One True Buddy

ONE TRUE BUDDY

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A Short Story by Vyvyan Kinross

I would say I am a regular guy. Nothing too remarkable about me at all.
I mean, I'm not complaining because my life is fine, within its limits.
A wife, two kids, an interesting job in the insurance business. I
wouldn't say I am boring, but my life does have a pattern which tends
not to vary. That can get difficult for a man, particularly in the
middle years when you start to question things. Like, how is this all
going to end? Propping up some bar in a golf club in the Home Counties,
reminiscing about premium adjustments and claims for flooding? That
frightens me. When I let myself think about it. Anyway, like I say, I'm
not bitching. I keep my head down and get on with it. You do, don't
you? My wife Kath still loves me - I think - although come to mention
it I haven't asked her lately. My children are like most teenagers,
always pushing the envelope, wanting to fly. I don't have a problem
with any of that, I just want to try and be a good parent and make sure
they don't crash and burn. We take one holiday a year, in England
mainly. My interests? Golf, I fix up the house, go to the pub. Anyway,
this isn't about me. It's about a work colleague of mine, David. Like I
was saying, nothing too much happens in my life that breaks the mould,
so to speak, but this is different, believe me. Very different.

This particular morning in question I take my usual train into the
City. I am strap hanging, trying to read the paper with my nose jammed
up against this guy's armpit. He's sweating, too. It's horrible. I'm
trying to focus on the paper, but the student on my other side is
listening to heavy metal music on his personal stereo. I can hear it,
like a plague of locusts just over the horizon. The journey is
terrible, just like it is always terrible. It's the trade-off for the
larger house in the 'burbs. We have one car, and Kath uses that for
work and dropping the kids off at school. I get out at Old Street
station, my stop, and walk the ten minutes to the office. It's a grey
London morning, heavy cloud, some rain, but I don't use the umbrella -
although I have one - I think men look stupid with umbrellas,
particularly those huge multicoloured golfing ones, like parachutes
with a hard-on.

Plus the people underneath always look like public school boys who
never grew up. Not my style at all. I check into the office; it's a
twenty five storey steel and glass hellhole, the usual 'Pack 'em in and
stack 'em high' Rat Trap School of Architecture. I take the lift to the
twelfth floor and there's the receptionist, Deborah, behind the front
desk; the switchboard is already taking calls and she just gives a
brief wave and mouths 'Hi!' at me. I give her a half wave back, head
for the coffee machine and thread my way through to my desk. If I
didn't know where my desk is, I'd never find it - it reminds me of
those pictures of breeding penguins you see on wildlife programmes. How
do the parents ever find the chicks? Only wildlife professionals seem
to know the answer. I work in a little cubicle surrounded by other
little cubicles, together making 'pods', all divided by fake wooden
partitions to afford the pretence of a little privacy. Actually, it's a
transparent device to make sure no-one can hide from anyone else; it's
the exact opposite of privacy, it's open season on anyone who wants a
quiet life. That's the whole point, otherwise there'd be proper walls.
I am dealing with claims today, nothing too ridiculous - Concorde
hasn't crashed or anything - but people pay premiums, they want
attention when something happens. I don't have a problem with that,
it's the business, but some punters out there try and take liberties,
believe me. Like last year, one customer claimed his garden had been
destroyed by a 'big cat' on the loose - he actually produced quite well
doctored pictures of a panther wasting some shrubbery and lounging on
top of what he said was his garden shed. We got the loss adjusters in
and they had to hire an expert to come and take a look at the tracks.
Turns out the guy had somehow made a mould from a stuffed panther paw
and tried to fake a trail out of his garden at the back of the house.
Incredible. How do people find the time? Or the energy? Although I have
to say a bit of me secretly admires someone like that. Anyway, I
digress. The guy who has the desk next to me is called Dave Marks. He
is a bright man, mid-thirties, degree, wife and kids, hits his targets
regularly, collects his annual bonus on the nail. Drives an MPV. In
fact, he is something of an earner.

