Mondo's

Alright, kept this in enough,

But can we please?

It’s been a really long time,

And I’ve kept shush all this while,

Thinking you fancied something else.

How I crave it,

Hoped you’d come around and see.

Anyway, I’m saying it now,

And really want to go ahead with it.

This evening,

When the sun goes down,

Can we just go for pizza at Mondo’s?

Salvation River

In a lonely forest,

Under turgid tops,

A dark curtain hanging,

Where souls screamed,

Shrieks ripping the sky,

A glimmer atop the enfolding black.

Where abide jade memories,

And fields of dreams,

You will see it.

Salvation River.

Spectrum #2

“Patricia! Patricia, where’s that damn stand?!”

            With probably no less than ten things of all shapes and sizes in both hands, I struggled to make my way past the crowd of designers, stylists, models, bloggers, reporters and who knew who else had managed to wheedle their way in backstage. Absolute bedlam reigned. If I were in charge, half these people would have been stopped before they even caught the first glimpse of the fluorescent light behind the massive crimson curtains, beckoning them, seducing them with delusions of glamour and ephemeral attention.

            Faye was yelling at anyone and anything her voice could possibly reach, sending people scuttling here and there. This breakdown wasn’t happening because we were inept. It was happening because we outdid ourselves.

            As the inaugural edition of an event that was being planned as a mainstay of the city’s social calendar, we pulled out all the stops to ensure that word got out to everyone. If anything, it should register as more than just a blip, even if catering to a niche. The plan we all agreed on was to work harder on it, year by year, and eventually build it up into something huge, something that people would one day mark down on their calendars as the event to watch out for.

            The press work we did turned out to be a smashing success. Never did any one of us envision such a massive turnout. For most of us, fresh out of college, it was our first job at a company barely on its feet. The downside to the response was that our preparations reflected our expectations. By then, a few days before launch, it was too late. We were severely understaffed. And so it came to be that a PR executive ended up hauling banners, roll-ups, calming irate designers and models, guiding photographers and doing a whole host of other things that she wasn’t even supposed to be doing, and didn’t really want to get into.

            I watched as Jane went scampering after one of the models, no doubt fresh from a barking as well. Poor girl. Hardworking and obeisant to the point of insanity, but timorous and easily cowed. Unfortunate that this was her debut event, but in a way it was for her own good - we all need our baptism of fire at some point, and better to have it done with sooner than later.

            Another thing: this was Faye’s debut with her new startup. One of the most respected names in the business, she decided to branch out on her own – new blood, new thinking, new way of getting things done without all the fumbling that plagued all the previous gigs she kept telling us about. This would be her success or failure as much as ours. And we were all thinking about this. Running in between people, coordinating press and hospitality personnel who had no idea what was going on, making sure the models kept to their schedule, and also making sure the designers didn’t blow up if they didn’t, this was the one thought racing through our heads. Knowing Faye, the latter outcome was not an option.

            Truth be told, I did admire her in a way. Fastidious to the core, she did have her good moments on occasion. Being with her at the office, I could easily see how she managed to reach the top in such a short amount of time. There was a reason she did what she did and I could appreciate it – you didn’t succeed by being soft. Of course, you didn’t have to reduce people like Jane to tears either, but that’s probably one thing that would never change about Faye. After decades in the industry, was it really all that easy to change, to see the world from a different lens, to act as people desired?

            I struggled to manoeuvre through the crowd. The banner was too big to push through the throng of people, so it had to be done by gently turning it in little increments, timed with the movement of people. Agonizingly slow.

            Despite the great commotion, Faye still managed to draw attention and make herself heard. Even after hours of this, she was indefatigable. From where she was standing, she was strategically placed to give out orders and to see whether they were being carried through to completion. If not, a litany of verbal barbs was surely promised.

            “Patricia! What…what are you doing?!” came her booming voice. “I asked you to move that ages ago. The hell are you waiting for?! MOVE!”

            I hated her then. As much as I looked up to her, I also reviled her. I could somewhat understand the stress she was going through. If I were in her position, who’s to say whether I would act any different? But this was not the first time this had happened. Enlightened theories and any proclivity I may have had for empathy became buried under passionate impulses, as they usually do. Behavior like this was second nature to Faye. Episodes like these occurred almost on a daily basis and brought up nothing but revulsion. I felt beaten down, depressed, defeated.

            But I still carried the load that was currently weighing down both of my arms. The good thing about all this was simply this: It was great. I felt truly blessed. All the glitz, the glamour, the sheer life of it all was something almost out of this world and something most people probably never experience. I loved it and wouldn’t have it any other way. Somewhere in the thick of it all, I could lose myself and do things because they had to be done. Because people were counting on me, on us. Because if we didn’t, no one else would. Because we wanted everyone, including ourselves, to have a good time.

