I’ve done this before, and because time is short this week, I am cheating and doing it again. No excuses this week. I just want 120 seconds of your time. Two measly minutes, thats all. No cheating, don’t scroll to the bottom of the page without being ready to write – that means a timer set for two minutes and your writing implement of choice!
First, last weeks Writespiration was all about that awkward moment when…
As usual, Geoff came up with a stonker… or maybe that should be stinker…!
Melvin was delighted to be asked to work on the Clarke account. As a grammar school boy in the old school, Oxbridge dominated firm of Pathway, Lucifer, he knew he had to overcome several assumptions about his right to be there. It was even more gratifying when, following a successful closing, Mr Clark himself invited Melvin and the client partner, Young Mr Lucifer, to lunch in his club. Melvin was a bundle of nerves about the lunch: which fork to use, how to hold the soup spoon, where to put the napkin. He needn’t have worried. By the time they arrived Mr Clark was three quarters full of G&T and Young Mr Lucifer not much better. Melvin even ventured his joke though perhaps fortunately neither of the older gentlemen were aware it was meant to be funny so their failure to laugh didn’t cause embarrassment. Melvin did mark his flatmates advice: ‘go easy on the drink’. Instead he availed himself of the four courses plus coffee and petit fours. It was thus a somewhat corpulent Melvin who pushed his way into the reception at approximately 4.15 that afternoon. He had three pieces of post to sign and then he could sneak home. The office, set in a spanking new office building had, perhaps by design, the slowest lifts in the City. The joke that you spend one third of your life eating, one third sleeping and one third waiting for the Pathway, Lucifer lift had an element of truth to it. In those elongating moments, while he stared at the floor indicator showing the only working lift car descending with less alacrity that paint condescends to dry, Melvin’s stomach migrated from a mild rumbling to the pre-launch sequence reminiscent of a nuclear missile. He was about to abort his wait and trot briskly to the ground floor ablutions when the lift accelerated and the door pinged open. ‘Ah, Melvin. Marvellous. I’ve been up and down this bloody lift for twenty minutes. Can you see me to my floor and tell me about lunch.’ Old Mr Lucifer waved Melvin on board. Melvin had no choice but to comply. Melvin was a fit young man; he had rowed and been known to scamper a brisk 100 yards if the occasion demanded but in all his time on playing fields and other green swards, he had never had to control his sphincter muscles as he did now. Melvin wasn’t especially religious – he thought of himself as an amateur Anglican – but in that lift he prayed: he prayed that the lift would move swiftly and not break down; he prayed no one else would cause it to stop before the 9th floor. As the car moved inexorably up Melvin griped his gut with the desperation of a man clinging to a parapet. Finally the car stopped, the doors opened and Old Mr Lucifer shuffled forward. ‘Thank you my boy. Pop off home if I were you.’ As the doors began to shut and Melvin knew he was alone with one more floor to go to the sanctuary of his cubicle of relief, he allowed his hold to loosen just a fraction and release a small but omnipotently awful fart into the atmosphere. The joy, the ineffable delight at this most basic of human evacuations was accompanied by him shutting his eyes and allowing a small, ‘Thank Fuck’ to escape his lips.’ When he opened his eyes, the lift had not moved, the doors were open and Mr Pathway, the senior partner was standing on the threshold. From the expression on his Principal’s face it was clear that Mr Pathway had discerned two things: one, Melvin and Melvin alone was responsible for the outpouring of gas now enveloping Mr Pathway; two, any hope that Melvin had convinced the firm that he was suitable Pathway, Lucifer material had taken a mortal blow. ‘I’ll get my things, sir.’ Mr Pathway nodded. It felt like a death sentence had been passed.
Hugh has come up with this smashing piece, lots of toilet humour this week!
“Come and have a drink with us and the rest of team. You’re certainly what we are looking for and think this job is made for you.”
I never got the job.
“So why didn’t you get the job?” asked my mother.
“I don’t know. I guess they never really liked me” I replied.
“Are you sure it wasn’t the fact that you decide to spew up in the champagne bucket in front of the Sales Director and CEO that was the deciding factor?” asked my mother.
Yes, that was the awkward moment when I knew I was no longer on a night out with my new work colleagues.
The word is:
His skin was moist like he’d been working out. If it wasn’t for the translucent pallor I’d swear he’d just returned from a run. But there was no run, no sweat, just the remnants of a 100 years of rest in an incubation chamber. Dead for all intents and purposes. And it was my job to wake him up.
I gagged as I opened the vacuumed door and the hiss of 100 years of odours leaked…