I would say he is someone that senior management have their eye on,
definitely. I notice that he has been on a few career development
courses lately - team building, leadership, strategy and planning, that
kind of thing. Always a sign of which way the wind is blowing.
So Dave walks in and I say "Hi Dave, how's it hanging?" This is what I
always say. And he replies: "Sure. No problem" just like he always
does. Nothing unusual there, then. He settles down to work, while I
read the Financial Times with my coffee. Then, maybe ten minutes later
Stephanie turns up - she shares our little work group and has the third
desk on the station, sorry 'pod'. Honestly I have to say Stephanie
looks rough, like she's had very little sleep, red eyes, puffy cheeks,
hair that is chaotic, wearing yesterday's make-up. I throw her a
remark: "Hard night on the tiles, Steph, partying again? You need to
take care of yourself. It's age. Skin isn't so elastic, gravity tells,
you know?" "Colin," she says, "get out of my face. Leave me alone, you
little shit." I take this as a joke. She's a sharp gal, and we banter,
its part of the interaction I like about work. "Sure I will, just give
me a little detail to feed off; that'll keep me happy for a while. Like
who it is." She raises a weak smile. "Colin, get back in your box and
I'll deal with you later. I've got a headache, I can't talk,
particularly to a weasel like you." This is just great backchat, the
kind of thing that makes coming to work worthwhile. So I get mock
serious. I say: "Stephanie, I will be requesting a full report from you
on this in writing at lunchtime. Don't be late with it, or I may have
to take things higher up the chain of command." "Fuck off, Colin", she
replies, a little more cheerily and dips below the partition.

It was then I realised that I have to do my colleague appraisal with
David. Let me explain. This is part of our new age, holistic buddy
system approach, where you get the usual three hundred and sixty degree
career appraisal, but now a section of it involves an interview with
your 'buddy'. That means a colleague who is told by the line manager to
look out for you, talk to you, go out and get pissed with you once in a
while, that kind of thing. This is like the touchy feely part of the
appraisal, it's not where the real hammer comes down, like with salary
or promotion for example.
Now, within the context of the buddy system, I like to think that Dave
has always been open with me, particularly about any real issues he may
be having, in the work place of course. I wouldn't dare intrude into
his private life, that wouldn't show any tact at all, and it's not what
the buddy system is all about, anyway. I think that I'm the kind of
person who most people in the office would welcome as a buddy. Someone
to be there for them, their advocate in the workplace. Recently,
though, I have had the creeping feeling that Dave has been withdrawing
somewhat, he has seemed less open about himself and more awkward with
me socially. So I raise my head over the partition and say: "Hey buddy,
fancy a drink at lunchtime and we can do the colleague feedback bit of
your appraisal at the same time?" I wait for an answer, but nothing
comes back. So I half get up and peek over the partition. Dave is
slumped forward on his desk, his head buried in his arms. That is not
like him. "Dave, I am sorry to cut across your busy morning, but we
have to get the appraisal done. Remember the appraisal?" He raises his
head and looks at me, his eyes seem half focused. "Fine, but not in the
pub. I'm not drinking. Book a meeting room." He rests his head back on
his arms and closes his eyes, as if to say 'get out of my face' .
Alright, I think. I'll book a meeting room, no problem, and so I enter
a reservation on the electronic diary system.

