2. Brody
Brody
The bus lurches from side to side as I try to read an article on my phone, desperate to take my mind off the full body hangover threatening to make me drop my guts down the aisle.
Matt messages me a single word, Dying, and my own head drums in sympathy, even if he is being a tad hyperbolic.
I probably should have thought about the fact I was working today, possibly should have taken it into account when Matt dragged me into yet another bar.
But it was Night of the Shadows. And I’m a good friend.
Or at least that’s the excuse I’m making for myself anyway.
I treat myself to a bucket of coffee from the café tucked into the reception of my office block – despite it costing the best part of seven quid, which is basically theft – and head towards the bank of lifts.
“Big night?” the burly man who guards entry to the upper floors asks me with a smirk.
I nod, wincing at the way the motion makes my brain feel like it’s on fire.
“You’ve got a mate who’s one of them, don’t you?” I can’t tell if it’s judgement or interest in his voice.
I don’t answer, just do that thing in return.
You know, the slightly self-deprecating shrug that doesn’t actually answer the question but doesn’t make you look like a complete dick either.
It’s become my go to response when someone makes a comment about my best-friend’s “condition”.
I don’t really understand the level of curiosity people have.
Or maybe it’s just because I’ve known Matt since we were babies and I’ve already asked every question you could possibly imagine.
But only because he’s my friend and not because I’m some kind of weird voyeur with a morbid fascination.
I make it to my desk without further comment and find solace behind the screen.
Debugging code has always felt like therapy to me, like solving problems in a way that’s fundamentally systematic soothes my brain in a way nothing else comes close to.
Yes, I know I sound like some kind of super-nerd, but I’m trying to be honest here.
I feel my hangover receding as the caffeine kicks in and I give myself over to the flow state of my work.
But after only half an hour my peace is shattered. Because Danely is in the office. And he just cannot help himself.
“How was last night? Did you have fun?” he quirks his eyebrows so I know what type of fun he’s meaning.
“I just went out with Matt,” I reply, making it sound as uneventful as it was.
“Lucky bastard,” Danely whispers under his breath.
Danely has this thing. I don’t want to call it a fetish, but I think that isn’t far from the truth.
And he has this idea that all vampires frequent thinly disguised sex clubs.
I’ve done nothing but try to debunk his notions for the past year, but to no avail.
Matt calls him a “tourist” and it feels fitting. Perv.
I pick up my headphones, the only way I’ve found that stops Danely from wanting to chat incessantly.
I don’t even switch them on, the white noise of the office helps me concentrate, but they are definitely good at stopping people from their idle chit chat.
It isn’t that I’m anti-social; I like lots of people.
I just don’t like most of my colleagues.
Except Sharon who has been encouraging me to participate in Baking Thursday, with copious praise of my lemon drizzle cake that I’ve almost perfected. Oh, and Heather. She’s a sweetheart.
“Team meeting in five,” my boss, Clive, bellows from the other end of the office.
I groan involuntarily. Loudly enough for Danely to hear. His little face pops up over the desk screen, his eyes rolling in something that could be sympathy. But then he spots the headphones. “Oh, I thought you were plugged in?” His tone is accusatory.
Busted from my pretend listening, I mumble something under my breath about being in between songs and remove them.
We file into the meeting room, a windowless space without any ventilation so it always smells like stale sweat and despair. Just as we do every week we conduct a round robin of what everyone has been working on and their priorities for the next week of purgatory.
We all do the same job.
We all work on the same things.
We all have the same priorities.
There are ten of us in the team.
The round robin takes almost an hour and I want to stick pins in my eyes.
Danely goes last and I try not to imagine the ways I could kill him.
Finally we’re finished and Clive announces an “exciting new opportunity” – his words not mine. He’s positively electric at the idea of unpaid overtime and the chance for one of us to prove just how good at coding we really are. “Gonna need some late nights,” he says, voice brimming with excitement.
I groan, only realising I’ve vocalised it – which I really must stop doing – when Clive turns his beady eyes towards me.
“Well, I guess we know who’s going to be first to man the old Idea’s Wok.
” He laughs, the staccato echoing around the silent room.
Prick. And the worst thing about it, is he isn’t even joking.
I mean, he literally does have an “ideas wok”.
It’s virtual – yes, I will give you that – but even so. Such an absolute douche bag.
I manage to make it out of the meeting without saying anything more or taking on any other of Clive’s “special initiatives”.
I’m in desperate need of a pick me up and so I head to the kitchen for more coffee, even though I can already feel the tell-tale tingle in my finger tips that says I’ve probably already drunk too much.
As I wait for the kettle to boil, I allow my mind to wonder, daydreaming about a different job, in a different company.
I haven’t always been this negative about work.
Once upon a time I would wake up refreshed and raring to go, uber keen to take on new projects and prove myself to my colleagues.
But I guess even the keenest amongst us get ground down eventually by working somewhere like this.
“This place will kill your soul,” Sharon had told me last week when she took Heather and I out for an after-work drink.
“Mine is already dead,” Heather had confirmed before taking a large swig from her gin and tonic.
“You should get out while you still can,” Sharon added.
“I don’t know what else I’d do,” I replied, allowing the melancholy to sweep over me.
“What would you want to do. If you could do anything?” Heather asked.
“Well…” I started. “There is something.”
“Ooh, dish,” Sharon said, leaning forward, her interest piqued.
“It’s stupid.”
“No dream is stupid.” Sharon put her hand on my arm.
“I want to work for a start-up. I want the opportunity to build something from scratch.” I said it quietly, it felt too much like I was tempting fate to actually put it out into the universe.
I’d kill for a job like that.