Clare Kane
Goodbye, Corporate World
So, goodbye, corporate world. It’s been fun.
My hands are shaking in the lift. I try unsuccessfully to jam them into my pockets, my pinkies twitching away from the rest of my fingers. The grey-skinned man next to me is watching with one eye. I realise my building pass is still hanging around my neck. Should I give that in? No, don’t go back. I look at the floor, avoiding my own guilty gaze in the mirror.
I can’t believe that at first I kind of liked it. I convinced myself there was beauty in the routine, in pouring my waist into sexy little pencil skirts and tying my hair in a school teacher bun. I loved getting the tube in the morning, feeling like Office Barbie complete with pinstripes, freshly-pressed shirt and laptop bag. But the excitement of skirt suits and staplers got lost somewhere in the late-night Chinese takeaways and misplaced commas.
Outside, I want to have a special moment, to gulp in the fresh air of freedom. I lookup at the grey-streaked buildings of Victoria, feeling like I’m in the opening credits of a movie. But then a harried middle-aged woman rolls her suitcase over my toe. As I step back with a pointed, “Ow!”, I bang into a junkie. Did he stab me with a needle to give me AIDs? That happened in the eighties. I need to watch myself out here in the non-corporate world. I fiddle with my phone and decide not to call my parents. They’ll only worry. I’ll walk around Hyde Park instead. That was the kind of thing I always fantasised about doing when I was working.
It’s a gloomy day but my heart is dancing out of my rib cage with all the possibilities the world can offer. I was good at ballet when I was little. Maybe I could be a dancer. Or an English teacher. A girl at university had a nervous breakdown and went to Korea to teach English. She never came back and now she has a big Korean husband and a little Korean baby. Maybe a baby would be good for me. I walk towards the lake and sit down, smearing mud on my A-line skirt. At least I’ll never need to wear it again.
It’s almost five o’clock when they call. Work has organised an appointment at the hospital. Mum and Dad are on their way to get me. I sigh, wipe the dirt of my clothes, consider not going and resign myself to it. I’ve made the break, time for the path of least resistance.
“Well, Chloe. We’re glad your safe. Your employer has been very worried about you.”
“That’s a first.” I stare down the balding man, a pudgy psychologist or psychiatrist, he said, some kind of psycho.
“Why don't you tell me a bit about what happened today?” He folds his hands gently, in the manner of those accustomed to working with the insane.
“I think you already know. I put a comma in the wrong place on a press release. Grammar kills. There was a bit of a kerfuffle about it.”
“A kerfuffle? Perhaps you could explain exactly what happened.”
“I called him a pasty-faced, pot-bellied wanker. That's why I'm here, isn't it?” I sit back with a smug smile. “Is this over yet?”
“Not quite. We believe you had what we might call…an episode. Your employer says stress has been building for months. Let’s see…weight loss, compulsive behaviour, inability to finish work on time. Maybe you could tell me a bit about your job.”
“I write lies about companies to make people like them. But sometimes I put commas in the wrong place and the whole world comes crashing down.” I think it’s a pretty accurate description but Baldy looks unimpressed.
“So your decision to leave was to do with this comma?” He gives me his practised raised eyebrow.
“Look, doctor, I know you save lives here. But we save people’s asses. And grammar matters.” I raise an eyebrow back at him. “Please can I go home now?”
They keep me in overnight, give me disgusting food and let me read magazines. In the morning, a woman who looks like a school librarian comes to talk to me. I tell her I am 22 and no, I do not want my job back even though it is kind of them to consider my mental state. No, I am not crazy. Sometimes people snap after three 13-hour days.“Chloe, you sound very lucid this morning.”
“I’ve been lucid the whole time. I’m beginning to feel like the only one around here who knows what’s going on.”
“What I suggest is that you go home today and then come and see me once a week to chat. We can talk about anything you like. How you’re feeling, your plans. We’ll get you back on your feet, don't you worry. If you want to look into working in a different field rather than returning to corporate communications, I’m sure you’ll find opportunities.” She smiles apologetically at me. “Any ideas?”
“Dancer or English teacher in Korea,” I say with the saccharine smile I perfected for use with grown-ups in my teenage years.
“Oh, right. Well, for someone with your disposition it’s probably best to find something stable. You know, a job with routine, where you go in at the same time every day and see familiar faces. A job with a pension plan and opportunities to save. One that won’t overstimulate you.”
“I’m not sure that’s what I want,” I say to her, slowly, making her morning more difficult.
“That’s what we all want, dear,” she says and pats my thigh.
