Beginning of a Novella

Any feedback appreciated.

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DOWN DOWN IN THE HOLE

1

I was living in the abandoned corpse of an old middle class house. Situated in a well to do little suburb with neighbours who’d report me to police if they knew I existed. The house had been infamous a few years before I found it. Something to do with a domestic dispute, a stabbing and some arson. What was left of it was a damp, broken, blackened shell. What had once been the tidy little garden had become a kind of suburban rainforest; replete with aggressive plant life and the chaos of untamed nature. I came and went through the bushes to the back. The place dripped, creaked and sagged while the insects and I lived there with our secret.

I’d lost count of the jobs at this stage. I could get them, but I couldn’t keep them. I’d take what was going, work for a few weeks, and then one day, I’d stop going in and start looking for the next. I was familiar with the entire spectrum of menial employment: pushbike courier, waiter, barman, factory worker, shelf stacker, newsagent assistant, etc. Disciplines of the desperate. The experience meant I was suitable for every minimum wage job on earth, but this didn’t exactly thrill me.

Between jobs I’d steal. Shoplifting in that neighbourhood was easy enough to become a hobby. Security wasn’t exactly an issue for them; the locals would sooner eat their children than break a law. There was no stealth or skill involved, I’d simply walk into a shop, take what I needed, and walk out. The staff could never bring themselves to believe that their store was visited by a real-life criminal. That kind of innocence just begs to be abused.

I knew nobody and nobody knew of me. I was a ghost in their quaint little community, and I kept out of sight as much as possible.

The problem was the cigarettes. The f ucking cigarettes. I smoked like a soldier on death row. One after the other, as if I was afraid that somebody was coming to steal every cigarette on earth, and I had to smoke them all before it happened. It kept me doing something; it made me more than nothing. If nothing else, I was a smoker; a definite smoker. But cigarettes cannot be stolen, they are kept in designated cigarette machines which are kept behind counters in every shop around. A smoker must have money to be a smoker, and this – and this alone – is what kept me looking for my next job.

Sick with a cold that wouldn’t shift and no cigarettes, I sat on the charcoal kitchen floor and browsed the job section. Everybody needed chefs, substitute school teachers, mechanical engineers. Only one week into the summer and the students had raped the menial market. I found it eventually, one little line nestled below architecture: NEW TELESALES BUSINESS LOOKING FOR AMBITIOUS YOUNG REPS, UNBELIEVABLE PROSPECTS. I made the call.


2

It was the type of sunny that punishes the weak. That bright, static heat that is perfect for a child and pointless for a worker. I drooped down the industrial estate, a ball of flesh and sweat dripping mucus in a creased linen suit. The place was a labyrinth of unmarked warehouses, the paths outside deserted and spotless. The interview was twenty minutes ago, and none of the buildings screamed TELESALES or UNBELIEVABLE PROSPECTS. After another ten minutes that felt like twenty, I saw a sparkle of luminous green shuffling in front of one warehouse.

His jacket screamed snot green in the light and he stared at me. I trekked forward and stared back. I reached him and wiped my forehead with the back of my hand, looking left and right for effect.

“Sorry,” I said, “you don’t know where the telesales place is, do you?”

He gave the silence of a foreigner asked directions. He had a little ratty moustache, silver and black; and square glasses framed by wild eyebrows. He gave the aura of a disgruntled squirrel, without the charm.

“Take your pick.” he said, and pointed at every building one by one.

I dug into my jacket pocket under his stare.

“Here,” I showed him a scrap of paper with the address, “this one.”

He took it from me and looked at it like an ingrown toenail.

“That’s us,” he said, returning the scrap, “that’s ourselves. In here.” As he said that he turned and walked to the front doors, with me following. The world slowed down as we moved, the off-white building like a new-age asylum creeping up on me. $hit, interviews get harder with every failure.

I walked through the glass doors and into the glass reception. One of those uptight arrangements, you know the kind. Polished and not for touching, with that unmistakable air of death. The receptionist too. I told her what I had to tell her and she told me to sit down.

On the couch was a young blonde. Soft face with something more than I’m used to. Dark eyes, looking downward. The nose the cheeks. I tried not to stare. I’m not a man who can afford standards, the most I can ask for is a woman who doesn’t look like a man. But $hit, this one really didn’t look like a man.

I sat down in a seat opposite, shuffled and tried to look impatient. I looked everywhere but where I wanted. That delicate little thing, so human amongst the glass and leather and polished steel. I tried to think of anything – anything – I’d like more than that blonde. A moment of this and the blonde took out a packet of cigarettes. I caught my breath. Jittering leg and pursed lips, I looked at her. She checked inside her packet and looked back.

“You smoke?” she said, the voice coarser than the face.

“Me?”

“Want one?” She held it out.

Before I could grab it a tall, balding management type strode through a door and looked at us, then at his watch. He had this little open mouthed smile, and a jerky set of eyebrows that seemed to do as they wished. I could tell already that he considered himself the height of joviality; the perfect mix of professional and zany. Pressed slacks, but off-the-wall tie. You cheeky scallywag, you.

“And what time do you call this, guys?” he said, still with the smile.

I told him the time.

He looked at me, shook his head and gave an audible chuckle.

