SIGNING ON:This week, the offer of a week's work plunges our unemployed columnist into feelings of guilt, loss and ultimately hope
‘COLLEAGUE’ CAN describe someone who never made it to the status of “friend”. Such an individual phones. Says he has set up on his own and is in the process of pitching for an account held, once, by their now defunct agency. Wonders if the unemployed man would act as interim creative director, help to prepare a new pitch? He has absorbed copious start-up costs, so, regrettably, is not in a position to pay. However, if “we” (patronising use of the plural) win, months of lucrative work will ensue.
The unemployed man considers his limited options. Calculates that the dole will allow him to keep €40 per day: tell you what, pay my out-of-pocket expenses, give me €200 on top, and I’ll come in for a week, okay? He’s already decided he’ll take his bike to save on petrol, parking. Bring sandwiches. And bill the tightwad for lunch.
Okay. Monday. Bright and early.
***
He parks a distance away. Packs his biker jacket and boots in the back-box. Extracts his carefully folded sports coat, light shoes. Then, for the first time in a year, insinuates himself into the rush hour. What used to feel like a chore, feels now like a privilege.
Even on €40 a day.
****
The staff is young, predominantly female, dangerously thin. He hazards a bet with himself they have purple yoga mats rolled up under desks, that few if any are married, and, if they are, none have kids. Stop being so judgmental.
He leads a session in the boardroom. Cracks a joke about the boss, what a bad dancer he was at the Christmas bash. One woman smiles, slightly. He explains that, when launched, the product had no discernible USP (unique selling point). The campaign worked because the then marketing manager had agreed to an irreverent approach. It had chimed with national mood. There might now be a case for a more conservative, value-led campaign, though continued levity might help separate the product from its overly-earnest competitors. Any thoughts?
No. They seem to resent his presence. “Okay. I want concepts by close of play tomorrow, preliminary scripts and rough art by close of play Wednesday. If I approve anything, demos and mock ups by close of play Thursday. . .”
He is being a d***; tellingly, they seem used to it. They exit, avoiding eye contact.
***
He remains on in the board-room. Dostoevsky says, “Man gets used to everything”. He disagrees: You never get used to hopes dying.
***
The first issue arises around what is meant by “close of play”. For them, it can be anything up to 8.30pm. By which time his kids are conked out, and he has been deprived of that life-affirming rush to the door .
The second arises when they present concepts – pedestrian, devoid of wit. Radio consists mostly of two housewives in a supermarket – “Oh, hello Mary, how are the children? Listen, have you tried this fantastic, value-for-money. . ?”
Jesus wept.
***
One woman invites him for coffee. The farther from the agency, the more relaxed she becomes. She apologises for the mood – one of their friends was let go just before he arrived, she was three months pregnant. They don’t know how the boss found out, someone ratted. It’s like that nowadays, cut-throat, petty. And, despite winning a hefty account, everyone’s taken a second pay cut.
Bar one person, he thinks.
A single mother. By the time she pays for full-time childcare it is barely worth her while. She shows him pictures of her smiling daughter. He looks at her anew, sees something of what she might look like. If she weren’t so fraught.
The dole, he realises, is not the only form of prison.
He feels guilty: hard to be creative when your stomach is in a knot, and you’re missing your kids, and friends, when you’re afraid to go out for lunch, to leave before your boss. Afraid to say “boo”.
***
He justifies the odd espresso, alone. The Italian guy behind the counter sees him lifting a receipt from the floor. Story? As the unemployed man explains, the Italian begins writing a series of €15 lunch receipts. Better make it €9.99, says the man. No, says the Italian, you have to think big.
They settle on €12.
****
The women juggle too many roles – secretarial, admin, account executive, creative. He doubts they’ll be able to deliver the goods by Friday so he prepares his own campaign. As insurance.
***
At 5.30pm on Friday, he knocks on the boss’s door. I’m finished up. The boss looks at his watch, what’s the damage? Fifty for parking, same for petrol, €60 for lunch, plus the €200 we agreed. He hands over his receipts, and experiences a familiar, sinking feeling: he sold himself too cheap.
He’ll never hear from this crowd again.
***
He returns to his desk, gives the scripts to the single mother. “If you-know-who likes these, we came up with them together. If not, blame me. . .”
***
His tells his wife about his final encounter, the lack of a simple “thank-you”. I’m tired of people taking advantage, she says. We need to come up with something of our own. There has to be €50,000 collateral left in the house. That’s enough to kick-start a business. . ?
He doesnt tell her the neighbours are emigrating, willing to sell at a significant loss. Doesnt tell her that as soon as they sold, their claim would be struck off. Say nothing, just hold her.
***
He hopes the single mother is getting home early enough to play with her daughter. Hopes, that after she puts the child to bed, she has someone, something, to cling to. (Even if it is an illusion).
The writer of this piece wishes to remain anonymous. His identity is known to the Editor