The rebuilding of tom co.., p.21
The Rebuilding of Tom Cooper, page 21
Then we get to the bucket hoist. I start pulling on the rope and it’s surprisingly doable.
I feel powerful. I feel strong. I feel manly.
‘You’re doing the woman’s one,’ shouts the steward. I look to the left and see a far bigger bucket waiting for me. Shit. I move to the new bucket. It is FUCKING heavy. I can pull it up, but only just. Theresa’s absolutely nailing it. My hands and arms are killing. I even feel the ear pain coming back. And I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before the pain moves ball-wards.
I feel weak. I fell powerless. I feel completely and utterly emasculated.
Built guy comes over and lifts it hand over hand at rapid speed. He must have accidentally got the woman’s one as well. I check. Nope – he’s just twenty times stronger than me. I look over and see Amanda shouting ‘come on’, not seeming to notice I’m massively embarrassing myself. The bucket reaches the top and I start to lower it. It has to hit the ground gently, otherwise you get fined burpees. Unfortunately, I let go of the rope halfway down and it starts burning through my hands. Just in time, I grab it and the momentum pulls me about six feet into the air. My trajectory slows as the bucket reaches the ground with a genteel plop. I look over at the steward; she gives me the thumbs up. I did it. I bloody did it. I drop from the rope and run on. The guy is a few seconds behind me. And not showing any signs of tiring.
Next up is traversing a rope over water. Given the presence of barbed wire, it goes through my head that maybe they’ve introduced a shoal of piranhas into it to up the stakes. I straddle the rope and start to slide myself across. Within seconds I’m getting major crotch burn, whereas Theresa isn’t batting an eye. It’s completely unfair that they have a different weight bucket for women, and absolutely no consideration for the fact that men have far more inconvenient genitals for this kind of activity. Not that it’ll bother the guy behind me. In a few minutes, he’ll be holding the trophy above his head, smiling like a madman, a single remaining testicle hanging from his decimated scrotum.
I flip underneath the rope and it’s a lot easier. As long as you don’t touch the water, it’s allowed, and I start catching up to Theresa. By the time I ring the bell, we’re neck and neck. We drop off together and she sprints towards the next task with me speed walking close behind. The rest of our agency cheer, thinking I’m being cocky, but it really is the fastest way for me to move right now.
Theresa manages to maintain her lead over the next few obstacles, but I’m not far behind.
And then we get to the spear. It’s the only one I’ve been looking forward to. As I reach the obstacle, Theresa’s already got hers and chucks it at the target as I pick mine up. Her spear goes flying through the air and I throw mine, desperately hoping I hit the target. Then suddenly I hear a scream. I look over at Theresa and she’s got her hands over her mouth. Then I look back to the course. There, in the middle of the range, is a steward with Theresa’s spear through his shoulder. Oh my GOD. I guess that’s why you should get these things professionally organised. Theresa runs towards the guy shouting, ‘I know first aid!’ I start to go over too, only to be nearly impaled myself by the built guy’s javelin. He’s still bloody competing!?!
He runs off towards the next obstacle. I’m completely lost as to what to do, when JC screams from over by the impaled steward, ‘He’s fine. Run! Bloody RUN!’
I hesitate, but JC’s having none of it. ‘If you want to keep your bloody job, fucking MOVE!’
I start running despite myself. I couldn’t deal with a spear wound anyway. I may as well try to stay employed.
The penultimate obstacle is a wall with holes where you have to go over one, under the next and then through the third one about three times. The guy is way ahead of me, but he’s being slow. I realise this is my chance. The type of obstacle that might favour someone with agility.
I run and jump over the wall, then go under the next and through the third. I’m actually good at this. I’m gaining on him. The next one and we’re neck and neck. By the third I’m ahead. I did it. I do have agility. I knew it. I’m Spider-Man. I’m fucking Spider-Man. I run with renewed enthusiasm to the final obstacle – I’ve still got a stitch, but it doesn’t matter anymore. I’m DOING THIS. This must be what people mean when they talk about breaking through the pain. You just have to be strong. Or fucking SPIDER-MAN!!!