“No worries,” he said, “just finished with the rest. Up you come, both of you, come on.” We followed him up the glass staircase, past the cubicles with the dying faces, and into an enormous room with a table, two seats, and nothing else. The place was big enough to house an undemanding overweight family, and gave a cool breeze as I walked in, half-dead from heat. Our host walked to the window and slammed it shut.

We did the handshake thing, said our names. His was Donald, but hers was Rhiannon. There were only the two seats so they sat while I stood; hands together at my crotch, like a waiter. Donald had a more serious air about him now; frowning, checking papers, looking to the door, double checking papers. After this routine he placed his elbows on the table and nodded at us, slow, then began:

“Okay, lady...gent. As you may have guessed by now, I’m the head of this place,” he gave us a silence that we left untouched, “you see those guys out there? Tapping away? That’s our family. That’s my family. And by God, it’s nothing if it’s not a happy family, and I’m damn sure you noticed that. Why are they happy? Well, wouldn’t you like to know. And I’ll tell you, but first off, a question: are, you, guys, go-getters?” We told him that yes, yes we were go-getters. He slapped the table, “I knew it. You’ll fit right in.”

We played the game as required; nodded in all the right places, agreed with everything he had to say. He talked about motivation, team morale, gym membership discounts, and never once mentioned what it was we were expected to do. We seemed to have gotten the job before he’d even seen us. Contracts were primed, cubicles arranged, and the interview seemed to be an exercise in selling us a mystery job. Like those boxes in game-shows with the question marks on front.

When he’d finished, he looked at me, then at Rhiannon. I looked at him, Rhiannon looked at me; I looked at Rhiannon, then back at him again.

“Sorry, sir-” Rhiannon said.

“Donald!” he said.

“Donald,” she said, “this is a telesales job, is it?”

“Oh yes,” Donald said, “you’ve got the right place, don’t worry.” He gave her that grin. She nodded and stared at her feet.

“Look, guys,” he said, his hands were the animated kind, pointing, stressing, “all you need to do here – and I’m talking about your job now – is build trust.”

“Build trust.” I said, nodding.

“Yes!” he pointed at me, “build trust. With the customer. Present opportunities.”

“Opportunities.” I said, Rhiannon nodded with me.

“Right,” he said, “everybody needs something. We all need little things, am I right? You –“ he pointed at me again, looked to his papers and said my name, “what do you need?”

I opened my mouth and froze.

“You probably need a car, right?” he said.

“I probably do.”

“Right, but you know that. You know exactly what you need. A car, a house in Spain. But some people, some people don’t know what they need; and it’s up to us - as astute, caring sales people - to find out exactly what those people need, and present them with the opportunity to have it.”

“You mean people who have everything?” Rhiannon said.

“Right,” he said, “them too. But also those with a little less. Those who haven’t even got the means to want something. Folks who don’t even know what they need, because nobody has told them yet.”

I felt myself nodding still.

Rhiannon shuffled, “How do we sell-“

“Sell?” Donald leaned forward, “Sell? Have I mentioned selling? Has anyone mentioned selling? Opportunities is what we’re talking here, once in a lifetime opportunities.”

“Okay,” she said, “how do we present opportunities to people who-“

“Don’t let them speak,” he said, hands on his table, grin on his face, leaning forward in his Daffy Duck tie, “but don’t worry about all of this now, you’ll be trained. Eight o’clock tomorrow morning, how does that sound?”

Before we could tell him how it sounded he’d propped himself up and headed for the door. We filed behind and looked at each other like new prison inmates.

On the stairwell was a grey haired man in a brown suit. Donald stopped and put a hand on his shoulder. We waited at a polite distance, looking at the ceiling and the walls while the two whispered to each other. Donald laughed sudden, unnerving little laughs every five seconds while the grey haired man sniffed and jerked his shoulders; I couldn’t tell if that was laughter or illness.

The old man shuffled past us, avoiding our eyes and sniffing to himself. We continued down the stairs until Donald stopped me and cradled my shoulder with his arm. Rhiannon followed at a polite distance.

“You see that man?” he said, grin wider than before, “that man owns the whole place. I mean the whole place. We were just having a little laugh there, it’s a thing we have. He got a BMW seven-series, you see, a while back. But I had a six series, you see? But, thing is...my six-series, I just bought it, and it wasn’t up to scratch. Well, too many scratches actually. So I brought it back, but thing is, I’m after getting a brand new seven-series while they fix the f uck-up –“

I sniffed along and jerked my shoulders. He whispered like he was telling me a clandestine company secret, and maybe he was, but all I gave a $hit about was the girl trailing behind us and the packet of smokes in her pocket.

We reached the exit and his story hadn’t finished. We walked outside, into the parking lot, and it wasn’t until I saw his BMW seven-series that I realised what was happening. He held open the passenger door and kept talking.

“You live out my way, right?” he said, “I saw on your papers.”

I was in his leather seat before he finished asking. Most of his questions seemed rhetorical. He began talking about the engine as he started it, and kept on as I stared out at her and her cigarette.

He drove me home and I played the part. Always nodding, laughing, smiling. Knowing about business and suits and BMWs. Mouth shut. A fine young go-getter bonding with his master, his idol, his future self.

He let me go at a crossroads and sped off. I shuffled down the street, scraping shoes, taking my time. I reached my blackened home and stared at it from the path; suit, tie, shoes and shirt, feeling dirtier than I’d felt in years.

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Would you read on?