Pigeon Variations - Ch 25 - The Joy of Filing

Pyser had an inbuilt suspicion of offices. It was like a sensory defence mechanism he had nurtured since his teenage years. Anyone in a suit was the enemy. Any person who sat at a desk all day didn’t do real work and was likely to vote Tory.

It turned out an office job was alright once you landed yourself one. He quickly saw the appeal. Filing for Brighton & Hove Council was a doss. A lot less tiring. Frankly, it was a piss-take compared to kitchen or hotel work. He could clock in between 8:00 and 9:30. There was a tea and coffee machine. A lot of time was spent listening to tunes or chatting to other filing clerks among the rows of high shelves.

Pyser would listen to Ewan talking about quitting booze. “The doctors told me I’d die if I carried on,” he said.

“But you’re my age.”

“A bit older. Thirty-three. I had an ulcer explode on me. I lost pints of blood. It was touch and go.”

“I can’t imagine not drinking. I think I’d die of boredom if I stopped.”

“You’ll run out of road in the end. Either the body or mind give in… or both.”

There was a whiff of evangelical AA bullshit about Ewan but he never went as far to suggest Pyser go to a meeting. The lad was certainly pleased with himself. Partly no doubt due to his girlfriend, who worked as a filing clerk too. She was ten years younger than him and unbelievably fit – great tits, skinny waist and long blonde hair. One of those magical combinations that, regardless of personality and intelligence – none of which she had – made you immediately think about getting her in the sack. It didn’t add up that she was dating Ewan. He was short, had a muffin top and listened to Steve bollocks Earle.

The work was mind numbingly tedious. That was nothing new. Pyser saw it as a positive. The first couple of hours of a morning, when a hangover was at its most bitchy, were spent replacing files. Then he would have to find files, followed by replacing as many files as he could before clocking off. That was it. Filing. One of the senior managers was a ball ache. Standard boss behaviour. Easily handled. He was called Mr Green and he was obsessed with accuracy.

“Pyser, thank you for getting this file but I’m afraid it’s a case of nice try but no cigar.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s the wrong claimant. I asked for Mr B Johnson. You picked Mr S Johnson. Different people.”

“Okay, sorry about that.”

The trick was to apologise fast.

“Fine, but please try to concentrate a little harder in the future,” he said.

Yes, sure. Now fuck off, mate. The joy of filing was being left alone. Nobody messed with you. Hours slipped by listening to The Stooges. The Doors. The Jam. The Strokes. On a number of levels, it was glorious. Hard to believe he could be paid for doing such easy work.

A lot of filing clerks talked about getting taken on full time, as opposed to through ‘the agency’. Ewan told him how to play it. “You start off filing, right – doing that for three or four months. The thing to do then is apply for a job on the phones, taking queries. Once you get on the phones, you go from agency to full-time council employee and that’s when you can progress to being a housing officer. Then you’re set.”

That summed up what people were like in a nutshell. When you dug around under the surface, everyone secretly wanted to be a boss. To order others around. Tell them what to do. Behave like a jumped-up cunt.

“You should think about it,” said Ewan.

“I will,” Pyser replied. No chance. He pushed his trolley along to the next aisle, sliding the cardboard folder of a claimant into what he imagined was the right place.

The bosses and housing officers hadn’t cottoned on yet that he was probably dyslexic.

He consoled himself with the thought that at least he didn’t have to fret about anyone finding out about his maths issues.

Note: The next Chapter has already appeared on ABC as No Eagles Allowed (when the character was called Darren): https://www.abctales.com/story/mark-burrow/no-eagles-allowed