Anyway, you know how offices work. The morning passes, you do a little
work, have a coffee, do a little more work, have a chat, a little work,
a cup of soup and a choccie bar. It's the world of work that we all
know and love. Carving a living from the rock face. At eleven, I am
called in by Gus, the claims manager. There are seven of us at the
meeting, all responsible for client portfolios covering domestic
business. Gus' message is clear and simple. We have to stop paying out
so much, so fast. That means holding up paperwork, disputing amounts,
insisting on more evidence based submissions. It's actually an old
trick in the insurance business, to gain time, and thereby gain cash
flow. Of course this is about the bottom line, the customer is just
unfortunate enough to be in the way. It's nothing personal. Gus talks
about new targets being set by Malcolm further up the line. What does
this mean for me, I find myself thinking?
A little more flex in my moral principles and that's that. I can live
with it. I have to live with it. What am I going to do at this point?
Start a record label? Get into Formula One racing? I have to be
realistic. And after all, we have shareholders to think of, investors
who don't measure returns in warm feelings and group hugs. The meeting
breaks up and we return to our desks. I have some calls, mostly
routine. One is from Kath, who tells me that the car has broken down on
the way back from school. She is angry, I can tell, she wants a new
car; she has done for some time. This could be the moment to extend the
mortgage, I think. Then its lunchtime. I look over at Dave's work
station, but he's not there. I check my watch, grab the appraisal form,
food and head for the meeting room. I step inside, close the door and
take a seat. Quite a comfortable seat, as it happens - I've always
enjoyed the meeting room seats, they're often the best part of the
meeting. I open a sandwich I bought from the deli man who comes around
the office every day. Chargrilled vegetables and humous on brown bread,
with a packet of cheese and onion crisps and a coke. I finish, belch
loudly for the benefit of the empty room and look at my watch again.
Dave is late now, and I am beginning to think he has either forgotten
or something more important has come up and he hasn't found a way of
getting a message to me. Just as I am getting ready to get up and
leave, the door swings open and Dave walks in. He grabs the nearest
seat and slumps down in it. He looks like he has been running, because
he is dripping with sweat, and wipes his face with a handkerchief. This
doesn't stop the sweat coming. Added to which, he seems very pale and
anxious, looking around the room all the time like he is expecting a
pack of hounds to burst in. He won't make eye contact. He constantly
keeps clearing his throat, too, as if he's fighting back a rising tide
of phlegm and losing the battle. I decide to break the ice, gesturing
at the form lying in front of me on the table. Giving what I hope is a
comforting, warm smile, I say: "Dave, maybe this isn't a good time. If
you aren't feeling well?". I deliberately let the words hang, giving
him the opportunity to get out if he wants to. I have absolutely no
interest in putting the guy through something he doesn't want to deal
with right now, although we both know it will have to be done sometime.
Office life is about give and take, you learn that. "No, no, its fine.
Let's get it over," he says, looking me in the eye directly for the
first time.

"Okay, general comments, first. How are you finding the job, managing
the workload and that kind of thing? Because we all know the targets
keep changing. Did you ever read Catch 22? Great book. You remember how
they kept upping the missions when the bombardier thought he had
completed his quota? It drove him crazy." My enquiry was light, and
frankly I was expecting a bland answer. But instead Dave says: "It's
hot in here. Do you mind if I take my jacket off?" "Not at all, be my
guest. Strip away", I reply, keeping the tone light. So Dave takes his
jacket off and hangs it on the back of his seat. He loosens his tie,
and takes that off too. Then he undoes the top two or three buttons of
his shirt. He looks back at me. "What were you saying?" he asks. "I was
asking about the job, how it's going, it's a jungle out there. The
stress." I smiled at him. "I'm sorry, Colin. It's hot in here. Do you
mind if I take my shirt off?" He gives me an anxious look. "I know it's
unorthodox, it's just so hot. I can't concentrate". At this point I
realise something is wrong. However you stack it up, this is just not
office procedure. It's not covered in any of the manuals I've ever
seen. "Dave", I offer, weakly, hopelessly. I don't know what to say. So
Dave stands up, undoes the buttons on his shirt, takes it off and puts
it on the table. I notice it is drenched. Then, he unbuckles his belt
and pulls his trousers down, kicking his shoes off under the table.
Suddenly, the man is sitting there in his underpants and socks. His
skin is pale, the look of anxiety, the feel and smell of panic rolling
off him are palpable, like steam rising off a swamp. I don't know what
to do. Although my mind is racing, I seem to be making no progress; the
wheels have become disconnected from engine. Nothing has prepared me
for a situation like this. Absurdly, I notice the form lying in front
of me. I observe inwardly and fleetingly that things may have moved
beyond standard personal development criteria to be addressed in the
form. Then I look up and I see that Dave is crying, but soundlessly. He
is not sobbing or bawling. Just steady tears rolling off him, which he
makes vague attempts to wipe away with his arm. He says to me: "I can't
feel anything anymore, Colin. Sorry." I don't know how to interpret
this remark, but remain silent. "I can't feel anything anymore." He
repeats the phrase and looks at me through the tears that are coursing
down his cheeks.