Then I get to the last obstacle, and I realise what it is. I’m fucked. There’re these massive boulders you have to carry for twenty-five metres. There’re big ones and small ones. I’m tempted to go for the small one, but I know it’ll just be another sexist conspiracy against slightly weak men. I pick up the big one. I think it’s the heaviest thing I’ve ever picked up in my life. Like two week’s worth of shopping plus the car you’d put it into. There’s no way I can carry this twenty-five metres. I take a step forward and then have to rest for a second before the next one. Meanwhile, my competitor’s just caught up and picks the boulder up with ease and starts to move forward at a slow steady pace. He’s not exactly fast, but it’s enough to leave me in the dust. Fuck. I’ve failed. I’ve bloody failed.
But then I have an idea. I shout at the steward, who’s understandably distracted by her colleague having a gigantic spike through his shoulder.
‘What’s the penalty?’
‘Sorry, what?’
‘What’s the penalty for failing this?’
‘Um… burpees?’
‘How many?
‘Twenty-five.’
I look at the built guy. He’s about five metres in and covering a metre every three to four seconds. I use the power of accountancy (also known as ‘maths’) and realise: I might be able to do this.
I start to burpee. They’re knackering, but no one seems too concerned about form. I feel like a complete idiot doing them while Hercules ahead of me is carrying a giant boulder – if he’s Spartacus, I’m the Colosseum’s head cheerleader – but I push through. This is my best shot. Besides, it takes a real man to perform a truly unmanly act.
I finish my twenty-five, and see the muscle-head resting about three metres from the end. I run as fast as I can and before I know it, I’m in the lead. I’m going to win this. I’m going to be the company hero. Fifty metres ahead is the pile of logs that I’ve got to jump over. So what? Who can’t jump over a pile of logs? Way to end on a low point, organisers. But I don’t care. I’ve won. I’ve bloody won!
And then I see the flaming torch. A man’s carrying it over to the logs… The logs which he then proceeds to set on fire. I find myself slowing down. We’re meant to jump through a wall of fire? Why did no one tell me about this? This really should have been the first thing they led with.
I reach the wall of flames and come to a stop. I look behind me. I could probably get a few burpees in before he catches up. I just need to ask the steward.
‘How many burpees for this one?’
The steward looks confused, then suddenly twigs my meaning.
‘Oh, no,’ she says. ‘You can’t burpee on this one. You have to do it. ‘
Damn you, Spartacus race. DAMN YOU.
I look round at my workmates screaming at me. I take a few steps back, ready to take on the wall of flames. And I GO.
I jump through the fire and suddenly… I’m out the other side… and I’m OK. I’m OK! I sprint towards the finish line. No one else has even reached the flames yet. I’m home free. I can hear Amanda shouting encouragement behind me, and suddenly everything feels right in the world again.
I’m nearly at the finish line when I smell it. Burning. It must be the wall of fire, but, strangely, it doesn’t seem to be getting any fainter. If anything, it’s getting more intense. And then I feel the heat on my back. And I realise Amanda’s shouts of, ‘You’re on fire!’ were not a compliment. I’m on fire. I’m on actual fire.
I look over my shoulder and see the flames coming up my back. It must be the knock off Nike fabric. Damn it. Never buy cheap polyester sports clothes. Especially if you might have to jump through fire.
The finish line’s five metres ahead. There lies victory. But, for God’s sake, I’m on fire. I see JC shouting, ‘Keep going, I’ll put you out,’ as he runs towards me with a small water bottle. It’s a quarter full. That’s not going to be enough. I make an executive decision and start sprinting away from the finish line and back towards the first water obstacle. I can smell my hair singeing and I run faster than I ever have in my life. Behind me I hear the big guy celebrating as he reaches the finish line. If he didn’t stop for someone getting impaled, he’s hardly going to for second degree burns.
