He had worked at similar positions in different places doing much the same thing. Now here, although still relatively new, no one doubted he would continue doing them. Colleagues knew he was a lifer. Redundancy was the only reason he left his previous job. No one knew much about what that was, besides it not being dissimilar to this one; no one really cared to ask for details, but it was in the public sector and there were cuts. This time he was in the slightly more senior position that years of experience and minimal – but just enough – ambition deemed necessary to afford some kind of narrative. It was clear he knew what he was doing and doing it well powered in him the value of being a worker. Management’s bigger picture never accounted for the detail he was so skilled in, and while not in any conventional sense a meticulous man – his appearance, save for the type of hair with such natural spring that it refused to be swept in even the strongest wind, confirmed that – he could never reconcile their philosophy with his. While he possessed the education and qualities needed to be a good manager himself, removing himself from the front line mechanics of the job seemed something of a betrayal to his years of experience. Seniority and dominance amongst his colleagues afforded by those years seemed an unfair trade against being junior elsewhere. Certainly it was now. Colleagues though could never take him as seriously as he took himself which troubled them slightly because they were never sure if he was aware that his increasingly vocal protestations about his disagreements with management were aimed at the ears of a room that was trying desperately to un-hear. To their minds, or most of them anyway, the problem was that he picked the wrong targets. There was sympathy to his cause, to an extent; but his inability to unpick the web of middle management meant anyone more senior than him was fair game. There were definitely some who encouraged him, but most treated his statements of exasperation – announced by an intake of breath, mouth paused in an O shape and eyes up and to the right – as comic relief. People would imitate it at drinks after work in the bar across the street. Being so close it was the bar where everyone went, some middle management too, and they would join in the fun. There was no real malice, things just became social, and laughing at his expense would fill a void in the conversation. Which makes it somehow more poignant that he would sign off his emails –
A short fiction about a wannabe militant office worker
He had worked at similar positions in different places doing much the same thing. Now here, although still relatively new, no one doubted he would continue doing them. Colleagues knew he was a lifer. Redundancy was the only reason he left his previous job. No one knew much about what that was, besides it not being dissimilar to this one; no one really cared to ask for details, but it was in the public sector and there were cuts. This time he was in the slightly more senior position that years of experience and minimal – but just enough – ambition deemed necessary to afford some kind of narrative. It was clear he knew what he was doing and doing it well powered in him the value of being a worker. Management’s bigger picture never accounted for the detail he was so skilled in, and while not in any conventional sense a meticulous man – his appearance, save for the type of hair with such natural spring that it refused to be swept in even the strongest wind, confirmed that – he could never reconcile their philosophy with his. While he possessed the education and qualities needed to be a good manager himself, removing himself from the front line mechanics of the job seemed something of a betrayal to his years of experience. Seniority and dominance amongst his colleagues afforded by those years seemed an unfair trade against being junior elsewhere. Certainly it was now. Colleagues though could never take him as seriously as he took himself which troubled them slightly because they were never sure if he was aware that his increasingly vocal protestations about his disagreements with management were aimed at the ears of a room that was trying desperately to un-hear. To their minds, or most of them anyway, the problem was that he picked the wrong targets. There was sympathy to his cause, to an extent; but his inability to unpick the web of middle management meant anyone more senior than him was fair game. There were definitely some who encouraged him, but most treated his statements of exasperation – announced by an intake of breath, mouth paused in an O shape and eyes up and to the right – as comic relief. People would imitate it at drinks after work in the bar across the street. Being so close it was the bar where everyone went, some middle management too, and they would join in the fun. There was no real malice, things just became social, and laughing at his expense would fill a void in the conversation. Which makes it somehow more poignant that he would sign off his emails –
– in solidarity.