The Staffroom

He walked into the staffroom, like every day, me and him, the first arrivals. I sat on the couch backed by the wall and he sat with his back to the room.

‘You awlright pal? How was your journey in?’

The Scottish nonsense had begun. It read 07.20.

‘Not bad, the traffic was light but getting heavier. You walk?’

‘Aye, it was only five minutes, nice day.’

I hadn’t noticed.

Mark and I shared thirty minutes together, alone, every day. This was the power of work, putting two people in the same room for years. People who wouldn’t blink at the other given the luxury of choice, forced to fill the air with meaningless words. We had nothing in common. Not even our motive for arriving seventy minutes before the bell. I arrived early because I had to. I lived at the other side of the town and, if I set off any later than seven, I’d be in traffic for an hour. However insufferable Mark was, my wage and my conscious couldn’t justify the petrol. Mark lived around the corner from school. He arrived early so that he could say that he did. He didn’t work before school, but he liked to bring it up in meetings, bragging and whinging to the staff about his ten hour day. He felt that this would get him the promotion the management were so desperate to prevent and allow his wife to believe he was capable of more than two minutes.

‘Busy day ahead Mark?’

‘Aye, it’s always flat out. The Maths department are moderating work today, it’s always a nightmare, you know the characters in there.’

‘Yeah, I know them.’

He began unwrapping his bacon sandwich like a badly behaved dog, not a puppy, an untrained feral thing. He never unpicked the celotape at the base, preferring to tear at it. He was a pig of a man, suicidal towards his appearance. His face looked as though it had been strapped to a hull of ship and his body was thin and proportioned. That was if you avoided looking at his stomach. This ballooned out of his body – the psi was at the rubber’s limit. His body conceded his lifestyle. He needed the bacon to avoid nausea, he needed every inch of the fat and grain of salt to recover. I would watch him eat, the room silent, wondering how he managed the physique. I hated the job and saw off half a bottle a night, however, my stomach only pressed the shirt when I sat down. If this man was a woman, I’d expect triplets to be on the brink. I was intrigued by this anti-athlete and wanted his secrets, not to use, just to understand true madness.

He finished his sandwich and whirred onto one of his two topics – the poor management of the school.

‘God! That was needed.’ In a grotesque, artistic way, maybe.

He began to gesticulate at the wall. ‘The problem with that lot is that they don’t know what is going on in this place. They like people who do fuck awl and hate people who work their bollocks off! You know what I mean?!’

I did.

 ‘Look at me and you. They won’t promote you because you’re too young and they won’t promote me because I’ve got an opinion.’

This was Mark, a man who advertised that he was the miners against Thatcher, Geldof against poverty, Christ against his father. He’d rear up in meetings, arguing any point he could, trying to mould policies and change ideas, hoping that the management would be impressed by confrontation and torment. They knew, like anyone with sight, he was an alcoholic. Even if that man preached the divine truth, he would still be side-lined. What he saw as a conspiracy against his intellect, the white collars saw as a simple decision. He knew the truth as well, likely to own a mirror.

‘I know Mark, but what can we do? I need to get more experience and you might need a change of job?’

‘I’ve been trying to leave this place for years, who hasn’t?! Name one person who is happy working here! Are you?!’

‘Well, no, but I hate working. The P.E. lot seem happy.’

‘Yeah, but they decided to create a career based on kicking a ball and running. They’re morons!’

‘Where would you go ideally? If you had a choice?’

‘I’d go to Australia or New Zealand. This place is death!’

The booze began to reveal itself. Wet formed on both temples. He was a phenomenon. A man who overheated through the movement of his jaw.  

‘Look at yourself Tony! Look at yourself! Is this where you wanted to be when you were sixteen?’

‘No, but all I thought about was porn and music. Anything short of a successful musician is a failure. I can’t play an instrument.’

‘Fuck man! You know what I mean! Is this how you thought you’d spend your life? Are you enjoying yourself?!’

It was difficult to do so with him. Confronted by a sobering man, an hour into consciousness was always going to be tough. He would never realise that his largest problem was himself. He soured the air around him. We sat in an empty room. I had no power to offer him, no interest in teaching and no ambition to become disappointed by. But he needed me to feel his pain, debate the pointless, resolve it all with words. He was asking an Englishman to storm the Bastille.

‘Well, no, but I need to live. I need to earn money somehow and this job isn’t too hard as far as teaching goes.’

Isabelle walked through the door, a little earlier than usual. She was crazy, spoke far too much, only discussed running and her dog and sulked silently when unhappy. I disliked her but welcomed her when Mark was like this.

‘Hey Izzy.’

‘Hey Tony! Hey Mark!’

‘Aye.’

Izzy began discussing how far she ran the previous evening. This was the rest bite I needed. Mark was never in the mood for her as he didn’t want to imagine real life.

‘Alright Izzy! Fuck me!’

‘Sorry, what?’

‘We know you run!’

‘Alright, I thought you’d be interested! Jesus, what’s wrong with you today?’

‘Me and Tony were talking about the management before you came in, I’m not in the mood.’

‘Oh right. Why what’s gone on?’

‘Nothing, that’s the problem!’

‘Right.’

We sat in silence for a few minutes. Izzy on her phone, me on my tea and Mark on his life. Mark began again.

‘Izzy, I’ve got that picture of me from when I was young, for the sixteen year old thing.’

‘Oh brilliant… Wow is this you!? Look Tony!’

She passed it to me. A beautiful young man looked back at me. Long, thick hair, slim, well proportioned face and two girls kissing either cheek. I made the mistake of looking at Mark in between examining the picture, Mark looked at his hands when he felt my disbelief. I felt bad.

‘Wow Mark, you were a great looking young man. You’ve not lost it!’

He cracked a small smile and took in more air than normal. He had two options. Point out the obvious or believe the lie. He picked his usual.

‘Aye, I was, and still am, a beauty! Is it ok Izzy?’

‘Yeah, the kids will never guess it’s you.’

‘Right I’m off, got to prepare for this moderation. See yas later.’

Mark was gone, off to contemplate the decline. He wasn’t a bad man; he was simply a product of becoming old and achieving little. He worked reasonably hard and would always help people out, like Izzy with a photo. However, he needed someone to blame for his misery. He lived in certain ways, argued with certain people and fought the order like a rat trapped by it. An absence of sex and recognition changes a man, makes him think in unnatural ways. When I first worked with him, I felt that he was unique. The more I moved around, the more I’d find him. People ask me why I hate working, why I can’t do the eight hours. Lock me in a room and I’ll do as long as you ask. Lock me in a room with people and I’m out in an hour. As a man with his glass at the brim, I don’t need a taste of any others, don’t need another interpretation as I will spill.