Read by Lois Tucker
(For the full podcast of the night, please click here.)
- Become unemployed
For the past three months, there have been clues you weren’t fitting in. They didn’t like it when you corrected their grammar. They didn’t like it when you removed every adjective from that guy’s manuscript. They didn’t like it when you reduced that novel of eighty thousand words to just one side of double-spaced A4.
“It’s not that you’re not taking the job seriously,” your boss tells you. “In fact, quite the opposite.”
You know where this is going. Her tone of voice is different now. So, before she can say the words “let you go” or “call it a day”, you stand up, go to your desk, and pack your things with such haste that you leave behind some tea, a mug, and a pen.
Outside, it seems unclear whether you have just quit or just been fired, but it hardly matters, because either way, you’re unemployed.
- Get drunk.
“The thing is,” you say to the bartender, one hour and two double gin and tonics later. “No one really appreciates editors.”
“Why?” the bartender asks.
“Because no one notices us until we’re not there. When we’re not there, it’s chaos. Suddenly, there are adverbs, adverbs everywhere.”
“Like bin men,” the bartender replies.
“What?”
“Like bin men,” the bartender repeats. “No one appreciates them until they’re gone and your road is overflowing with rubbish and there are rats in your garden.”
You understand exactly what the bartender means, because the bartender is using a straightforward and entirely apt simile. However, you do not like your work being compared to that of bin men’s, and so you object. “No. You don’t get it. Editors are not like bin men. Really, we have very little in common.”
“OK,” he says. “So, you’re unemployed. I was unemployed too, a few months ago. It sucked.”
You feel wounded. “I am not unemployed. I’m just suddenly freelance and working from home.”
“I like that,” the bartender says jovially, although what there is to be jovial about is beyond you. “Maybe I’ll be a freelance bartender one day. Maybe I’ll work from home too.”
After listening to the bartender laugh at his own joke for an inordinate amount of time, you resolve never to come to this bar again.
- Linger in denial.
You are walking home, pissed at four in the afternoon, and just to taunt yourself, you go into a bookshop, fetch a couple of the books you have worked on, and stare at those beautiful pages, feeling sad because you no longer have a job, feeling drunk because you are drunk, and feeling happy because they are so devoid of all your pet hates: superfluous “that’s”, “suddenly’s”, flowery adjectives, and adverbs which modify verbs of speech.
You know that all around you are texts in need of a damn good edit. So, you pick up the biggest book around, sit down on a sofa, get out a permanent marker, and start crossing out all the “that’s”, “suddenly’s”, flowery adjectives, and adverbs which modify verbs of speech. It takes a long time to complete the task, because it is a very long book, but after you have finished, you find that you feel better.
When you go to buy a copy of a book you already own, you notice that the bin men have arrived.
“They earn more than me,” you say to the bookseller, pointing at the bin men.
“OK,” says the bookseller. “Well, maybe they earn more than me too. What is it that you do?”
“I’m a freelance editor, working from home,” you say. “But I haven’t edited anything yet because I’ve only been doing this job for a few hours, and I’ve taken those hours off, because I wanted to get drunk.”
The bookseller doesn’t say anything in response to this, she just asks if you need a 5p bag.
“No,” you say. “I can’t afford things like that any more.”
4. Rage
That evening you burn forty books: all books you have worked on, beautifully devoid of superfluous “that’s”, “suddenly’s”, flowery adjectives, and adverbs which modify verbs of speech.
The fire entrances you. You realise that although you’ve been living in this flatshare for five years, this is your first fire. You resolve to light a fire each night now that you’re unemployed. It can be your new thing. You need a new thing now that you’re unemployed, so when people ask you what you do you can say, “I’m a freelance editor, working from home, but my real passion is fire.”
5. Struggle
You go to the park because you suppose that’s what unemployed people do. You don’t know for sure, because you’ve never been unemployed, but it seems that unemployed people would do things that are free. However, much to your dismay, you find that the park is a strange place, full of emotional children, hysterically upset one minute and then wildly euphoric the next.
You feel so out-of-place without a child that you go into town and into the library. You suppose that’s also what unemployed people would do, because it still seems that unemployed people would do things that are free. However, much to your further dismay, you remember that this is a terrible library. There is a strong smell of cabbage, it’s oddly loud for a place that’s meant to be quiet, and the children seem to have followed you there.
One hour and three double gin and tonics later, you are talking to the bartender again. Or rather, he is talking to you.
“The thing is,” he says to you. “No one really appreciates bartenders.”
“Why?” you ask.
“We are basically doctors,” he says.
“OK,” you say.
“We spend a lot of time talking to lonely people, just like doctors,” the bartender says. “And although we don’t administer many drugs to the general public, we do administer a drug that can warm you up when you’re cold, chill you out when you’re stressed, buoy you up when you’re flat. And although too much of it can depress you, in this country, and in this life, when there are such things as unemployment and divorce and overcast weather, too little of it can depress you as well.”
“I am not lonely,” you say, because you are not lonely, just alone.
“I never said you were,” he said. “You are alone though.”
“Like drug dealers,” you say, ignoring his last comment. “Bartenders are like drug dealers. But instead of dealing with many drugs, you deal with only one.”
