Joe Jones walks across the open-plan office in squeaky shoes.
I had to look his surname up on the site organogram but would never have
guessed that, with a name like Joseph, it would be Jones. Now that I know it,
it suits him. His glasses ride low on his nose so that his grey eyes peer over
them in a permanent gesture of mild surprise. Clean-shaven jowls ripple a
little with every tiny shake of his head, with every murmur he makes to
himself.
I overheard him once, just mundane stuff, as he opened a
cupboard full of files and documents. ‘Oh there you are,’ he said, selecting
one. ‘You’re coming with me, you little beauty. Fully compliant, fully compliant, fully compliant.’ And off he squeaked back to
his desk, flipping cheerily through it as though it were old family photos,
shaking his jowls and moving his lips in quiet commentary.
I
heard him in the changing room, his whispers amplified by the metallic lockers.
I allowed myself a nervous smirk as I changed my shoes.
Now I’m writing about him, because he’s a real person in the
world. Maybe nobody’s written about him before. I watch him, absorb his mannerisms and gestures, but switch quickly to the
window when he stops working and looks back.
