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Whatever you said about Walls, the man had style.
There was always an elegant discretion whenever he had to let one of us go. You would be called into his office – an offhand “Mr Neill would like a quick word” – and as you walked past the secretary, whose pursed lips revealed nothing, you would carefully consider what you had been doing that day, and what you were planning on doing the next, preparing yourself for whatever questions he might ask.
He wouldn’t answer the door on these occasions. Your knock, however delicate, would never be greeted with even a traditional “come in”, and for the best part of thirty seconds you would stand awkwardly outside the office, wondering how long you should wait until knocking again, or if you should just go in anyway.
And you do – eventually – and as you close the shiny wooden door behind you, you can’t help feeling as if you’ve already done something wrong. This was where I was standing at precisely ten o’clock on Tuesday morning, with Walls nowhere in sight.
Moving towards the desk in the centre of the hexagonal office, my eyes caught sight of a portly, shirtless, middle-aged man lying spread-eagled, still, on the office’s seventy-third floor balcony. My first thought was that he was dead. The poor bloke had been getting some fresh air when three decades of poor living finally took its toll, and here I was to pick up the dead, chunky pieces.
However, as I walked towards the window, further inspection revealed sunglasses, suntan lotion and the unmistakable wheeze of two struggling lungs lifting a ribcage forever up and down.
“Mr Neill?” I poked my head through the open window.
He craned his neck back and lifted his sunglasses.
“Ah, Jones! Just the man. Do come through, won’t you.”
He beckoned for me to lie down next to him and, leaving the space between us as large as I possibly could, I dropped myself down onto the patio floor, still very much fully suited.
We lay there in silence until: “Do you know why I’ve called you in here, Jones?”
“No sir.”
“Perhaps you might hazard a guess.”
I was dangerously close to picking up the suntan lotion and saying “for those awkward, troublesome areas?”, but managed to restrain myself.
“I’d assumed that I had done something wrong.”
Walls chuckled.
“Am I really that intimidating a presence?” He rolled onto his side to face me, his gut followed shortly afterwards. “No, you’ve nothing to worry about.”
He was surveying me with an empty smile, as if it were my turn to talk. The whole proximity of the situation was suffocating.
“Well then, why am I here?”
“To be promoted, Jones! You’re getting my job!”
Was he joking? The smile remained, but he wasn’t laughing. ‘Me?’ I wanted to say, ‘the boss? I’m just a rep, I’ve no experience of higher management’- he cut in: “Well say something man, this is supposed to be a good thing!”
“Why?”
He laughed then. Of course he was joking, well he didn’t fool me. Not once did I-
“I know exactly what you’re thinking. Why get someone else to do my job? I mean, it’s a pretty tight ship, isn’t it? We’re sailing on smoothly, destination in sight…" so he was serious, "well I agree entirely. That’s why you'll be taking my place in France.”
“France, sir?”
“Yes m’boy, France! You’re off to fight in the war! Letter arrived just yesterday, they’re drafting in officers with experience of man management. Big business types like ourselves, you know the sort.”
Well, let me tell you, that caught me off guard. You don’t digest that kind of information straight away. It sticks in the throat, and this particular morsel remained even after several hearty swallows. And yes, I knew the type of which he spoke – well enough to know I wasn’t it. Finally I asked him:
“Why me? Why not someone else? Why not you?”
“Why not me? Well indeed, indeed – that was their first choice, you know, and I did have to give it due consideration. But I had the option to delegate and my work here is important. Besides, you’re a people person! That’s all being an officer really is!”
Perhaps it was, I remember thinking. Perhaps it’s not too bad over there. But then I remembered Smithy, Dave, Robbo and Simons, and how they’d been ‘let go’, and not seen again. No, I thought to myself, this simply isn’t for me. But then Walls noticed my anxiety, and spoke more firmly.
