People watching - story fragment
Just because someone is not seen, it does not mean that they see nothing.
The man works in a club, part of a chain. Most of his nights follow the same pattern: he is alone, with his dreams. The music is muffled until the door opens. Then it blasts through for a couple of seconds, dragging him back to the world. He is forced to be aware of the man who has walked into the toilets, watch as he approaches the urinal and smile as he turns to wash his hands. He has seen all the reactions; he simply tries to do his job. They walk in and are surprised, annoyed or nonplussed to see him. He smiles at them all, turns on the taps for them, offers them soap and towels. If there is a significant clunk from the coin they drop in his dish, he offers them something from the range of colognes and aftershaves. He may spray them with something. He may not. Either way he will still smile. He smiles as he watches them head out, back into the movement, the chaos outside the door. He smiles as he surveys his once-again quiet domain. He knows it will not remain quiet for long. But for this brief moment, he retreats, out of this white-walled prison, back into his dreams. For another few moments, he is free.
His is the world of dreams: of being himself when alone, of politeness, of quiet observation, of seeing when others are present. Even worlds such as this may be transitory, though. They need to be defended on occasions. Tonight may be just such a time.
People often leave things. He has found much over the years but very few people ask for things back. Who would they ask? Him?! He is an embarrassment at best – nobody wants to talk to him. And yet today’s find is different … more significant, somehow.
He has seen this man before. He always struts arrogantly in a suit and walks through doors marked “Private”. He is clearly a man who warrants respect. Either that, or a man with a small amount of power who expects respect, which in practical terms can amount to the same thing. The man has left a folder behind, though. Very forgetful of him. It contained some contracts, some notes, and a letter. Maybe the letter has an address. Maybe, for once, he can return something to its owner. He reads the letter.
“Dear Tom,
I received your proposals this morning – thank you. As you are aware, the need for savings is even greater than when we last spoke. We will obviously have to halve the bar-staff. The rest will simply work longer. We can also hand many of them cleaning duties, to further reduce our expenditure. I believe more streamlining can be performed on top of this – you have already made some proposals, and I have faith in your ideas in this area. Regards,
Jerry”
Another piece of paper is attached by a clip – the words are scrawled in an impatient hand: “P.S. Off, the record, whilst nobody would ever suggest watering down the drinks, could they not be made to, as it were, last longer? Given the eminent stupidity of most of the punters, combined with the fact that they’re already three-sheets to the wind when they arrive, they would never notice the difference. We can also get rid of our “bathroom hosts”, as they seem to like to be called. To be frank, it’s almost not worth the bother, the amount they’re paid isn’t a huge saving. But that bloke in the men’s freaks me out. Just do it.”
He reads the letter two or three times. Obviously this requires further action. He surveys his room once again - the bottles of coloured liquids, the hand towels. The mysterious cubicles. This cannot be rushed. He must give the matter further thought. Thought is, after all, what he is good at. Thought, along with seeing – and he has seen much over the years. Managers, executives, letter-writers – they all need to use toilets on occasion. Sometimes they spend longer in here than is necessary. Sometimes they leave behind traces of white powder in cubicles, lines that lead to conclusions, lines that could be written about – lines on lines. He has seen important men, men with power, men who strut and deserve respect, men with families, enter cubicles with women, with other men. He does not talk about it. That is not his place. He is simply the silent observer. Smiles and politeness are his means of communication, his profession. Desperate circumstances are the mother of change, however. When a world needs defending, all assets must be employed. There is power in the written word; as a short letter can destroy a world, so a short letter may yet defend it. He finds some blank paper within the forgotten folder, some space in between the crowd of bottles, and begins to write, “Dear Sir…”
The man works in a club, part of a chain. Most of his nights follow the same pattern: he is alone, with his dreams. The music is muffled until the door opens. Then it blasts through for a couple of seconds, dragging him back to the world. He is forced to be aware of the man who has walked into the toilets, watch as he approaches the urinal and smile as he turns to wash his hands. He has seen all the reactions; he simply tries to do his job. They walk in and are surprised, annoyed or nonplussed to see him. He smiles at them all, turns on the taps for them, offers them soap and towels. If there is a significant clunk from the coin they drop in his dish, he offers them something from the range of colognes and aftershaves. He may spray them with something. He may not. Either way he will still smile. He smiles as he watches them head out, back into the movement, the chaos outside the door. He smiles as he surveys his once-again quiet domain. He knows it will not remain quiet for long. But for this brief moment, he retreats, out of this white-walled prison, back into his dreams. For another few moments, he is free.
His is the world of dreams: of being himself when alone, of politeness, of quiet observation, of seeing when others are present. Even worlds such as this may be transitory, though. They need to be defended on occasions. Tonight may be just such a time.
People often leave things. He has found much over the years but very few people ask for things back. Who would they ask? Him?! He is an embarrassment at best – nobody wants to talk to him. And yet today’s find is different … more significant, somehow.
He has seen this man before. He always struts arrogantly in a suit and walks through doors marked “Private”. He is clearly a man who warrants respect. Either that, or a man with a small amount of power who expects respect, which in practical terms can amount to the same thing. The man has left a folder behind, though. Very forgetful of him. It contained some contracts, some notes, and a letter. Maybe the letter has an address. Maybe, for once, he can return something to its owner. He reads the letter.
“Dear Tom,
I received your proposals this morning – thank you. As you are aware, the need for savings is even greater than when we last spoke. We will obviously have to halve the bar-staff. The rest will simply work longer. We can also hand many of them cleaning duties, to further reduce our expenditure. I believe more streamlining can be performed on top of this – you have already made some proposals, and I have faith in your ideas in this area. Regards,
Jerry”
Another piece of paper is attached by a clip – the words are scrawled in an impatient hand: “P.S. Off, the record, whilst nobody would ever suggest watering down the drinks, could they not be made to, as it were, last longer? Given the eminent stupidity of most of the punters, combined with the fact that they’re already three-sheets to the wind when they arrive, they would never notice the difference. We can also get rid of our “bathroom hosts”, as they seem to like to be called. To be frank, it’s almost not worth the bother, the amount they’re paid isn’t a huge saving. But that bloke in the men’s freaks me out. Just do it.”
He reads the letter two or three times. Obviously this requires further action. He surveys his room once again - the bottles of coloured liquids, the hand towels. The mysterious cubicles. This cannot be rushed. He must give the matter further thought. Thought is, after all, what he is good at. Thought, along with seeing – and he has seen much over the years. Managers, executives, letter-writers – they all need to use toilets on occasion. Sometimes they spend longer in here than is necessary. Sometimes they leave behind traces of white powder in cubicles, lines that lead to conclusions, lines that could be written about – lines on lines. He has seen important men, men with power, men who strut and deserve respect, men with families, enter cubicles with women, with other men. He does not talk about it. That is not his place. He is simply the silent observer. Smiles and politeness are his means of communication, his profession. Desperate circumstances are the mother of change, however. When a world needs defending, all assets must be employed. There is power in the written word; as a short letter can destroy a world, so a short letter may yet defend it. He finds some blank paper within the forgotten folder, some space in between the crowd of bottles, and begins to write, “Dear Sir…”
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