Reacting Badly to Criticism

"And," sighed my manager, "you react badly to criticism." He pushed
his soft body back against his padded chair. His sticky fingers settled
into a smug triangle in his lap and he looked directly at me for a
response.

My annual review had been commandeered for a mercenary mission. I was
bombarded by bullet pointed contradictions. I needed to focus on
customer service but concentrate on sales. I should improve the quality
of my work but pay less attention to detail. Every single one of my
work tasks should be top priority.

From the rigid orange chair in front of his desk, I hunted for a hint
of blue sky in the corner of his window. Then, as my manager suggested,
I react badly to his criticism.

On the roof, in figure hugging drizzle, I stand with the lifers on the
chain-smoking gang. Colin finishes his coughing. He fiddles with
glasses and spits phlegm at a named parking space below. Usually he's
bursting to fill our space with fighting talk but when his lips begin
to form words they collapse before sound can appear. Instead, he
chooses to inspect the fall-out of his attack.

"Well, I think he had it coming," says Harriett. "He had a right go at
me last week, all because he told me the wrong order number." She
snorts, lifts her flabby face upwards and throws a pale cloud into the
sky.

"You could say he made a pass at you," suggests Colin. Through his
magnifying glasses, his eyes ignite with excitement. "A good harassment
case. That would have them all going. Yeah, I'm sure we could dredge up
some dirt from the Christmas party." He runs a yellow fingernail across
paper lips and leans back against the railing.

Harriett's laugh tries to escape across the top of the building but the
sound is trapped by cloud. In the summer, we could see other rooftop
smokers in a chain of atolls stretching out across the city, mushroom
signals rising on the thermals. Today, we are alone on our island, our
parliament recalled for crisis talks by the shiny metal pipes that suck
our voices and smoke down into the ventilation system.

"Every Wednesday," says Harriett in a whisper, "he goes for lunch
meeting with that accounts manager, Sandra. Do you know, Sandra? She
has a short blond bob? He always comes back stinking of booze. He
sleeps it off in the office. Thinks nobody notices." As she speaks, she
flaps her arms and tassels flay from her fluttering purple shawl.

I should be engaging in their battle plan, evaluating tactics and
deciding a strategy. But instead, I'm watching the mini-roundabout on
the map of the city below us. A red car and a blue car arrive at the
junction simultaneously and the Highway Code evaporates. I dissolve
away too, back to when I was eight, or six, or ten. A time lost that
lingers only in a bubble of memory.

I'm surrounded by my parents in a restaurant, recklessly spooning
fistfuls of chocolate ice cream into my tiny mouth. Suddenly a belch
erupts from deep in my swollen belly. All around diners turn to examine
the little girl in the blue coat with brown smeared around her lips. My
mother turns red. She's always brought me up to be a good little girl.
Excuse myself. I know this. I want to undo her embarrassment, but when
I try to say, "Pardon me" the words propel ice cream out from my mouth,
across the table and splatter onto her frock. Instead of consoling me,
she scolds. I erupt in incredulous tears and the dessert is hurled to
the chequered linoleum.

Three floors below me the vehicles attempt to negotiate the roundabout
with false starts, hesitation, flashing, and gestures. Finally, they
are on their way again, fleeing to their destinations. Colin flicks a
cigarette end over the edge and steps back so he can't be seen. Then he
shrugs, pulls his coat sleeves around his waist and look like a guilty
schoolboy. He tells everyone that secretly he enjoys being martyred by
the damp gusts that sweep across our empire. It proved his point he
explained to me once, whatever that meant. Now he proves his point by
kicking the edge of a puddle, his sole dangling from his shoe.

"Don't worry, you'll be fine. We'll sort him out for you."

Harriett is still hopping around, her eyes screwed into patches of
mascara.

"Oh yes," she says with a stamp of her leg "we won't let him scare you
away." I notice her white socks bulging through her sandals, the straps
running rings around her ankles.

Everyday, feathers ruffled by the latest rumour, they sneak up here to
fume but their words have become a cage. Now I feel released.

As I clamber down the fire escape to clear out my desk, I wonder if
they've managed to extract the staples from my manager's nose.