The bartender shrugs. “Doctor, drug dealer, bartender, it’s all the same thing, really.”
As you realise that this bartender a) talks too much, b) has weirdly rehearsed opinions, and c) works here all the time, you (again) resolve never to go to this bar again.
6. Rage
That night, you burn some clothes you never wore anyway. Some give off an odd smell when they burn, which makes you wonder what they are made of. Some burn fantastically, which makes you wonder what they are made of. You expect to feel good, because the burning is meant to be a theatrical, symbolic and cathartic act. However, all you feel is an odd kind of flat drunkenness.
- Try to escape.
“So, why did you leave your last job?” the interviewer says. “You were only there three months. What happened?”
This is one of the first questions he asks. In response, you do not have a response, because there are so many things you know you simply cannot explain. You can’t explain how they didn’t like your rigorous fact-checking, your eye for detail, or your supreme grasp of English grammar. You can’t explain how they didn’t like it that you did not only all your own work but others’ too. You can’t explain how they didn’t like it that you were always there: arriving very early and staying very late literally every day. You can’t explain that you lived your work: thought about it as soon as you woke up and dreamed about it when you were asleep. You can’t explain how you were fired, not for being a bad editor, but actually for being the best.
Seconds of perfect silence pass. Meanwhile, your stomach sinks and your heart pounds. The temperature of your body increases rapidly and you begin to shake. You find that you can no longer feel your feet or hands or face, and that every part of you wants to run far away. Your surroundings – the interviewer, his hideous shirt, the potted plant, the window with a view of a wall – all have taken on an oneiric quality. You feel detached, and nauseated in a way that makes you wonder if that sandwich you ate for lunch was poisoned. Maybe you are dying. Or maybe you are just about puke.
You are experiencing something called a panic attack. You’ve read about them before, because panic attacks are interesting and strange enough for writers to write about, and so crop up in literature every now and again. However, you only realise this four double gin and tonics later, when you and the bartender are talking again.
“The thing is,” he says. “Most people have bullshit jobs.”
“Yes,” you say.
“They sit at their desks, they type, type, type. But what do they actually do? What do they actually
fucking do?”
“Yes,” you say. You have never agreed with anybody more. As a consequence, you resolve to come to this bar more often.
- Rage
That night, you burn the diaries you kept as a child, your bank statements and receipts from the past three years, and the rest of your books.
When your flatmate asks you what the fuck you’re doing, you reply that you’re editing. You explain that you used to hoard so many extraneous items and now are correcting this error.
The next morning, you notice that she has left a note for you on the kitchen table. She has written, employing non-standard grammar and a colloquial tone, that she will no longer be living with you as of next week. Her lack of apostrophes annoys you. Her imminent departure does not.
- Become very sad.
You take the rejection badly, and soon after receiving the email with its “unfortunately”, “this time”, “experience” and “not quite right”, you find that you cannot sleep. Sometimes, it’s not until dawn has filtered its way into your bedroom that you nod off. Sometimes, you don’t at all. In the day, you are a ghost. You eat scraps of food which somehow all taste like cardboard and circle around the flat again and again, in a way that is both slow and restless. You avoid the bar and its tender and drink gin in bed instead. You stare at screens but take very little in. Your mind is restless yet sluggish. Your body is sleepy yet sleepless. At irregular intervals throughout the day, you feel feverish and achy. These symptoms make you wonder whether you have the flu, but then the fever lifts and you wonder whether you imagined it. You google “psychosomatic illness”. You google “sudden high temperature and body aches”. You google “editorial jobs”.
You are experiencing something called depression. You’ve read about it before, because depression is interesting and strange enough for writers to write about, and so crops up in literature every now and again. However, you only realise this when
- Rage
you’ve lit a fire.
There is very little left to burn. You have burnt all your books, notebooks, receipts, invoices, guarantees and diaries. You have burnt all your to-do lists, calendars, and letters of complaint. You no longer have very many clothes. Even your shoes have drastically diminished.
You begin to wonder – were it possible to burn a part of yourself – which part would you choose first? Would it be your pedantry? Your eye for detail, or your supreme grasp of English grammar? Would it be your commitment, enthusiasm, or dedication? Would it be your solitude? Your not-quite-rightness? Your can’t-keep-a-flatmate-or-job-for-more-than-three-months-ness?
As there is very little left to burn, as you have burnt all your books, notebooks, receipts, invoices, guarantees and diaries, as you have burnt all your to-do lists, calendars and letters of complaint, as you no longer have very many clothes, and as even your shoes have drastically diminished, you decide to burn your hand instead. It hurts. A lot.
(c) Alice Franklin, 2018
Alice Franklin is a bartender who writes, albeit at a leisurely pace. Her book reviews have been published in the Financial Times, and her flash fiction appears in a couple of Spanish-language anthologies. In her free time, she enjoys running slowly and lying in hammocks.
Lois Tucker has done various bits and bobs and will probably end up doing more. Previous stuff includes penning and performing three solo shows as her silent comedy alter ego ‘Lois of the Lane’ and releasing the MissLLaneEous EP on Bandcamp, which consists of catchy, silly songs that you just might like. (She’s not always as serious as her headshot makes her out to be …) More details at (the much in need of an update): www.loistucker.net
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