I once dreamed of being a big tycoon. With sharp shark-skin suit and a fat Mercedes to take me everywhere. The diamond in my tie would flash as I made awesome decisions. And I thought how great to have a country place for unwinding at weekends. Maybe along that part of the river they call the Gold coast. With bedrooms softly quilted and a private harbor for powerboats bringing friends. On summer nights we’d sit gratefully outside and summon drinks with a little bell across the fragrant lawns.
I tried so hard for success. Even managing to arrive each morning sprightly at nine in the gleaming shrine hewn from a cliff of aluminium and glass. Where with the other pilgrims I’d join in solemn meditation upon the fortunes of fizzy tablets and terrible ailments which the advertising men devised. For I was a smooth regulation man cultivating the firm handshake and the quiet senatorial smile. My demeanour was deployed with total discretion. And naturally I kept my memoranda cool using all the latest expressions from the business magazines. Evenings I would stay late knowing how important it is to work dramatic hours. High up in my little glass cage composing lofty reports in a smooth euphemistic prose.
Of course I knew all the time they were plotting to get rid of me. Grey flannel faces would button up tightly at my approach albeit delivering some specious words of praise. But I could see through these chameleonic ways. I was wary and nimble holding my fire until I could see the whites of their manicured smiles. My radar was tuned in at meetings and cocktail parties. And soon my pocketbook was full of innuendoes. But I thought what a laugh for them to try their little jungle games. As though I hadn’t heard of infra red cameras and transistorized martini olives.
So I came and went stealthily on corrugated rubber soles. With uppers in distinguished blue suede. I kept my prayer-wheel oiled and carefully tended my tobacco plant never knowing when I might need the camouflage. Each evening after work I retreated to my little apartment which looked out portentously on to the blind wall of a cigarette factory. With a crate of eggs, a catering-size can of beans and several yards of Polish sausage I enjoyed a fragile security. Always having the television warmed up to smother approaching angst. But most nights I would sit up with my fabulous collection of business magazines plotting a dizzy trajectory for my career. Having regretfully postponed the gentle distraction. A slender companion to share my lonely success. I dreamed of waking to tousled flaxen hair and the smell of fresh rashers. Instead so sad to slide uncherished into those grey mornings.
But work went well until that savage day. When I arrived in the office to find my telephone spirited away and my secretary dabbing her eyes saying she had been reassigned. I was moved to find such rare compassion in those slender fingers which had typed so many proud symphonies for me. Now pointing to the long envelope marked personal and confidential tucked into my lonely blotter. Asking me if would have the courtesy to step by this morning for a word on future policy.
There was no mistaking the iron fist behind that velvet idiom. And for a moment my stomach muscles stood to attention as the adrenalin flowed. But I soon bounced back off the ropes and years of jungle training went into my stance. The brisk handkerchief and a well chosen smile. Walking past serried rows of eyes that look up knowingly from behind the thudding typewriters. And along dark corridors where the sound of executions is muffled by rich carpets. A soft tap at the door and into the august presence. Coiling cigar smoke and the hiss of air-conditioning. On the wall I spied two modern masters no doubt of solid investment value. No philistine here. And behind the desk such a grave profile with just the right amount of silver grey at the temples and a hint of impending dewlaps. Turning to me with a smile as fragile as fine porcelain. Head exquisitely tilted to dispense regret. This reorganization Mr C. I know you’ll appreciate the necessity. I’ve enjoyed reading some of your reports but feel you’ve been getting a little stale of late. Perhaps you need a complete break. Really for your own sake it might be best if we said goodbye. Of course I shall be personally sorry to have you leave us Mr C.
I was grieved by these hard words but thought it prudent not to demur. Knowing how important it is on a hostile shore to ebb decorously. I thought of silver linings and the cool professionals I’d read about who do the rounds bidding remunerative farewells. I gathered myself to murmur thanks at joining such exclusive ranks. And I shot out an expectant cuff. But alas there was no gold in that cold handshake. And outside with a premonitory snap of winter in the air no fat Mercedes to take me anywhere.
1968 The Guardian