Seconds later, I jump into the muddy lake before me. As the sound of hissing subsides, I lie there in relief. Twenty seconds later, JC appears above me looking very angry. He pours his quarter bottle of water over my face.
The fact that I’m surrounded by water on all sides makes it difficult to interpret as a positive gesture.
Job prospects not looking good.
After the Race
‘I feel like such an idiot,’ I say. ‘I should have just finished.’
‘You were on fire,’ replies Amanda. ‘It’s a good excuse.’
My back’s feeling sore, but the paramedic said it was nothing serious. And it is a good excuse. Definitely better than norovirus. Maybe Sally should jot ‘being on fire’ down for next time the kids are ill.
‘I’m not sure JC’ll see it that way.’
‘Well, he’s an idiot. Everyone in New York’s feeling pretty uncomfortable about how he’s running things. Between you and me, I don’t know how much longer he’ll be in charge.’
‘Probably at least till the end of my trial period.’
She starts to contradict me, then stops. ‘Probably, yeah.’
She smiles at me. And it feels like a genuine smile. Now’s the time – I should ask her to the party tomorrow. That whole Vin thing was just me being paranoid. What are you doing tomorrow? It’s as simple as that. What are you doing tomorrow?
‘What are you doing tomorrow?’ I try to sound casual, but it ends up too casual. Like I’m just interested in what she’s doing tomorrow, rather than asking her to spend it with me.
‘Meeting my new niece in the morning,’ she explains, getting out her phone to show me a picture. It’s not a problem. It’s the morning. No one wants people hanging round all day when they’ve got a new baby. I just need to be more specific in the follow up.
Amanda suddenly notices the time on her phone. ‘Shit. I’ve got to go.’
‘Everything OK?’
‘I’ve got to get back for a Skype call – sorry.’
‘Oh. Important?’
‘Just…’ she hesitates, ‘Vin.’
And there it is… Vin. She’s already getting up and leaving.
‘Sorry – look we really need to talk. Let’s try to make some time on Monday.’
As I watch her walking off, I can’t fool myself any longer – something definitely happened in New York. I guess in-company romance isn’t such a big deal when the person you’re doing it with lives an ocean away.
Fuck. Fucking Vin.
Oh crap. She’s fucking Vin.
Sunday
I’m in no mood for Mark and Karen’s Christmas bash, but it’s also Amelie’s birthday, so Arthur and Carrie won’t let me skip it. It’s become an annual event. What started off as Amelie’s party has morphed into something else completely. At least I think so. Pretty sure Amelie wasn’t pushing to have Mark’s friend Ranj on the guest list. Maybe she’s hoping to learn how to ‘neg’ the kids’ entertainer.
I’m in the kitchen when, for once in my life, Ranj actually comes over to me. ‘I know you, don’t I?’
‘Yeah – Tom. We hung out in a bara few weeks ago.’
He tries to place me. ‘Nah – think it was something else.’ For God’s sake.
I try to jog his memory. ‘You went home with some girl who ran an art gallery…’
‘Luciana…’ His words trail off into a kind of dreamy reverie.
‘How did that go? Successful bit of ‘negging’?’ I joke. Sarcastically.
He stops me dead. ‘She broke my heart.’
‘Oh, right.’ Maybe she was just using him to soften up his better-looking friend… actually, he was there with me. Luciana really hated me.
I try to engage him in something else, but the conversation is over. Ranj is deep in his heartache. He just wants to be alone.
‘Excuse me,’ he stutters. ‘I think I’m going to go and watch Smartie Artie.’
Ranj heads off to the kids’ entertainer and I notice Gary’s over the other side of the room. I haven’t spoken to him since I broke up his marriage, but I can see him looking over. Talking to people at kids’ parties is always awkward, but this is really taking the biscuit. Oo. Biscuit. I might nick a Party Ring from the kids’ table.
Gary taps me on the shoulder.
‘Tom – could I have a quick chat?’
‘Do you think that’s a good idea?’
