an eighty first story...'with/without'

Vernon was a hot-shot in the office, driving his team on and on to more and yet more commercial success.  He’d get to work the same hour as the four Polish ladies who cleaned desks, vacuumed carpets at dawn each morning, and leave as Joel, a cheery, old, silver-winged West Indian arrived as night security.  If the employee of the month award was not a token motivational tool, Vernon would have won hands down every single time, and spent most of the year holidaying in Cancun, or any other number of exotic destinations.  Behind his desk, neatly arranged in relief, to draw the eye of perspective clientele, were several business accolades, a bronze statue here, a glass rosette there – all of course for the company; Vernon realised personal gratification held little sway, nor did he want to appear self-congratulatory.  Besides, there was always work to be done!

When, as a junior apprentice in retail, Vernon had been told by his supervisor that there was never anything that did not need seeing to, even if that something was as trivial as rearranging the stationery cupboard so employees in need of a biro would see a stationery cupboard refreshed, and feel slightly better-inclined toward their employer, the advice had stuck.  Busyness, from then on, pervaded Vernon’s work life, and his dedication and apparent attention to detail had not gone unnoticed.  Vernon had become, in essence, the archetypal Company Man, his name a by-word for the most valuable commodity of all: dependability! Ergo, he was a success.

But, when at last Vernon would leave past Joel - who was sat in the foyer each evening, defacing the Evening Standard crossword, smiling contentedly to himself – and exit through the swing doors, out of the office, and onto the street, Vernon had very little to depend on, and a duty to no-one, which is, of course, what he dearly longed for.  Vernon had work friends, and he would go out for drinks with them, talk business, and gyms, new diet regimes, cars, and so forth, but sooner or later the conversation would turn to family, and Vernon couldn’t bare the smugness of it all for very long.  Dear God, Please Help Me! he thought, but to no-one, or nothing in particular. 

On a rare evening away from the office when Vernon had some female company in Alana, his new secretary, she asked him who he considered his God to be.  Vernon replied without hesitation, ‘why, me!’ – not even a trace of smile.  Alana laughed, and Vernon then felt the desperate need to qualify his assertion, but all he could manage was some mumbo jumbo about his goal being to bridge the gap between the real and imaginary Self, which didn’t succeed in qualifying his assertion.  Alana laughed again, and tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder, announced rebelliously that she was an atheist anyway, which made Vernon feel confused, daft and conceited all at once.

So, unable to find something, or someone to believe in, in his private life, Vernon naturally compensated by extending the length of his professional life, putting in hour upon hour of over-time.  The office was his kingdom; his job title, his crown; his expensive suit, his royal robes; and his business accolades, his sceptre and wand; yet, in the realm beyond and outside - the world where Joel lived quietly and unassumingly (married, twice divorced), Alana, Vernon’s work friends, the Polish cleaning ladies, too – Vernon felt as naked as the Emperor in New Clothes, and as lonely as Shakespeare’s Hamlet.

Indeed, Vernon had been for some while in some part convinced that the world was weary, stale and flat, and unprofitable in the sense that all his attempts at out-of-office relationships ended in feelings of inadequacy.  Vernon was half a person, his right side, scrubbed up, professional and dapper; his left, in saggy jeans, and a baggy jumper.  Most often he left his right side at work.

Then one Friday it happened to be Comic Relief.  Whilst, for Vernon, this represented anything other than a relief, as well as a glut of bad television, in a weaker moment he had agreed to allow a dress-down day at work, in aid of charity.  Each employee could wear their casuals into the office, and in return drop £2 in a bucket marked ‘Barnardo's’.

On the Friday morning in question, Vernon awoke with trepidation, and over-looked breakfast in favour of rifling through his drawers in search of something remotely acceptable to wear to dress-down day - something other than his saggy jeans, and baggy jumpers.  Dress-down day really meaning dress-up day.  Having never really had a woman’s hand to guide him in matters of fashion, Vernon’s wardrobe resembled a charity shop rail even the verger’s wife might have been through and disregarded. ‘Oh it’s no use’, sighed Vernon, flopping on his bed, and for the five minutes he had before he needed to leave the flat for work, he actively considered pulling a sicky.

Nevertheless, Vernon had going for him two things: his aforementioned dependability, and to his credit, an occasional sense of humility.  In the end he reasoned if he was going to look like stupid, then at least he had the excuse of it being Comic Relief, when all including the presenters of Newsnight let down their hair, and revealed their true, and cringe-worthy selves; he too might even make a show of it..

..alas, fast-forward eleven hours, and there alone in the office we find Vernon, unsure whether to go sleep on his desk with a wallet file for a pillow and a fire-blanket for cover, or find his expensive suit and go out.  As goes the saying, it’s a man’s world, but it would be nothing without..