Then he pounds the table with his fist, but somehow the violence of the
pounding suggests impotence rather than strength, the gesture itself
more futile than frightening. I now realise that I have to do something
to address this situation, I can't let it run. Besides which I have a
residual understanding that someone will have booked the meeting room
after our one hour lunchtime slot, and their arrival will be a
disaster. "Stay here a moment, Dave," I say. "Just try and be cool.
Relax." I make no move to touch him physically, just hold out my hands
towards him in a placatory gesture. I am trying to make him feel that
he is not threatened. So I get up slowly, deliberately from my chair
and head for the door, which I then open. It swings outwards. Nobody
can see into the room, with my body blocking the entrance. I stick my
head out to check if anyone is passing by. Then I see Gus' PA,
Jennifer, coming down the passage with a bunch of papers under her arm.
I gesture silently and urgently towards her. "Get HR here; get
security. We have a situation," I hiss. I gesture back towards the
room, making small circles with my left index finger against the side
of my head and try to bulge my eyes out, like a fish. She seems to pick
up on the urgency very quickly, thank God and nods, turning around and
hurrying back the way she has come. Inside the room again, I notice
that Dave is considerably more agitated than before. He is pacing up
and down beside the table, smacking his hands together with surprising
violence. In his socks and underpants, he looks simultaneously
vulnerable and ridiculous. He stops pacing for a moment and looks at
me. "Do you feel anything, Colin? What do you feel? Tell me what you
feel. Tell me." Crazy though it sounds, the question seems genuine and
I respond that way. I realise I need to show him some respect, give him
the benefit of the doubt. "I feel things. Positive things. Love. And
friendship, job satisfaction, you know. Most of the time, anyway. Of
course, sometimes it's difficult to hang on to everything. Keep it all
in perspective." I realise I am stalling. "But, in general, I feel
quite lucky, I think. I have a lot to be grateful for, put it that
way." He stares at me hard, like he doesn't believe a word. Just then
the door opens and two people walk in purposefully. One of them is
Tanya Carlyle, the head of HR, the other a security guy I don't
recognise. I feel a load taken off my shoulders.

Dave looks up and sees them coming into the room. Then he makes a
lightening lunge for one of the windows, manages to release the
restraining clasp and throws the window wide open; he starts to climb
up onto the sill, and his head and torso are very quickly half way out,
hanging over thin air, twelve storeys up. To his credit, the security
man acts quickly. He leaps the table - I never thought I would see
something like that, but then this was turning into no ordinary day -
throws himself towards Dave and grabs onto his lower half.
Even though Dave kicks out wildly, the guy is young and strong and he
hangs on tight. Finally, I seem to find my own motor power and move to
help him. Together, we drag Dave back into the room, where he lies
slumped on the carpet, immobile and speechless.

Well, what can I say? After that, we didn't see Dave anymore. His desk
was cleared later that week. A security guard came round, accompanied
by an apparatchik from HR, and removed all his personal effects. They
took them away in a cardboard box. His client accounts and workload
were redistributed amongst other members of the team. After a few weeks
we heard that he was in a psychiatric hospital, undergoing evaluation,
all at the expense of the company, of course. Medical insurance is part
of the deal here. They take care of us. A few of his colleagues got
together and we sent him a card. You know the routine - loads of
signatures from people in accounts who hardly knew the guy. 'Get Well
Dave; get back soon mate!' That kind of thing. One day his wife came in
to see HR, I guess to work out a settlement package while he was off.
After all, we didn't know what kind of diagnosis would be made; whether
he might be back on the case again. It's strange and upsetting, though,
the kind of psychological effect something like this can have. In the
way it makes you think more, I mean. Because I try not to think too
much, always have done. It slows me down, stops me doing things. In
Dave's case, I just couldn't get the episode out of my thoughts.
Sometimes on the tube, sometimes lying awake in bed, even in the pub
sinking a pint.

