My shit had been one of those extremely satisfying ones where, during the smooth delivery of the brown log and for a few moments subsequently, a satisfying glow courses through me. Like love but without the complications, although some clearing-up is also needed afterwards. As a result the dump hormones are still pinging around in my bloodstream so I don’t perceive the presence of my beloved boss at my desk — my desk, with his feet up, reclining in my chair — until I am well inside my office. Finding someone sitting uninvited in your office isn’t a comfortable sight to my mind, it’s a territorial thing. But far, far worse is to find an interloper actually sitting where you toil. Ask any man and he’ll tell you so. A junior visitor means someone is after your job but can’t do anything about it, a senior visitor means someone is really after your job and can do everything about it.
What’s bizarre is I’m far more irritated by Hershey’s location than him holding my girlfriend in the grip of his slimy palm. I should have known then that something was wrong with our relationship.
At first Hershey doesn’t notice me; apparently he’s lost in thought, or more likely he’s asleep with his eyes open. A number of ideas occur to me — backing out and going to the toilet again, or shouting ‘Oi, wanker!’ This one appeals, as it would be funny to see whether I could get him to tumble out of my chair and maybe break an arm. Or his neck. Thinking of necks makes me then consider sneaking up behind Hershey and strangling the bastard. But my indecision is my hangman’s noose and before I can decide between fight or flight something cracks Hershey’s reverie. He looks up and stares at me as if he’s never met me before, as if we’ve never talked whilst I break wind.
“Hershey, hi,” I say, uncertainty and irritation smothering my voice in equal concentrations.
“Uh, Josh,” Hershey replies in his grating twang. So he does know me after all.
My pointed look is intended to show my displeasure with him sitting at my desk, but it’s a mistake as he just smiles and leans back in my seat to further impose himself.
“I tried to call you earlier,” he tells me.
“Oh, I didn’t know,” I reply with an unapologetic and utterly insincere shrug. “I’ve hardly been in my office all morning for reasons you’re aware of.” An ailing look passes over Hershey’s face but I don’t give a shit (even though I just have).
“Who’s this?” Hershey nutmegs me with his sudden change of subject. He waves Claire’s picture around, one taken in happier times.
“Not that it’s any of your business,” I say, deliberately pissy in an attempt to restore my teetering balance, “but it’s my girlfriend. Why?”
“It’s just she looks familiar. What’s her name?”
“Claire.”
A hint of something like recognition flitters through the synapses that must loiter behind Hershey’s eyes (one thing he’s not is stupid). “Claire Pigeon? Works for P&R PR?”
“Yes, that’s her,” I try to hide my astonishment and fail utterly, which brings another awful grin to Hershey’s teeth. “How did you know?”
Hershey shrugged. “Knowledge is power,” he says, grin still fixed.
What a twat, I think. Do normal people really make those sorts of comments?
But then I don’t consider Hershey to be a human, he’s more of a bacteria or a viral infection in a body suit. He looks at Claire’s picture one more time, then places the frame face down on the desk as if then she can’t intrude on our conversation. He drops his feet off the desk, spins the chair ninety degrees so that he is able to plant his forearms on the glass surface before he hunches his shoulders in a show of gravitas he doesn’t possess.
“Josh. Josh my friend. I need your help,” he says. Yet another unexpected statement. It’s clearly his day for revelations. With a sweeping arm he generously indicates that I should sit in the guest’s chair. Clearly Hershey forgets that he is the interloper, not I. However in my curiosity I fail to argue and drop into the seat, giving me a view of my office that I’ve never had before, like sitting in the rear of your car.
“Help with what, Hershey?” Damn my inquisitiveness!
“Do you recall that presentation I’ve been writing to give at the Exchange?” Hershey asks.
I certainly do, because it’s my fucking presentation, not his. I’ve done all the heavy lifting to put it together, Hershey simply adding a couple of perfumed phrases. He’s the dog that the flea of creativity rarely bites.
He continues whilst I simmer. “Well I won’t be able to deliver it and Mr Culpepper would like you,” he points finger and thumb at me like a gun, then drops the hammer, “to take my place.”
My heart soars, momentarily ignoring what might be behind the hat-trick of stunners my odious superior has just delivered. I’ve put hours into that presentation and it’s a prestigious event, lots of industry movers and shakers will be there. Then my head catches up with my sprinting heart because, like any good banker, Hershey will ensure there will be some sort of cost associated with the deal, heavily weighted in his favour, which only a monumental effort will pay off.
“Thanks Hershey,” I start saying, but he interrupts and bats my words away like flies as if the effort is nothing to him.
“Really, it’s nothing. I’m having lunch with the Old Men,” he says. For ‘Old Men’ read ‘Ian Culpepper’, the Bank’s chairman, and Sir David Cowan, the giver and taker of careers. It’s an effortless trade for a crappy presentation to a few anonymous suits.
I hardly hear Hershey over the roar of blood in my eardrums. “Sorry?” I mumble.
“I said the presentation is at 10am.” He checks his watch. “Better shake your tail feathers if you’re going to make it in time.”
And at that he levers himself up from my desk and nonchalantly strolls out of my office with a wink. I watch my chair spin around a few times before it comes to rest as if Hershey was never here.
I remember then that I have piss on my hands.