Written by Chris Cottom
I’m checking my ‘working days to retirement’ spreadsheet when Sunil, my supervisor,
materialises at my elbow.
“Got a minute, Carl?”
“Take your pick,” I say, hitting F5 to refresh. “Any one of the next 55,441.”
“You’ve been here twelve years today,” he says, handing me something.
It’s a token for the drinks machine.
“Congratulations,” he says. “You’re on free vend for the rest of your shift.”
~
As I open our front door, Ali’s on her way out.
“Tums and bums tonight. There’s half a quiche in the fridge.”
~
In our call-centre’s breakout room, a framed poster of a surfer exhorts us to ‘Be The Best You
Can Be!’ It’s really the breakdown room. On the neutrally round table is a box of tissues,
renewed regularly by some trainee from Human Remains.
“I’ve been looking at your wrap time,” Sunil says, referring to the period after each call
when we finish typing up our notes.
I know what’s coming.
“You’re forty-three seconds slower than target.”
~
While Ali’s at her Zumba class, I borrow her laptop. She’s been browsing beach holidays:
Puglia, Corfu, even the Caribbean.
I haven’t told her we’re already up to our overdraft limit.
~
“I’ll always be slower,” I tell Sunil, at our next cosy one-to-one. “I use something called listening
skills.”
“You’re in the department’s lowest ten per cent.”
“I don’t touch type, not like Becky. She’s twinkletoes on the keyboard.”
“Ah! That’s where you’re going wrong. You’re supposed to use your fingers.”
We both laugh. He’s not a bad kid.
~
“What’s with all the classes?” I ask Ali.
“I’m getting beach-body ready.’
“Look, love, we–”
“I know. I’ll go for the body without the beach.”
~
“I’m putting you on a performance improvement plan,” Sunil says.
“I’m retiring in six months!”
“Freya’s going to sit with you. Help you speed up.”
I don’t say, “Flame-haired Freya? Agent Orange? No thanks.”
I don’t say, “I had my own business before she was born.”
Instead I say, “Can I think about it?”
~
“I’ve thought about it,” I tell him the next day.
“Great.”
“I don’t have a choice, do I?”
“Not really.”
I don’t say, “I was a finalist for East Leicestershire Entrepreneur of the Year.”
I don’t say, “I introduced Market Harborough to the light-up yo-yo.”
Instead I say, “I quit.”
~
Ali looks up from her plank position on her yoga mat.
“You’re home early.”
“I told Sunny-boy where to shove his headset.”
She jumps up to hug me, her arms hot around my waist.
“Thank God for that! You’ve been so miserable.”
“I’ll get something else.”
“Carl! You’re sixty-four.”
“A man who can’t even afford a fortnight in Corfu.”
Her head is hard against my chest, her voice barely a whisper.
“It’s okay, love. I’ll book us a weekend in Colwyn Bay.”
.
Chris Cottom lives near Macclesfield, UK. His work’s appeared in 100 Word Story, Fictive Dream, Flash Frontier, NFFD NZ, NFFD UK, Oyster River Pages, The Lascaux Review, and other fine places. In the early 1970s he lived next door to JRR Tolkien. @chriscottom.bsky.social chriscottom.wixsite.com/chriscottom