Maximilian Kent
Staff Writer
Many of us dream of working in a big office. You know, an all-glass phallus reflecting passers-by, reminding them of how much they have failed at life simply because they do not work in such a crystalline fortress. I too have dreamed, and can perhaps offer some advice to those who tread on the path to employed righteousness. As a senior sophister student, I’ve snored through a fair few presentations in such buildings, listening to the promises of authoritative men in immaculate suits as they tempt soon-to-be graduates towards the company over which they are supreme overlords:
“And so, if you desire a career in human misery – er, I mean, business and stuff, choose the Procter Waterloitte Goldman Lynch Stanley Fargo and Young Brothers Group.”
There usually follows some polite applause from the students and a rapturous ovation from the office minions. Freshly picked roses and women’s underwear often fall from the heavens, mercilessly showering the speaker in floral, lacy admiration. For us job-seeking noobs, the true challenge begins as we are made saunter around the room, engaging what those in the biz call ‘mingling’.
“Interesting enough, yeah?” the student with whom you have been sitting will say. Yes, you’ve spent hundreds of hours together mere rows apart in lecture theatres. No, you dare not ask their name after so many years, but hope that their lapel will unfold and reveal the nametag they so carelessly pinned back there. I advise applying possible names in your head until you stumble upon the correct moniker. If you’re like me, you’ll invariably get stuck on the Ts, convinced it’s either Thelma or Thaddeus, but too afraid to risk either. “Fuck it, you shall be The Nameless One,” I think to myself in such instances, looking to their lapels, willing them to sympathetically unfold. They never do. Dicks. Whatever, they’re surely not getting a job ahead of you anyway.
Uncooperative lapels aside, it’s worth questioning the dress code of such establishments. So-called ‘business attire’ is compulsory for anyone hoping to charm their way into the likes of PWGLSF&YBros.G, the most baffling aspect of which is the shoulder pads. It’s all terribly non-violent, so forget any thought of them being a mediocre attempt at body armour. I’m reasonably convinced that for men, they may represent an overt display of masculinity, for as we know, the measure of a male lies in his capacity for gratuitous shrugging.
On one occasion, I had the misfortune of being conversationally paired with an actual speech-giving overlord, minions in tow. It was a chance for myself and ‘Nameless’, as I sometimes take to identifying my anonymous chums by (because who has three words for a name?), to impress the bawss of the place into employing us. I advise you all to seize this opportunity to flip off the competition.
“Hello,” he said, dodging another stray thong as it flew at his face, outstretching a hand as reluctant as his greeting. I responded in kind, letting ‘The’, as I had quickly progressed to addressing my nameless partner in this instance (for efficiency’s sake) extend his own hand in stunned silence.
Everyone has their own approach, but I started this particular conversation as I do many, with humour. One questionable pun about suits later and Lord Vader had cracked a smile. At least, I thought it was a smile. It could have been considered a stroke, until laughter finally began to emanate from his very being. Not normal laughter, but rather a sarcastic expulsion of air that slowed with every syllable; a sort of “Ha ha ha … ha ha … ha.” Unfortunately for me, the man was not a chuckler. I was screwed.
If a similar awkward fate befalls you, I advise running away, and was ever so close to doing so myself until Sauron actually responded. I listened as he spewed out business jargon like a veritable Jack Donaghy, coming round just in time to hear:
“But the real trouble is fitting the firm’s name on all the free pens! HA!”
A joke? Surely not, I thought, until a minion lead by example, sniggering raucously. So, we all laughed, and you should too in such instances, fearing whatever horrible fate awaits someone who dares not chortle heartily at the boss’ jokes. I looked to ‘The’, his shoulder pads rising and falling with mirth, showing me up as a man. I was out of my depth, my own guffaws a mere hindrance to the façade of my false admiration for this hitherto unknown, suit-wearing Dave Chappelle.
Searching for a way out, I became distracted by the free food present. Satisfying both needs instantly, I began cramming prawns into my mouth. Sure, there was a 50% chance of a childhood allergy flaring up and my throat closing, but I needed an excuse to bail, stumbling towards the door just in time to hear the words “Hi, my name is Thaddeus”.
I know now that this ‘grown-up job’ thing may not be my calling, and therefore salute the employed graduates of the future who rise to the occasion in situations more awkward than that which my stomach can handle. Don’t forget me when you reach the top, and know that I’ll always be there, standing opposite you, in case you ever want fries with that.