“Now listen here Jones, I hope this isn’t going to be difficult. You should treat this as an honour, I certainly did. I’ve chosen you because I feel you’re the best man and the army need- they demand the best men.”
He used neither his tone nor his words to order me, rather his eyes. His stare was intense, he was close enough to make sure of that - I could feel his breath break on my face before swirling up my nostrils. Argument at this point was both futile and repulsive. I pulled back, breaking eye contact, surrendering.
“Right.”
“Your things are being packed as we speak, my secretary will give you the details.” I got up stiffly, clicking my neck from side to side. Looking out across the city, I noticed the view for the first time that day. Walls adjusted his sunglasses beneath me and shuffled his shoulders, “This is your chance to be a great man – to grab life by the scruff of the neck!” Neither of us said goodbye.
Outside the secretary was waiting for me, the contents of my desk sorted into a box on hers, a brown envelope resting on the top. I picked it up and looked out over the office, at my empty desk, at the water cooler, and at her. She smiled at me.
I’m going to war, I realised.
There was always an elegant discretion whenever he had to let one of us go. You would be called into his office – an offhand “Mr Neill would like a quick word” – and as you walked past the secretary, whose pursed lips revealed nothing, you would carefully consider what you had been doing that day, and what you were planning on doing the next, preparing yourself for whatever questions he might ask.
He wouldn’t answer the door on these occasions. Your knock, however delicate, would never be greeted with even a traditional “come in”, and for the best part of thirty seconds you would stand awkwardly outside the office, wondering how long you should wait until knocking again, or if you should just go in anyway.
And you do – eventually – and as you close the shiny wooden door behind you, you can’t help feeling as if you’ve already done something wrong. This was where I was standing at precisely ten o’clock on Tuesday morning, with Walls nowhere in sight.
Moving towards the desk in the centre of the hexagonal office, my eyes caught sight of a portly, shirtless, middle-aged man lying spread-eagled, still, on the office’s seventy-third floor balcony. My first thought was that he was dead. The poor bloke had been getting some fresh air when three decades of poor living finally took its toll, and here I was to pick up the dead, chunky pieces.
However, as I walked towards the window, further inspection revealed sunglasses, suntan lotion and the unmistakable wheeze of two struggling lungs lifting a ribcage forever up and down.
“Mr Neill?” I poked my head through the open window.
He craned his neck back and lifted his sunglasses.
“Ah, Jones! Just the man. Do come through, won’t you.”
He beckoned for me to lie down next to him and, leaving the space between us as large as I possibly could, I dropped myself down onto the patio floor, still very much fully suited.
We lay there in silence until: “Do you know why I’ve called you in here, Jones?”
“No sir.”
“Perhaps you might hazard a guess.”
I was dangerously close to picking up the suntan lotion and saying “for those awkward, troublesome areas?”, but managed to restrain myself.
“I’d assumed that I had done something wrong.”
Walls chuckled.
“Am I really that intimidating a presence?” He rolled onto his side to face me, his gut followed shortly afterwards. “No, you’ve nothing to worry about.”
He was surveying me with an empty smile, as if it were my turn to talk. The whole proximity of the situation was suffocating.
“Well then, why am I here?”
“To be promoted, Jones! You’re getting my job!”
Was he joking? The smile remained, but he wasn’t laughing. ‘Me?’ I wanted to say, ‘the boss? I’m just a rep, I’ve no experience of higher management’- he cut in: “Well say something man, this is supposed to be a good thing!”
“Why?”
He laughed then. Of course he was joking, well he didn’t fool me. Not once did I-
“I know exactly what you’re thinking. Why get someone else to do my job? I mean, it’s a pretty tight ship, isn’t it? We’re sailing on smoothly, destination in sight…" so he was serious, "well I agree entirely. That’s why you'll be taking my place in France.”
“France, sir?”
“Yes m’boy, France! You’re off to fight in the war! Letter arrived just yesterday, they’re drafting in officers with experience of man management. Big business types like ourselves, you know the sort.”