‘I just wanted to say sorry. About what happened with Sally.’ Does he expect me to forgive him?
‘Well, actually…’ he continues, ‘nothing happened. She was just being a bit flirty. Things weren’t going well with Samantha, and I leant in and kissed her… but she just pushed me away.’
‘Oh. Right,’ I reply. It was almost like… she was being faithful. Did the kids just have completely the wrong idea about what happened? Do I?
‘Anyway, Sammy and I are back together now, so I hope we can move on from it and everything?’
‘Um, yeah… sure,’ man-my-wife-rejected. He’s clearly looking for something else though.
‘Anyway, you said something before – and I’m sure you were just angry – something about me being a… pre-pubescent Muppet… I think? Can’t remember exactly. But something like that. Exactly that. Just a bit hurtful, that’s all.’
I think he’s expecting me to say sorry. To let bygones be bygones. I think about being magnanimous. About putting it all in the past… But… nah; that’ll teach you to try and get off with my wife.
‘That’s a shame,’ I reply. ‘Anyway – excuse me. I’m going to go and watch Smartie Artie. Apparently he has this hilarious new high-voiced puppet…’
Monday – The Shit Hits the Fan
The news comes in at 10:00 am. Someone’s leaked a rough edit of the ad on YouTube and it’s gone viral. Apparently my instinct that it was massively racist was shared by… the world.
We watch as the ad spreads across social media, into news outlets, and eventually to our clients, who start calling and cancelling their accounts. At 11:15, JC summons the sales guys and the whole of the creative team into the conference room. We’ve got some business-saving to do.
‘Right. Major problemo. You’ve probably heard. Turns out the general public… and the press… and the Equality and Human Rights Commission… haven’t quite got the ad. Satire’s lost on these people. You want to bring them up to your level, but they keep dragging you down to theirs.’ He turns to Jake, the head of client accounts. ‘OK – what’s the sit?’ His abbreviation doesn’t quite land. ‘…u…’ still nothing ‘…ation?’
Jake gives us the lowdown. ‘Well, so far we’ve lost eight smaller clients… plus Tesco, Virgin Mobile…’ – he looks down at his beeping phone – ‘…and Whole Foods – we just lost Whole Foods.’
All the colour has drained from JC’s face. I’m not sure being more white is what this company needs right now. But JC’s not going to be beaten. He gathers himself, ready to rally the troops, only to be interrupted again by Jake’s phone beeping.
‘Oh and chocolate,’ Jake pipes up, ‘…we just lost chocolate.’ Makes sense – probably worried we’d channel all our resources into Milky Bar.
JC gathers himself again. ‘Well… looks like we’re bleeding clients like a medieval doctor,’ he jokes. No one laughs. ‘We need to think damage limitation. Jake – you need to call everyone ASAP; tell them we’re dealing with this.’
‘On it.’ Jake’s phone beeps again.
‘Don’t tell me we’ve lost another one.’
‘No,’ says Jake, ‘just a potential one. Our negotiations with The White Company just fell through.’ That stands to reason. They were treading on thin ice with that name at the best of times.
‘OK – get on it.’ Jake runs from the room followed by his team and we see them through the glass divide, spreading across the office making calls on their mobiles, like an army battalion on a charm offensive.
JC turns to the remains of the meeting. ‘Right – any ideas?’
‘I think we just explain what we were trying for,’ explains Doug. ‘Subverting racism rather than… doing it.’
‘Good thinking. And if you’re ever caught in a stampede, maybe hand the lead bison a handwritten letter to explain why you shouldn’t be crushed underfoot. Fucking moron.’
Annoyingly, JC’s right. Now is not the time for reason. And Doug seems suitably chastened. But JC hasn’t finished yet.
‘I can’t believe we went with your bloody idea. I knew it was dodgy.’ Rather predictably, the creative credit has been returned to its original owner. Doug looks like he’s just come out of three rounds with Conor McGregor. John seems like he’s actually shrunk to half his normal size, i.e. his legs and head look small, but his weird body is kind of average.
