I walked into the photocopy room. Inside there was a man interacting with paper. He didn’t look up, being too busy feeding the machines. I watched how he stacked and fed and stapled. Every motion was smooth from years of routine. You could tell he wasn’t thinking about his work. His face was set in creases and folds. He saw me.
‘What do you want?’
‘Sorry mate, I’m new.’
‘You’re not my mate and I couldn’t give a fuck. Answer the question.’
‘Twenty copies of these please.’
I handed him ten sheets of paper.
‘Awww that’s fucking brilliant that is! That’s all I fucking need! They got rid of one paper monkey and replaced him with another environmental disaster! When do you want these done by?’
‘An hour, if possible.’
‘I suppose it’s going to have to be. Right, is that it?’
‘Yeah.’
‘The doors there you cunt, go on, fuck off out of it.’
I obliged and found myself back in the corridor. I saw Sally come out of the toilet and decided she would have an answer.
‘Hey, Sally!’
‘Hey, you’re…’
‘Rick. Sally, you know that bloke in the copy room? Is there something wrong with him?’
‘Oh, ha! You’ve met Len. Yeah, there’s nothing wrong with him, he just hates photocopying and hates the people who bring it to him.’
‘Is there anything I can do? He was unbelievably rude. I need photocopying every day. This is going to be a nightmare.’
‘Erm… Yeah. My tips are, bring him everything in bulk. He would prefer to photocopy a week’s worth of paper rather than receive it every day. Never give him stuff to do at the end of the day. I think he has OCD and can’t leave this place until everything is done. The final thing I’d say is, don’t ever complain to managers about him. If you do this, he’ll refuse to do the photocopying. However, having said all this, he’s alright really, he always gets it done no matter how mental he seems.’
‘Right, but Sally, he’s so unprofessional. Surely the managers know about him?’
‘Yeah, but like I said, he’s alright. I think everyone has decided that he’s harmless and it’s refreshing to have a guy like him around. Someone who is saying what we’re all thinking.’
‘Yeah, well, yeah, I suppose you’re right. See you Sally.’
‘Yeah, see you Nick.’
I went back to my desk and sat thinking about this man and Sally’s appraisal of him. It felt like I’d spent my life trying to please people at work. Everything I did was for them. I washed, shaved, got haircuts, bought breath mints, suits, shirts, coats, gadgets, cars, all for the people at work or with them in mind. I would constantly reflect over conversations I’d had with colleagues, reviewing whether I was too weak or dominant, too jokey or too serious. This focus on the opinions of others had plagued my life for a decade and here was a man who embodied a simple question. Why? Why bother trying to convert your true thoughts into a language fit for consumption? The most bizarre part of this was that no one cared. If we are to be realistic this man would struggle in a HR role, however, the rudeness alone was not enough to send him out the door. He was almost respected for his attitude and he ensured that everyone knew it. Don’t grass or I won’t work for you. Don’t bring me work late in the day, bring it in bulk. Whilst everyone else fretted about intonation and body language, he made it his business to be consistently at his worst. I had made my mind up, the man held the key to something greater and I needed to learn from him.
Over the next few weeks I made tentative efforts to engage him with topics separate from work and insults. I had no success. If I asked him about his morning, his evening, his holiday plans, his wife, I was greeted with the same blank stare before being told to, ‘fuck off’. I was beginning to realise that it was impossible to get to know someone who didn’t play the game. He set the goal posts and drew the pitch, I was forever on his turf asking questions which he had no obligation to answer.
I spoke to Dean about my dilemma in the pub on Friday, feeling that someone must have got close.
‘You see Dean, I only wonder why he acts in the way he does.’
‘Because he’s mad Rick, there are people in this world who are mad.’
‘Yeah, but what is he like with you?’
‘He thinks I’m alright I think. I don’t really know. We once talked about the Celtic result as we’re both fans.’
‘Celtic, right, Celtic.’
‘Rick, the issue might be you though. I don’t mean this offensively, believe me when I say this, but you might merely lack the common touch. He might not want to speak to a man like you.’
Dean then began smiling, knowing he was playing with my nature. He knew, regardless of the scenario, I did not want to fail.
‘Look Rick, all I’m saying is that he might hate you.’
‘We’ll see.’
Dean then began laughing, unable to comprehend my plight.
I went in on Monday and made my way to the photocopying room with the names of every Celtic player and results of the last five games ready in my head.
‘You alright Len?’
‘Oh. It’s you. What you got?’
‘Twenty copies of these please. You see the game?’
‘Ahh fuck off you little shit.’
‘Just making conversation, I was pleased with the Celtic result.’
‘Celtic fan?’
‘Yeah.’
He looked back at me, absolutely expressionless.
‘Right, I’ve got the paper. Fuck off and don’t bring me any more of this shit.’
I looked back at the man, absolutely nothing. I walked out and went back to my desk. I loaded the spreadsheet and began scrolling through the digits, I couldn’t focus. What was wrong with this man? I didn’t care about his attitude towards me, he impressed me, but the problem was that I also needed him to engage me. I needed to know why Icarus was doing it. I decided I’d play my final hand. I was back in the copy room.
‘Right, Len, just tell me.’
‘Aww fucking hell, just let me copy this shit for you in peace.’
‘No, you need to tell me why you’re like this. Why are you so rude?’
‘Sorry? Why am I like this?’
‘Yeah, why?’
I realised quickly that I had become Icarus. This man intimidated all he knew, the shock on his face revealed that he hadn’t had a challenger for a while. Someone who was willing to play the direct ball.
‘What the fuck are you on about?’
‘I’m on about why you act in the way you do. You’re rude to everyone, you hate your job but you don’t leave. You just stay here, insulting everyone who gives you work and the beauty is, you get away with it. No one cares, everyone knows how you operate and adapts to it. I’m sorry, I know this is going to sound mad, but I need to know why? Is there are theory to this, is this calculated for an easier life? Or is this just how you are, are you just inherently like this?’
The man held my stare in his. He had a decision to make.
‘Look, what’s your name?’
‘Rick.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘No, you’re not doing that. You need to explain.’
‘Listen, you little cunt, I’m like this because I have to sift through tonnes and tonnes of paper every day! I used to be like you, walking around with his nose up someone’s arse but you eventually realise. It’s bollocks! It’s all bollocks! I decided, like you fucking should, that I will not bend to this place! I don’t want to work here! I don’t want to work anywhere! What I do is shit! I won’t lie! This is how I feel and the reason I’m not sniffing your cock is because you play this fucking game. You act your way around here like the rest of them! I’m not some tactician or suffering with some trauma! I’m living the trauma! In, out, round and round, everyday! Now fuck off!’
I turned around and went back to my desk. Dean was right, he was mad.
Tomorrow's Chip Paper 