Well, let me tell you, that caught me off guard. You don’t digest that kind of information straight away. It sticks in the throat, and this particular morsel remained even after several hearty swallows. And yes, I knew the type of which he spoke – well enough to know I wasn’t it. Finally I asked him:
“Why me? Why not someone else? Why not you?”
“Why not me? Well indeed, indeed – that was their first choice, you know, and I did have to give it due consideration. But I had the option to delegate and my work here is important. Besides, you’re a people person! That’s all being an officer really is!”
Perhaps it was, I remember thinking. Perhaps it’s not too bad over there. But then I remembered Smithy, Dave, Robbo and Simons, and how they’d been ‘let go’, and not seen again. No, I thought to myself, this simply isn’t for me. But then Walls noticed my anxiety, and spoke more firmly.
“Now listen here Jones, I hope this isn’t going to be difficult. You should treat this as an honour, I certainly did. I’ve chosen you because I feel you’re the best man and the army need- they demand the best men.”
He used neither his tone nor his words to order me, rather his eyes. His stare was intense, he was close enough to make sure of that - I could feel his breath break on my face before swirling up my nostrils. Argument at this point was both futile and repulsive. I pulled back, breaking eye contact, surrendering.
“Right.”
“Your things are being packed as we speak, my secretary will give you the details.” I got up stiffly, clicking my neck from side to side. Looking out across the city, I noticed the view for the first time that day. Walls adjusted his sunglasses beneath me and shuffled his shoulders, “This is your chance to be a great man – to grab life by the scruff of the neck!” Neither of us said goodbye.
Outside the secretary was waiting for me, the contents of my desk sorted into a box on hers, a brown envelope resting on the top. I picked it up and looked out over the office, at my empty desk, at the water cooler, and at her. She smiled at me.
I’m going to war, I realised.
Whatever you said about Walls, the man had style.
There was always an elegant discretion whenever he had to let one of us go. You would be called into his office – an offhand “Mr Neill would like a quick word” – and as you walked past the secretary, whose pursed lips revealed nothing, you would carefully consider what you had been doing that day, and what you were planning on doing the next, preparing yourself for whatever questions he might ask.
He wouldn’t answer the door on these occasions. Your knock, however delicate, would never be greeted with even a traditional “come in”, and for the best part of thirty seconds you would stand awkwardly outside the office, wondering how long you should wait until knocking again, or if you should just go in anyway.
And you do – eventually – and as you close the shiny wooden door behind you, you can’t help feeling as if you’ve already done something wrong. This was where I was standing at precisely ten o’clock on Tuesday morning, with Walls nowhere in sight.
Moving towards the desk in the centre of the hexagonal office, my eyes caught sight of a portly, shirtless, middle-aged man lying spread-eagled, still, on the office’s seventy-third floor balcony. My first thought was that he was dead. The poor bloke had been getting some fresh air when three decades of poor living finally took its toll, and here I was to pick up the dead, chunky pieces.
However, as I walked towards the window, further inspection revealed sunglasses, suntan lotion and the unmistakable wheeze of two struggling lungs lifting a ribcage forever up and down.
“Mr Neill?” I poked my head through the open window.
He craned his neck back and lifted his sunglasses.
“Ah, Jones! Just the man. Do come through, won’t you.”
He beckoned for me to lie down next to him and, leaving the space between us as large as I possibly could, I dropped myself down onto the patio floor, still very much fully suited.
We lay there in silence until: “Do you know why I’ve called you in here, Jones?”
“No sir.”
“Perhaps you might hazard a guess.”
I was dangerously close to picking up the suntan lotion and saying “for those awkward, troublesome areas?”, but managed to restrain myself.
“I’d assumed that I had done something wrong.”
Walls chuckled.
“Am I really that intimidating a presence?” He rolled onto his side to face me, his gut followed shortly afterwards. “No, you’ve nothing to worry about.”