And they call me crazy?
My hands are shaking in the lift. I try unsuccessfully to jam them into my pockets, my pinkies twitching away from the rest of my fingers. The grey-skinned man next to me is watching with one eye. I realise my building pass is still hanging around my neck. Should I give that in? No, don’t go back. I look at the floor, avoiding my own guilty gaze in the mirror.
I can’t believe that at first I kind of liked it. I convinced myself there was beauty in the routine, in pouring my waist into sexy little pencil skirts and tying my hair in a school teacher bun. I loved getting the tube in the morning, feeling like Office Barbie complete with pinstripes, freshly-pressed shirt and laptop bag. But the excitement of skirt suits and staplers got lost somewhere in the late-night Chinese takeaways and misplaced commas.
Outside, I want to have a special moment, to gulp in the fresh air of freedom. I lookup at the grey-streaked buildings of Victoria, feeling like I’m in the opening credits of a movie. But then a harried middle-aged woman rolls her suitcase over my toe. As I step back with a pointed, “Ow!”, I bang into a junkie. Did he stab me with a needle to give me AIDs? That happened in the eighties. I need to watch myself out here in the non-corporate world. I fiddle with my phone and decide not to call my parents. They’ll only worry. I’ll walk around Hyde Park instead. That was the kind of thing I always fantasised about doing when I was working.
It’s a gloomy day but my heart is dancing out of my rib cage with all the possibilities the world can offer. I was good at ballet when I was little. Maybe I could be a dancer. Or an English teacher. A girl at university had a nervous breakdown and went to Korea to teach English. She never came back and now she has a big Korean husband and a little Korean baby. Maybe a baby would be good for me. I walk towards the lake and sit down, smearing mud on my A-line skirt. At least I’ll never need to wear it again.
It’s almost five o’clock when they call. Work has organised an appointment at the hospital. Mum and Dad are on their way to get me. I sigh, wipe the dirt of my clothes, consider not going and resign myself to it. I’ve made the break, time for the path of least resistance.
“Well, Chloe. We’re glad your safe. Your employer has been very worried about you.”
“That’s a first.” I stare down the balding man, a pudgy psychologist or psychiatrist, he said, some kind of psycho.
“Why don't you tell me a bit about what happened today?” He folds his hands gently, in the manner of those accustomed to working with the insane.
“I think you already know. I put a comma in the wrong place on a press release. Grammar kills. There was a bit of a kerfuffle about it.”
“A kerfuffle? Perhaps you could explain exactly what happened.”
“I called him a pasty-faced, pot-bellied wanker. That's why I'm here, isn't it?” I sit back with a smug smile. “Is this over yet?”
“Not quite. We believe you had what we might call…an episode. Your employer says stress has been building for months. Let’s see…weight loss, compulsive behaviour, inability to finish work on time. Maybe you could tell me a bit about your job.”
“I write lies about companies to make people like them. But sometimes I put commas in the wrong place and the whole world comes crashing down.” I think it’s a pretty accurate description but Baldy looks unimpressed.
“So your decision to leave was to do with this comma?” He gives me his practised raised eyebrow.
“Look, doctor, I know you save lives here. But we save people’s asses. And grammar matters.” I raise an eyebrow back at him. “Please can I go home now?”
They keep me in overnight, give me disgusting food and let me read magazines. In the morning, a woman who looks like a school librarian comes to talk to me. I tell her I am 22 and no, I do not want my job back even though it is kind of them to consider my mental state. No, I am not crazy. Sometimes people snap after three 13-hour days.“Chloe, you sound very lucid this morning.”
“I’ve been lucid the whole time. I’m beginning to feel like the only one around here who knows what’s going on.”
“What I suggest is that you go home today and then come and see me once a week to chat. We can talk about anything you like. How you’re feeling, your plans. We’ll get you back on your feet, don't you worry. If you want to look into working in a different field rather than returning to corporate communications, I’m sure you’ll find opportunities.” She smiles apologetically at me. “Any ideas?”
“Dancer or English teacher in Korea,” I say with the saccharine smile I perfected for use with grown-ups in my teenage years.
“Oh, right. Well, for someone with your disposition it’s probably best to find something stable. You know, a job with routine, where you go in at the same time every day and see familiar faces. A job with a pension plan and opportunities to save. One that won’t overstimulate you.”
“I’m not sure that’s what I want,” I say to her, slowly, making her morning more difficult.
“That’s what we all want, dear,” she says and pats my thigh.
And they call me crazy?