Rude Awakenings (Part two of two)

We batter intae the joab centre wae minutes tae spare. The security guard at the bottom ay the stairs looks up fae his paper. ‘Kin ah help ye?’ he sais.

‘Signin oan.’ ah sais, passin by him an boundin up the stairs.

‘Hoaw! Where ye gaun? Name?’ he sais, foldin his paper under his airm an walkin oer tae a clipboard that’s sittin oan the flair by the windae.

‘Daniel Coyle mate. Ma appointment’s at twenty tae. Cuttin it fine.’ ah sais an gie wan ay they whit ah’m ah like? expressions, rollin ma eyes.

He bends oer an picks up the clipboard, gien it that overstated groan every cunt oer the age ay fifty seems tae at the slightest bit ay physical exertion.

‘Daniel Boyle.’ he sais.

‘Coyle!’ ah sais, this cunt’s at it man.

‘Twinty tae, ye say?’ he drums his biro oan the clipboard.

‘Aye. Twinty. Tae.’ ah sais, tryin tae quell the urge tae take the thing aff him an slap his jaw wae it, cause that’s the thing int it? Ye gie some fuckin drongo the slightest bit ay power; the merest wee hint ay authority an they let it go straight tae their heid. A licence tae fuck wae aw an sundry in the name ay exercisin their role tae the fullest extent their poxy station in life allows.

‘Here ye’re here.’ he sais, pointin at a gap oan a list ay scored oot names oan his printoot. ‘Twinty past ten ye were meant tae be here. . . five minutes before that really, ye should be here.’ He looks aw sanctimonious an pleased wae himsel like he’s just discovered some anomaly ay profound importance. ‘They’ll no take ye noo, ye’ll huv tae phone in an make another appointment. . .’ he sais but ah’m awready off, sprintin up the stairs, the drone ay his fuckin monotone voice echoin roon the stairwell behind me.

Ah kin hear him remonstratin wae Pearcey who presumably has follied ma lead an is makin fur the stairs tae. Good lad. That should keep the cunt occupied.

Burstin through the door, ah plant ma hauns oan the desk ay the receptionist who, far fae bein in anywaiy rattled by ma entrance, averts her gaze fae her Bella magazine momentarily, lookin in ma direction afore continuin as though ah’m no there. ‘Excuse me.’ ah sais. She closes it oer an sighs, blawin the wee strands ay hair that hing doon at the side ay her face. Whit is it wae these cunts? Fuckin public servants they ur. Ye’d think ah’d just shat in her lunchbox. ‘Whit kin ah dae fur ye?’ she sais. Ye kin straighten yer fuckin face fur wan. ‘Ah’ve goat an appointment.’ ah sais, like it needed tae be said. Whit the fuck dae ye think ah’m dain here, fraternisin wae you, ya bint?

‘Name?’

‘Daniel Coyle.’

‘You’re late. You were supposed tae be here at twenty past ten, you do know that don’t you?’ she sais, a fully fledged telephone voice noo implemented.

‘Naw ah didnae know. Ah know noo. Yer delightful colleague doon the stairs informed me but ah wis under the impression it wis at ten forty.’ ah sais.

‘I don’t appreciate your tone Mr. Coyle.’ she sais, tyin her pony tail up intae a wee bun. Ah won’t lie, she’s gettin me gaun a wee bit here wae the stern schoolmistress routine. ‘You’ll have to book another appointment and I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that this could affect your benefits.’

‘Look. . . Angela.’ ah sais, readin her name badge. Who wis it ah wis supposed tae be seein, if ye don’t mind me askin?’ ah gie her a wee smile an she smiles back, twirlin wan ay the wee strands ay hair roon her finger. Ye’ve goat her noo Danny boy. Nae danger.

‘Let me have a look.’ she sais, flickin through paperwork an runnin doon the pages wae her gold ring laden, fingers. ‘It wis supposed tae be Mr. Robertson but like ah sais, you’re late so. . .’ she kerries oan but ah’m no really listenin.

Robertson? He’s sound, that cunt. Hud him a few times man - sits ye doon, sign here. Done. ‘Mr. Coyle?’ she sais, expectantly.

‘Sorry Ange, ah wis miles away there.’

‘I was saying, you may be in luck. His ten forty appointment looks like a no-show. If you’ll take a seat, I’ll see if he can take you now instead. Fair play Angie, ah hud ye aw wrang. Kudos oan the plummy voice tae. Tap marks hen.

Ah take a seat an wait fur the shout.  