He was surveying me with an empty smile, as if it were my turn to talk. The whole proximity of the situation was suffocating.
“Well then, why am I here?”
“To be promoted, Jones! You’re getting my job!”
Was he joking? The smile remained, but he wasn’t laughing. ‘Me?’ I wanted to say, ‘the boss? I’m just a rep, I’ve no experience of higher management’- he cut in: “Well say something man, this is supposed to be a good thing!”
“Why?”
He laughed then. Of course he was joking, well he didn’t fool me. Not once did I-
“I know exactly what you’re thinking. Why get someone else to do my job? I mean, it’s a pretty tight ship, isn’t it? We’re sailing on smoothly, destination in sight…" so he was serious, "well I agree entirely. That’s why you'll be taking my place in France.”
“France, sir?”
“Yes m’boy, France! You’re off to fight in the war! Letter arrived just yesterday, they’re drafting in officers with experience of man management. Big business types like ourselves, you know the sort.”
Well, let me tell you, that caught me off guard. You don’t digest that kind of information straight away. It sticks in the throat, and this particular morsel remained even after several hearty swallows. And yes, I knew the type of which he spoke – well enough to know I wasn’t it. Finally I asked him:
“Why me? Why not someone else? Why not you?”
“Why not me? Well indeed, indeed – that was their first choice, you know, and I did have to give it due consideration. But I had the option to delegate and my work here is important. Besides, you’re a people person! That’s all being an officer really is!”
Perhaps it was, I remember thinking. Perhaps it’s not too bad over there. But then I remembered Smithy, Dave, Robbo and Simons, and how they’d been ‘let go’, and not seen again. No, I thought to myself, this simply isn’t for me. But then Walls noticed my anxiety, and spoke more firmly.
“Now listen here Jones, I hope this isn’t going to be difficult. You should treat this as an honour, I certainly did. I’ve chosen you because I feel you’re the best man and the army need- they demand the best men.”
He used neither his tone nor his words to order me, rather his eyes. His stare was intense, he was close enough to make sure of that - I could feel his breath break on my face before swirling up my nostrils. Argument at this point was both futile and repulsive. I pulled back, breaking eye contact, surrendering.
“Right.”
“Your things are being packed as we speak, my secretary will give you the details.” I got up stiffly, clicking my neck from side to side. Looking out across the city, I noticed the view for the first time that day. Walls adjusted his sunglasses beneath me and shuffled his shoulders, “This is your chance to be a great man – to grab life by the scruff of the neck!” Neither of us said goodbye.
Outside the secretary was waiting for me, the contents of my desk sorted into a box on hers, a brown envelope resting on the top. I picked it up and looked out over the office, at my empty desk, at the water cooler, and at her. She smiled at me.
I’m going to war, I realised.
There was always an elegant discretion whenever he had to let one of us go. You would be called into his office – an offhand “Mr Neill would like a quick word” – and as you walked past the secretary, whose pursed lips revealed nothing, you would carefully consider what you had been doing that day, and what you were planning on doing the next, preparing yourself for whatever questions he might ask.
He wouldn’t answer the door on these occasions. Your knock, however delicate, would never be greeted with even a traditional “come in”, and for the best part of thirty seconds you would stand awkwardly outside the office, wondering how long you should wait until knocking again, or if you should just go in anyway.
And you do – eventually – and as you close the shiny wooden door behind you, you can’t help feeling as if you’ve already done something wrong. This was where I was standing at precisely ten o’clock on Tuesday morning, with Walls nowhere in sight.
Moving towards the desk in the centre of the hexagonal office, my eyes caught sight of a portly, shirtless, middle-aged man lying spread-eagled, still, on the office’s seventy-third floor balcony. My first thought was that he was dead. The poor bloke had been getting some fresh air when three decades of poor living finally took its toll, and here I was to pick up the dead, chunky pieces.
