blissfully unaware. It wasnât until he started to reek that they realised the poor bugger was dead.â
Everyone tutted and made incredulous noises and someone said to everyone, âThatâs the most tragic story ever. Can you fucking believe that could happen?â*
* Yes, I can believe it. It didnât surprise me in the least. It could happen right here, in fact, it could happen to me. If I donât do something fast, one day it
will
happen to me.
Everyone said, âItâs unreal,â and someone said, as if to protect us from the terrible story, âShit like that wouldnât happen here, though.â
I listen, tuning out of the actual words people are saying and into the gaps between them where a war rages. Anger fills the spaces, disappointment boils between the words, so many banal office insecurities, bored people, ambitious people, people who feel theyâre long overdue pay increases or promotions, a single meeting contains so many silent victories and defeats. Turning away from a failed joke denotes the losers, while laughter is the trophy the winners campaign for. I remembered, a few days after the white door had been revealed to me, that Oscar didnât specifically talk about our new nefarious weapons client. Even he was wise enough to realise that we couldnât have too many people knowing that weâre working for them. But he did say at the end of this meeting, âAnd, folks, weâve a new company opening down the corridor, really great bunch of chaps, so make them feel at home.â
This seemed far too casual for me. I wouldnât even have mentioned them if I was Oscar, as I was sure there were a number of my colleagues who would have similar ethical problems about the new client as I did. But that was Oscar. He had no issue about mentioning them, he didnât think people would ask or be interested, he didnât believe there were ever any consequences to his actions. He was one of those guys â and I hated to admit he was probably right â who thought he would always get away with everything.*
* There are two types of people. The Oscars of the world, who assume, through no actual proof, that they naturally know more than everyone else, and therefore will always get away with murder. Then thereâs me, the type that assumes everyone knows more than I know and Iâll always be caught.
Our meetings have a ritualistic quality. We begin and end with a joke. We always begin with the joke about me being Terms and Conditions Man. And always end with a joke delivered by Oscar: âThatâs it for this month, folks. My door is always open so youâre all welcome to walk through it any time â although Iâm almost never in so you can bugger off if you think Iâm hanging around waiting to listen to you all moaning and complaining. Now go get on with your jobs!â
Oh, how we laughed.
TERMS & CONDITIONS OF REMEMBERING & REGRETTING
Regret is the seed from which bitterness flowers.
I turned away from the window, away from my pale reflection, away from Shaw&Sons, and looked at Dougâs bookshelf, which was filled with books whose titles alone could cure insomnia:
Understanding Actuarial Practice
;
Risk is Opportunity and Vice Versa
;
Executive X
;
Advanced Maths and Applied Maths Made Simple
. . .
Executive X.
There it was again. I took it out and looked at the author picture of Alice.
Because so far Old Frankâs memory lane was littered with hatred, confusion and anger, I needed something happy to hold on to. I focused my energy on thinking about my wife, hoping to strike a memory well of love and joy.*
* Turned out the well had run dry.
CLAUSE 2.1
ALICE
TERMS & CONDITIONS OF LOVE
Falling into itâs easy.
Staying in it â thatâs the tricky part.
TERMS & CONDITIONS OF LOVE
True love is conditional.
Not the most romantic notion but bear with me, Iâm a lawyer, not a poet.
Marriage Ts &
Kent Flannery, Joyce Marcus