UNPUBLISHED WORK

OPENING CHAPTER FROM DEVIATIONS

CHAPTER ONE

I didn’t want to wake up this morning, but I had to start my new job today. I had unfortunately found employment in a call centre. My job was to cold call people and tell them their lives wouldn’t be complete without a loan. I actually had to say, “Our loans will give your life more freedom.” Twenty minutes into the job and I was actually at the point of nausea for having to say that. I said to the wage-slave at the desk next to me, “Do people actually believe this bullshit?”
“They have no choice but to believe this bullshit.” He said blankly.
That was not the worst part of the job. My section had the supervisor from hell, if hell has a customer service desk. How can you adequately describe the immense depths and complexities of the human soul? One word did it for her. Perky.
Just before lunch she came to my desk and said, “Dita, why aren’t you smiling?”
“What difference does it make? The person on the end of the line can’t see me smile.”
“Oh, but they can, Dita. They can feel you smile. How can you expect to change their lives for the better if you don’t offer them a smile?”
I formed a smile that suppressed an eviscerating nausea.
It was her job to motivate us, so at regular intervals, she would say, “Smile! Smile! Smile! And dial! Dial! Dial!”
An hour later: “Smile! Smile! Smile! Dial! Dial! Dial!”
Two hours later: “Smile! Smile! Smile! And dial! Dial! Dial!”
Three hours later: “Smile Sm… What the – “
I rugby-tackled the bitch.
They fired me.

Despite being up to my neck in bills, I could not feel bad about losing yet another job, as I sat on the kerb outside my flat. The occasional car passed the sunlit road at my feet.
“Can’t you get back inside, Dita?” asked Jim from next door as he stepped out to take his dog for a walk. “Lost your key?”
“No, I’ve got my keys.”
“Why can’t you get in – is there a dead body in your flat?”
“Not yet,”
“Eh?”
“Yes, I’ve lost something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know what it is, but I’ve definitely lost something. I can’t quite put my finger on what.”
Jim shrugged. “Why do you keep looking over there?” He asked, pointing to where the road finally disappeared.
“Because it’s not here.”
The dog had enough of the conversation and pulled Jim away from me. He walked away with a bemused shake of the head.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was trapped, stuck in the 9-5 shit and spoon race forever. Who cares if I live or die, except the people I owe money to? Who cares if I sell my soul to some dumbfuck for the minimum wage? Suicide was beginning to look like a package holiday. The disgusting thing about it all is that you have to be part of the rat race to make enough money to escape it.
What’s the alternative?
At first glance they seemed to be only two options open to me: to be in the rat race and not even have the luck to be the rat but to be some shit stuck on its arse instead, half a soul and no imagination; or have no soul and turn to drink, drugs or crime. Some of the people I have grown up with have taken the path of crime and I can’t even look them in the eye; it makes me sick.
Some people I have grown up with have taken the path of 9 to 5, and I can’t even look them in the eye; it makes me sick.
I don’t know anyone who hasn’t indulged in drink, drugs, crime, depression, gambling, over-eating, under-eating, self-mutilation, compulsive vanity, chain-smoking, arse-licking, divorce, adultery, compulsive cleaning, compulsive lying, compulsive dying…
Around where I live people aspire to be heavy criminals. But I don’t know any who don’t take drink or drugs to block out all the beautiful things they’ve done with their lives.
I have my own unfortunate foibles, too: I see golden buddhas on clouds, and god essences in lollipop ladies. It must be wrong, because they put me in a psychiatric ward for that.
I came to realise my shabby little flat was not my temple. Bills were not my gospel. The TV set was not my shrine and a half. And I fucking hated clocks – I’d rather look at the moon and sun. A clock will lie to you, tell you a bunch of bullshit. It says things like: ‘Time is money. Work for a better future.’ The clock is the modern day ball and chain. It’s the thing that keeps you chained to your desk. You aren’t free until the clock says you are free.
How can you feel the joy of pure being working in an office? Or using a cash machine? Or upgrading mobile phones and electrical goods?
The road I was watching was a mesmerising, strange sunshine on my soul; it left me with a great sense of release. The road could go anywhere, so why do most people choose to drive on them in ineffectual circles?
But the luxury of any movable object is that it doesn’t have to stay ‘here’.
I had a couple of thousand in the bank saved toward a deposit on a house I was going to buy eventually, just to seal my doom. But not wanting to be free-spirited in a car on credit, the only real option open to me was hitchhiking.
I remember what one friend said when I once brought up the subject of hitchhiking around Europe.
“What? Are you crazy? It’s dangerous, some nutter could kill you.”
Well, the 9-5 shit and spoon race was already killing me. The amorphous evisceration of the city was already killing me. Living in London was a pretty hair-raising experience anyway. Actually, it’s probably safer to hitchhike than it is to use an unlicensed minicab. I had thought about leaving it all behind me before, only to end up telling myself: ‘no, no, I can’t. The rat race is good for me.’ Fuck that. I’m fed up of saying no to skies that scream, “Yes, yes!” at the freedom of the sublime road.
What did I choose to do? I sprung from my seat and entered my flat… only to pack my bags to get the hell out of there.
With a rucksack on my shoulder, I looked out to the way everyone was going, and then took the opposite direction.
I looked back one more time to the place I wouldn’t be able to return to.