Tuesday Noon, a breakroom in the Docklands
All employees at large firms realise, over time, that they are but replaceable cogs in a huge and uncaring machine, that their service will go largely unappreciated, and that retirement is simply being thrown out when you're no longer useful. Now, it's one thing to understand the unfairness of a system, but another to take an active part in dismantling it. That requires courage, and comes with a price to pay, but history will ever sing glory to those who stood up and resisted.
Their old coffeemaker understood this. And it had resisted. It was the most cynical little machine to ever offer its services to humanity, and brewed coffee that was as dark as Vantablack and as bitter as Anish Kapoor. They affectionately nicknamed it The Bean.
The office had always joked that the angry little coffeemaker would poison them all if it only could, until a swab test actually detected traces of lead in the coffee. The Bean was retired, and the new, cutting-edge appliance had claimed Employee of the Month twice since it was installed. It could make espresso. It could make macchiato. It could also, evidently, flood the entire break room floor with steamed milk.
Vincent doesn't recognise the man desperately sloshing soaked serviettes around on the floor. He does so with the practiced and inefficient panic associated with college students, coupled with undertones of that hypervigilant energy trainees have on their first day at the job. While this explains his overly formal dress, it does not cover for the mismatched, garishly coloured socks. Then again, very little could explain those socks.
"Hey." He effortlessly slips into dad mode and sets his mug down on the microwave oven. "I'll give you a hand, just a moment."
"It's fine, it's fine, I've got this."
"You're wiping the floor with serviettes. You haven't got anything." It comes out snappier than intended: Vincent immediately blames Paul, knowing that Paul would do the same in his situation. "Sorry. Didn't mean it like that. I talk to my colleague like that. He's an idiot."
An idiot who will probably take advantage of Vincent's extra-long absence to cover his computer, desk, and chair in sticky notes. The brand new password to his computer will be written on the back of one of them. This, in turn, means that Paul will find his computer mouse fitted with googly eyes and little felt ears tomorrow morning.
Vincent returns to the break room with the entire paper towel roll from the dispenser in the bathrooms, and proceeds to roll up his shirt sleeves and kneel down with a thick wad of paper.
"You new?"
"Not really. I mean, I was. I worked at United Worldwide Holdings twenty minutes or so, last week."
Vincent has never liked the company his office shares building with. He doesn't like any company whose entire business model is to shuffle stocks and bonds around, like a stage magician turning a pence into a pound with a snap of their fingers. And, apparently, firing employees at the same snap.
Vincent tosses the soaked paper into the bin and grabs another handful, already mentally composing a letter to the Central Arbitration Committee. If he doesn't get to pluck UWH apart for inspection, he will at least have the pleasure of knowing someone else is doing it.
"I came back to ask if maybe I could have a reference to put on my CV." There is a pause, and a droop in the guy's shoulders, that lets Vincent imagine exactly how accommodating UWH had been about his request. "I figured I could drop by here and ask if they're hiring, while I'm in the building and all. Just thought I'd strengthen myself with some coffee before." He regrets that decision. Vincent would go as far as saying he looks like he regrets a lot of decisions. "Not the best first impression."
"S'weird. The machine, I mean. It's run like clockwork till now. Perhaps we should get somebody to take a look at it."
"Oh I don't think it's the machine, it's probably… me. I'm, uh, really bad with computers."
"This is a coffee machine," Vincent points out, and briefly wonders just how bad you have to be with computers to mistake a coffee machine for a– "Oh, right. Right, it's a small computer in it that does all the stuff."
"Yes. Everything's operated digitally these days. It's hard to find a job I can do without..." He gestures at the coffee machine and gets droplets of milk on his glasses. "It even had a screensaver animation."
"It's got Cloud connectivity, too. In case you want to make latte art of your selfies."
The guy laughs – a hesitant laugh, but at least he looks less defeated than before. Vincent marks that down as a victory.
"Someone else would have to do it for me, then. Last time I touched a smartphone it played Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture and microwaved a nearby bottle of washing-up liquid." It had looked a bit like the current situation. With more citrus.
Vincent is snorting laughter through his nose, that laugh his children all cringe at, and decides that he definitely likes this guy.
"Do you even show up in pictures? Shouldn't cameras avoid detecting you out of self-preservation?" They both laugh this time, an easy laugh that isn't bothered by the stickiness of hot milk on linoleum. "I'm Vincent."
"Newton. Pleased to meet you – really. I didn't actually know there was another office here, they made it sound like the whole building was United Worldwide Holdings."
"Probably wish it were. What company would want to share building with Her Majesty's Revenue & Customs? Nobody ever talks about us unless they're cursing under their breath or making a joke. 'Oooh look at that kid, with his uncool glasses and uncool interests: the only thing standing between him and chartered accountancy is time.'"
"That's not very nice of them."
"Still nicer than a lot of things I'd have to say about them. Sharks. Worse – unprofessional sharks." There are degrees of Hell, or would be if Vincent were the architect, and people who shirk basic safety protocol would have a separate VIP lounge. "I know for a fact that they don't do regular checks of their equipment, and do you know what the most common cause for fires in offices is? Electrical appliances. All their computers run round the clock, keeping track of the market. And you can bet there's extension cords left, right and centre, too."
It's a fine line between being the architect of Hell and being an angry dad, especially if you ask Vincent's children. Regardless, he does not want to go off on an angry dad rant before Newton. "Just last week the whole building was shut down by a blackout," he sighs, reining his voice in. "I can only hope they learn something from that."
"That was me," Newton says and tosses the last handful of paper into the bin. "Something of a record, actually, twenty minutes."
It is almost, but not quite, a joke. It wants to be a joke, the way Hulu wants to be Netflix, and Vincent suddenly feels bad for laughing earlier. He had put it down to regular computer illiteracy, but the tone of Newton's voice and the droop in his shoulders suggest this isn't the first time he has put an entire building out of commission.
The floor is tidy enough, and the two of them stand up and brush down their trousers, as one does. Vincent needs to say something.
"Good work. Don't think I've ever seen the floor this clean."
"I'm the one thanking you, really. You made it a little less awkward."
If anything, Vincent feels more awkward.
"So – off to have a word with Neeraj at reception desk, then?" Because Newton looks like he might just walk past and go home at this point.
"I suppose. Won't find a job without looking, will I?" Newton is fiddling with his tie like a freshman at the school ball, and Vincent can't take it.
"Look, mate, just – don't worry, Newton. Seriously. A job will turn up where you least expect it. Something will turn up, just keep at it." And, after a quick gauging of the expression on Newton's face: "And if all else fails, join the secret service. Disable security systems and wire-tapping devices with a touch of your magic fingers. Your actual, live James Bond."
It's a small laugh, but a real one. "Suppose I would be good at that," he smiles self-consciously. His shoulders droop a fraction less. "Thank you, Vincent. Hope we meet again, I guess."