Ah’m sittin at Robertson’s desk in the middle ay the sprawlin office flair. It’s wan ay they wee cubicles that serve nae real practical purpose other than stoappin people gawpin at each other. Ah listen in tae the cunt in the neighbourin cubicle pleadin poverty an beggin fur a crisis loan tae paiy his bills. His request is swiftly rebuffed by the low-level civil servant he’s been assigned tae oan the basis that he still husnae paid back the previous two. He rolls oot the well-worn clichés aboot his hauns bein tied an if it wis up tae him, he wid - adeptly straddlin the line between bein an empathetic, fellow human bein an the aforementioned necessary prerequisite ay bein a condescendin arsehole. Must try harder.

Ma eavesdroppin is interrupted by Robertson melodramatically drappin his manilla folder oan the desk. ‘Ah, Mr. Coyle. I see you’ve decided to join us.’ he sais, cementin ma point superbly.

‘Aye, sorry aboot that. Croassed wires, it seems. Ah never goat the memo aboot the time.’

‘Memo?’ he sais, contortin his face, baffled.

‘Ah don’t mean literally.’ ah sais, deadpan. ‘It’s always at twenty tae eleven, ah assumed it wid be the same the day.’

‘If you’d care to look at your claim book, Mr. Coyle, you’ll see marked here. . .’ he points tae the appointment section. ‘. . .It clearly says Ten. Twenty. AM.’ he sais, draggin his finger alang the entry tae emphasise the point.

‘Sorry aboot that, ah kin only apologise. Lucky fur me ye could fit me in, eh? Ah appreciate yer a busy man so if ye just gie me the book, ah’ll sign oan the dotted line an get oot yer hair.’ ah sais, immediately regrettin it as ah belatedly remember, the cunt’s no goat wan solitary hair oan his heid.

‘Not so fast Mr. Coyle. As you are no doubt aware, the Government brought in the Job Seekers Allowance towards the end of last year. Part of the criteria for claimants is that they demonstrate a willingness to get back into work. Tell me, what have you being doing to address this recently?’

Well done Danny. Well done.

‘Ah, eh, regularly scour the recruitment pages ay the papers. . . The Evenin Times, The Daily Record an that. Goat tae keep yer finger oan the pulse.’ ah lie.

‘Yes. Quite.’ he sais, tappin his keyboard. ‘and what sort of work is it you’re looking for, exactly?’

‘Eh. . . somethin that involves workin wae yer hauns. No feart ay a bit ay hard graft, me. Good fur the soul, ye know.’ ah sais, sellin it tae him. ‘Ma Granda worked just acroass the road there in the Forge.’

‘The shopping centre?’ he sais, the fuckin lump ay wid.

‘Naw, before it wis a shoppin centre, when it wis an actual Steelworks. Back when this country still hud a steel industry.’ ah sais, gien the cunt a history lesson. He disnae seem tae appreciate it, right enough. Ah’m gettin the distinct impression this interview’s no gaun in ma favour.

‘Right, well. Working with your hands you say? Some “hard graft?” I have a position here; a gentleman, Mr. McGregor looking for a labourer/assistant for his contracting business. Is that something that would interest you? May I remind you of your obligations as a claimant.’ This cunt is good. Goat me pinned against the ropes, ready tae execute the final blow.

‘Eh. . . sounds interestin.’ ah sais, tryin ma best tae appear absorbed yet noncommittal.

‘Let’s see, “The candidate should be physically fit, willing to listen to, and understand basic instructions and execute said instructions to a high standard. . . should be able to work on their own initiative and be a good timekeeper as the position involves early starts.” Think that’s you, Mr. Coyle?’ he sais wae a smirk.

‘Aye, well if yer referrin tae the day, as ah explained that wis a mere oversight. Ah didnae actually know ah wis tae be here earlier than usual.’

‘Excellent. That’s just what I needed to hear. So, presumably you won’t object if I go ahead and give Mr. McGregor a phone, on your behalf, to express your interest?’ He’s done it again man. Technical knock out. Ah’m oan the canvas, sparkled. ‘I’ll call him later on today. With any luck, this is the last time you’ll have to do this for a while.’ he sais, slidin the signin oan booklet taewards me. ‘I’m sure the job will be yours, I’ll call you this afternoon once I get confirmation.’

Ah sign the book an make ma waiy back oot ay the office an doon the stairs, past the security guard who’s drawin me daggers as he hauds the door open.

Pearcey’s staunin, leanin against the waw ootside, smokin a fag. ‘How’d ye get oan mate? Sorted? he sais.

‘Sorted?’ ah sais, belligerently, like it’s his fault. ‘Mare like shafted mate. Ah think ah’ve goat a joab.’ He looks at me wae an intrinsic understaunin an gets the smokes oot, offerin me wan.