            One of the girls at the far end of the aisle, whose eyes had quickly moved from Faye to me, flashed me a wink and gave an encouraging wave. This quickly turned into a dirty look, aimed at my boss, even though Faye wasn’t remotely aware of it. I loved Diane. She was a breath of fresh air. At times – when I had time to think that is – I wondered why she had pursued her specific line of work. She was one of the few – come to think it, probably the only one – who was not fussy about the brand of champagne, the blaring music or the outfit she was forced to sport in front of dozens of flashing cameras.

            So if not for Faye, I would do this for myself, and for everyone involved who had invested themselves so deeply. I would do whatever was required of me, even it meant occasionally suffering the indignity of being shouted in the face. I mean, all this eventually pays off someday, right?

            It does…doesn’t it?

Spectrum #1

The sudden plodding of files on the glazed wooden surface of my table was almost like a earthquake, causing a seismic shift, where once peace and order had reigned. I snapped back in shock. Not too severely, but enough for the resultant sensation to last the better part of the next hour. The impact of the files knocked my folded glasses askew, and sent some of my meticulously arranged papers flying. The files at the top of the pile were sent tumbling to the floor in turn, spoiling the momentary perfection with which I’m sure they had been stacked for just this golden moment. Looking up to see who was responsible for such a brazen stroke, my face crumpled in disgust – Smuts.

A sinister smile etched across a pasty visage greeted me as my neck craned upward. For some reason, he seemed mighty pleased with himself – his default expression. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what it was this time, nor was I bothered. The gusto with which he had dumped a model high-rise of files on my table was the only thing that had brought our two estranged worlds into collision.

Moving slowly to restore my table to a semblance of its former pristine condition, I fumed, “What the hell are you doing?”
            “Sorry bro, these just came in,” said the nausea-inducing one called Smuts. “Boss wants these figures looked over by tomorrow.”

My jaw almost dropped at that, my ears, despite the softness of his tone, ringing like the great bell of the Notre-Dame at noon.

“Sorry? T-tomorrow?”

“Yeah bro, tomorrow. Clients don’t wait man, you know how it is. Boss says tomorrow, so it’s gotta be tomorrow. He’s meeting them in the afternoon. Make sure it’s done.”

I stared at him, not open-mouthed but definitely dumbfounded. If it wasn’t so horrible, it would have been hilarious. And that was exactly what was going on in my head – wasn’t sure whether it more apt to laugh or scream.

I wasn’t going down without a fight though. Several hours of onerous page-flipping and analyzing, answering calls, not to mention being deprived of my favourite salmon risotto (it’s amazing, trust me, has to be tasted to be believed) from across the street had soured my mood. At that point, I was probably the worst person to be around, and that was saying something in an office that would make a federal institution look positively cheerful.

“Why do I have to do it?” I demanded.

“Just came from the big man’s office, bro, he asked you in specific. What, you want me to go back in and tell him you refused?” he replied, with uncanny repose, as if my response was not unexpected. More disturbingly, it was as if he relished the idea of throwing it back in my face.

“Why not someone else? You’ve seen me, I’ve been here since the morning. What about Anders?

“Flatlined, bro. Submerged for the next few days, it’s crazy. Don’t think he’s gonna be free of that desk of his for a while,” he snickered, ridiculously lost in his own wit, running a hand through his black, slicked-back hair. “At least you get to go home.”

“So, yeah,” he said, flipping the top file page by page with his thumb and forefinger as he did. “Get it done.”

Having to suffer his smug face, not to mention his hand on my desk – my precious desk, my demesne which was now a congeries of loose papers, folders, CDs, stationery and whatnot – was enough to drive me up the wall. It was a feeling akin to a comet going off trajectory and then inexplicably exploding in mid-flight – a very violent explosion, right at the synapse of my entire being. Not exactly the best feeling to have.

Suddenly aware of the passage of time, I looked past Smuts’ shoulder to a clock hanging on the lacquered, white wall: 8 p.m.

Turning back to the repulsive creature still hovering over my desk, who stubbornly refused to deprive me of the privilege of being graced with his presence, I asked him, “Wait, so…how come you’re not doing it?”

“I’m done for the night, bro. Headed out,” he said gleefully, behind an insufferably fatuous grin. Before I had a chance to counter, a casual wave cut me off as he turned around to leave. “Later bro, take it easy.”

Of course he’s headed out. Martin wants to keep his pet happy. The boss treated Smuts like a proud owner would his prize stallion. Except that in this case, the stallion was more like an impetuous mare, reluctant to do anything, absolutely impossible in a team, knowing he was secure under the big man and not shying away from revelling in it. Ever since he joined, he had become something of a local kingpin, looking over others’ shoulders, instead of actually using his own for something.

Smuts. Bloody Smuts.