The words kept coming back to me: "I can't feel anything anymore". I
realise now there is a particular horror that these words hold for me,
and always will. I had no idea of the existence of this variation on
fear until Dave laid open its possibilities and set them in front of
me. Physical fear, of the unknown, or of failure even, yes. But not of
being numb, of emptiness. Now it's become real. He's made it come alive
for me, and I find myself in idle moments thinking about what exactly
must have gone on in Dave's head, the processes. I worried away about
Dave more and more until, one day in the office I went to see Tanya
Carlyle in HR and asked after him. Where was he? How was he? I said
that, as his ex-buddy, I wanted to go and visit him, just to keep in
touch and show a little solidarity. Tanya checked with his wife, who
apparently said she thought he would be pleased to see me, that he was
slowly on the mend, but not to expect too much. So one day not long
after that, I find myself on a local train, looking out at the neat
houses and gardens that stretch away into the heartlands of suburban
Surrey. I stop at the station, grab a cab and before you know it I am
at reception in a small and friendly hospital. Actually, it doesn't
seem like a hospital at all. More like a family hotel, except that
there is an occasional nurse in uniform. The patients appear to be
wandering around at will. I am quite impressed with the place; it seems
relaxed and informal, not what I had imagined at all. They show me into
a cosy reception room on the ground floor, with deep leather armchairs
and side tables, and tell me to wait, that Dave will be down in due
course. I get a cup of tea, some digestives, and I look at the pictures
on the wall, mostly seascapes, landscapes, the odd portrait with no
context to it. Why does no-one seem to really understand how to fit
pictures to a room? They always come across as arbitrary or
inappropriate, if they appear at all. And then, accompanied by a nurse,
standing in the doorway appears Dave, wearing jeans and an open necked
shirt. He seems frailer, less substantial than I remember. He has
certainly lost weight in the intervening weeks. I rise from my chair
and move towards him. We shake hands. The nurse says: "I'll be back in
half an hour David. If you need me, press the buzzer." And she gestures
towards a bell set in the wall on the right hand side of the
door.

We sit down and I pour Dave a cup of tea. He is very hesitant, unsure
of himself, reluctant to speak. I begin to feel like an intruder; I
don't know what to do to make him relax, or to get through to him on a
negotiable level. In fact, if I am honest, I am really stumped to know
what to say to the guy. Nothing has changed, yet everything has
changed. For one reason or another, I guess Dave has developed a mental
illness, the precise nature of which is going to remain unspoken
between us. Maybe it has been with him a long time, just growing inside
like a bad seed. In any case, I don't know what is wrong with him and
it seems unlikely that he will articulate it for me. The situation does
nothing more than compound the awkwardness that has existed between us
recently. Before this, I could always get a reaction, a spark by
relying on my trusty sense of humour to open up channels of
communication with Dave. But this isn't funny, none of it. Where are
the jokes supposed to come from? Who's laughing? Not me, for one. We
manage to make some desultory conversation, though; I fill him in on
developments at the office, on the progress of particular people and
their relationships, like Stephanie. I just try and keep it light. My
account of the Christmas party raises a half smile, but he cannot
sustain it. He seems tired and anxious. His eyes keep sliding away and
I find him looking around the room, as if he has lost something. Try as
I do, I get the sense that I am not really making progress. After half
an hour of this, I rise to go. The nurse appears at the door. I say:
"Take care of yourself, David. Just focus on getting better, picking up
your life again." He nods, but says nothing. He looks cornered,
panicky. For a second, I am back in that office meeting room,
remembering how I watched him pace up and down, sweating and furious. I
see again for an instant the image of his body, half hanging between
life and death from the window. Anyway, I shake his hand and we part,
he to return to his ward, me to catch a train back to town.

Later, as I sit in the carriage half focused on the same gardens that
slide past the window, I understand that Dave is unlikely to come back
to work in the short term. I suppose he will find some respite from his
demons with his family, but suspect it will not be easy for any of
them, least of all his wife. Children can adapt to most things, in the
end. But what is worst is the realisation that this person who has
taken such a dramatic flight from the world was always so hidden to me,
his buddy. I never had a clue, and that hurts me. It really does. As
the train pulls in and I rise from my seat, I experience a sharp and
pervasive sense of desolation. Momentarily, I am overwhelmed with
terror. Stepping down from the train, I console myself with the
knowledge that at least I am feeling something.

ends

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