as she smiled.
‘Take a seat and I’ll see if Mr Jenkins is available,’ she said in a rather rude and abrupt manner.
As Lucy sat on a black visitor’s chair that was crafted from polypropylene, and appeared to be as uncomfortable to sit on as the saddle of a Tour De France bike, she reached for her new Apple iPhone6, and was about to respond to a message, when she became aware of a hierarchy photo on the wall immediately to her right, about five foot up from a large black flowerpot containing Black Magic Hollyhocks. She noticed that Mr Jenkins was immediately below a man with dark black curly hair that matched his dark Mediterranean features. Of the six people shown, it struck her that all of them were short men, between the ages of 40 and 50 with dark hair and a dark complexion. She made a mental note of this and continued to survey the scene, in silence, until a black sign with red writing that said ‘Use of mobile phones in this office is strictly prohibited by order on the management,’ grabbed her attention like a school-bully grabbing a victim. She fashioned mental note number two with this imperative, and was about to continue her perusal when the shuffling of feet and the strong smell of Old Spice caught her off guard.
‘Miss White, I’m Mr Jenkins, the Group Financial Controller of Receivables.’
‘Hello, pleased to meet you,’ she said as she stood up and held out her hand.
His vice-like grip brought a wince to her face, but she tried hard not to show it. Her salutation met on deaf ears, as he pivoted 180 degrees on his heels and headed towards a black security door, before swiping it with his key-fob. Lucy instinctively followed, not knowing if this was the correct etiquette, but seeing as he was holding the door open for her, she assumed that she must have guessed right. As they walked into the office, which consisted of about thirty people, she noted that that every single one of them was male, between the ages of 40 and 50 with dark hair and olive coloured skin. She followed Mr Jenkins to a bank of desks, where she was hastily shown a white desk with a black pc and keyboard.
‘Wait there for the IT man to arrive,’ he hastily uttered, before walking off as if in a rush to catch the last bus.
As she pondered her recent discoveries, she became aware of a portly 5ft 6” man with dark hair, aged between 40 and 50, and who shuffled his feet as he walked. He introduced himself as Mr Jenkins. An appearance of wonderment appeared on her face, as she added this coincidence to memory. Within twenty minutes he had set her up with the necessary passwords and provided her with a key-fob. Just as he was about to walk away, he turned around and told her in no uncertain terms that Internet use was strictly for business purposes; personal use, he added, would be dealt with as a disciplinary matter.
She had only just made mental note number five when yet another dark haired man, carrying a feather duster, approached: ‘I’m Mr Brown the sanitation officer. You’re very brave for coming here,’ he chuckled, before disappearing as rapidly as he appeared. As the cleaner’s words reverberated around her mind like a loud shout in a series of underground tunnels, she made up her mind: it wasn’t a case of not wanting to fit in! It was a case of physically not being able to fit in. After all, she wasn’t just the only female; she was also the only person with blond hair. ‘Hopefully, it’s lucky number fourteen,’ she shouted as she made her escape through the security door, before gently throwing the key-fob at Mrs Lemon. Later that day she reminisced about earlier events, before concluding that her current mood matched those of the rotund receptionist’s surname, somewhat bitter.