However, as I walked towards the window, further inspection revealed sunglasses, suntan lotion and the unmistakable wheeze of two struggling lungs lifting a ribcage forever up and down.
“Mr Neill?” I poked my head through the open window.
He craned his neck back and lifted his sunglasses.
“Ah, Jones! Just the man. Do come through, won’t you.”
He beckoned for me to lie down next to him and, leaving the space between us as large as I possibly could, I dropped myself down onto the patio floor, still very much fully suited.
We lay there in silence until: “Do you know why I’ve called you in here, Jones?”
“No sir.”
“Perhaps you might hazard a guess.”
I was dangerously close to picking up the suntan lotion and saying “for those awkward, troublesome areas?”, but managed to restrain myself.
“I’d assumed that I had done something wrong.”
Walls chuckled.
“Am I really that intimidating a presence?” He rolled onto his side to face me, his gut followed shortly afterwards. “No, you’ve nothing to worry about.”
He was surveying me with an empty smile, as if it were my turn to talk. The whole proximity of the situation was suffocating.
“Well then, why am I here?”
“To be promoted, Jones! You’re getting my job!”
Was he joking? The smile remained, but he wasn’t laughing. ‘Me?’ I wanted to say, ‘the boss? I’m just a rep, I’ve no experience of higher management’- he cut in: “Well say something man, this is supposed to be a good thing!”
“Why?”
He laughed then. Of course he was joking, well he didn’t fool me. Not once did I-
“I know exactly what you’re thinking. Why get someone else to do my job? I mean, it’s a pretty tight ship, isn’t it? We’re sailing on smoothly, destination in sight…" so he was serious, "well I agree entirely. That’s why you'll be taking my place in France.”
“France, sir?”
“Yes m’boy, France! You’re off to fight in the war! Letter arrived just yesterday, they’re drafting in officers with experience of man management. Big business types like ourselves, you know the sort.”
Well, let me tell you, that caught me off guard. You don’t digest that kind of information straight away. It sticks in the throat, and this particular morsel remained even after several hearty swallows. And yes, I knew the type of which he spoke – well enough to know I wasn’t it. Finally I asked him:
“Why me? Why not someone else? Why not you?”
“Why not me? Well indeed, indeed – that was their first choice, you know, and I did have to give it due consideration. But I had the option to delegate and my work here is important. Besides, you’re a people person! That’s all being an officer really is!”
Perhaps it was, I remember thinking. Perhaps it’s not too bad over there. But then I remembered Smithy, Dave, Robbo and Simons, and how they’d been ‘let go’, and not seen again. No, I thought to myself, this simply isn’t for me. But then Walls noticed my anxiety, and spoke more firmly.
“Now listen here Jones, I hope this isn’t going to be difficult. You should treat this as an honour, I certainly did. I’ve chosen you because I feel you’re the best man and the army need- they demand the best men.”
He used neither his tone nor his words to order me, rather his eyes. His stare was intense, he was close enough to make sure of that - I could feel his breath break on my face before swirling up my nostrils. Argument at this point was both futile and repulsive. I pulled back, breaking eye contact, surrendering.
“Right.”
“Your things are being packed as we speak, my secretary will give you the details.” I got up stiffly, clicking my neck from side to side. Looking out across the city, I noticed the view for the first time that day. Walls adjusted his sunglasses beneath me and shuffled his shoulders, “This is your chance to be a great man – to grab life by the scruff of the neck!” Neither of us said goodbye.
Outside the secretary was waiting for me, the contents of my desk sorted into a box on hers, a brown envelope resting on the top. I picked it up and looked out over the office, at my empty desk, at the water cooler, and at her. She smiled at me.
I’m going to war, I realised.
Ha! Ok, that was...unexpected.
Very good and gave me a chuckle. It's not quite what I had in mind for the subject matter, mind you...
Very good and gave me a chuckle. It's not quite what I had in mind for the subject matter, mind you...