There’s No Time!

She gets up an hour and a half before the alarm goes off. She likes to clean and refill the coffeemaker the previous night, so all she needs to do is press the button and hey presto! the bitter liquid is already trickling through.

First stop, the bathroom. Shower and hair wash, every single morning, since arriving fit and fresh at work is an iron rule for her. The hair growth on her legs has already reached half a millimetre, so she shaves. While standing under the pleasantly hot shower stream she goes over the main tasks lined up for the day: write a summary for a project due for completion this week, schedule an online meeting with client number forty-two, request accounting-firm details from human resources, pay bills.

The coffee is now ready, the smell gives it away. She steps out of the shower, dries herself and puts on her white bathrobe. She pads to the kitchen in her soft, Chinese-made slippers. She quickly rustles up two slices of toast, spreads them with jam, then pours the coffee into a dark-blue mug with horoscope patterns. The magazines lying about the breakfast table are last month’s issues. She takes a seat, pulls a magazine out of the pile and starts leafing through it. There are at least half a dozen such items of waste paper in the bathroom too, in the basket by the wall. High time she sorted those out, she muses while eating. She isn’t in the mood to read articles, so she only looks at pictures.

The alarm clock goes off in the bedroom. Standing, she finishes her drink, puts the mug next to the crumb-covered plate and heads to the bedroom to switch the alarm off. She finds that it’s too dark. She crosses the room, pulls the blind up and opens the window. The sun has barely risen, and is playing peek-a-boo from behind a high-rise building in the distance. She takes two swift inhalations of the cool morning air and closes the window. There’s no time to relax.

Next, she’s off to the bathroom to do her make-up. Her hair is still quite wet, so she gets the hairdryer out. A bit of backcombing, a light mist of hair spray, and she’s ready to go. Every single hair is in place. The freshly ironed beige blouse and matching navy trouser-suit are on standby, hanging on the coat-hook attached to the wardrobe door knob. She has plenty of skirts, but prefers to keep them for the spring. Today she settles for a pair of wedges, since her feet get tired much faster in stilettos.

Once she’s fully dressed, she checks herself out in the mirror: she never leaves the house without being entirely satisfied with every inch of her body. It was her mum who instilled this habit in her. She is pleased with what she sees; all that’s missing is a cardigan. It’s eight o’clock, so she’s just on time. She hangs her black, studded handbag over her shoulder, but before leaving the house she takes a quick look to check that her purse, ID, travelcard, diary, pen, mobile phone, keys, pocket mirror, lipstick and tissues are all within reach. Everything is where it should be.

The city centre is buzzing like a hard-working ant colony. Buses follow one another every two minutes at the crowded bus stop, and the yellow tram, clustered with stressed people, snakes along the boulevard. The tube rumbles loudly underground, and by the elevator entrance two students in green waistcoats hand out free daily papers at a whirlwind pace to those rushing to work. Dense crowds flood the narrow streets, continuous honking and the sound of car engines pouring in from everywhere.

The pendant on her necklace bounces as she rushes down the steps. There is a three-person queue at the underground café. She joins the line behind a middle-aged man wearing a hat. The queue is moving slowly, because someone can’t decide between a pizza or a cheese scone. She’s nervously tapping with her feet and checking her watch: hopefully she won’t be late. A suited and booted guy carrying a briefcase turns up behind her. Now she’s the only woman in the queue. As she makes it to the counter, the vendor doesn’t even ask what she’d like, just hands over the ham-and-salad double sandwich and small carton of apple juice. She buys the same thing every morning. This is her lunch. Usually she has it at her desk: she doesn’t like fast food restaurants because they are crowded and expensive. Besides, eating out is a waste of time. If she eats at her desk she doesn’t have to take a break from the task she’s immersed in. Her diet only features cooked food twice a week: on Saturdays and Sundays. She crumples the paper bag a little and squeezes it into her handbag.

On her way to the tram, at the top of the stairs, a homeless person rubs a dirty plastic cup under her nose and asks for money. She looks through him and moves on, clutching her handbag.

– Why don’t you go to work instead of annoying passers-by, insolent yob that you are! – she shouts back at the tramp.

– Fuck you, bitch! – the man retorts angrily.

She turns around and hits the beggar on the cheek. The man spits at her between the eyes. She throws her handbag on the floor, grabs the tramp’s arm and twists it, so he can’t help but kneel down in pain. He screams, at which point she snaps his neck and breaks it. The man falls over like a piece of wood. She looks around to see whether anyone has witnessed the incident, but people are so embroiled in the rush that they go past her without batting an eyelid. Others check her out with piercing eyes, wondering why she has to stand by a corpse with a twisted neck, so they have to go around them when they are in such a tremendous rush. She kicks the beggar’s body out of the way, adjusts the collar of her blouse, picks her bag up from the floor and joins the crowd of those marching to work.

People fight over seats on the trolley bus, which runs a red light. A young girl is pushed off the vehicle through the half-open doors. The doors are so rust-eaten that they offer no protection whatsoever. In the neighbouring street someone runs an old woman over on the zebra crossing, since she had the temerity to walk across to the other side despite the lights flashing green. But there’s no time to take a break and feel sorry. Traffic rolls on, and the corpse will soon turn to dust owing to the hundreds of car and bus wheels that roll over it. Those who plunge in front of trams are luckier. They are instantly reconfigured into bloody fans, akin to a biting midge splattered all over a windscreen. Blood is less polluting for the streets than bony body parts, and it doesn’t obstruct traffic either. Annoying disruptions are quite frequent in capital cities. Some people jump off their balconies onto bus roofs if they notice that the bus is at the stop and they can’t make it there in time on foot.

Behind the supermarket a man smashes a car’s windscreen with a baseball bat, because its owner parked it directly outside the warehouse entrance on the spot normally reserved for trucks. A window cleaner belonging to the Piarist Order, whose safety rope was cut just a minute ago because his hanging scaffold was obstructing the view from an office window, nose-dives to the ground from the height of sixty-six floors.

An elderly man has a heart attack on the tram, and collapses in the doorway. The other passengers gather momentum, and, forming a giant hand, throw him out of the vehicle; after all, it’s because of him that they are unable to get in and out. The man rolls next to a bin, and traffic is back to running smoothly again.

Everyone is bad tempered and very busy. Those who aren’t, meet their end. The system can’t tolerate weak links in the chain. A hard-working society doesn’t need happy, calm and satisfied people who only work eight hours a day and are sufficiently well rested. There’s no time for human folly. The system only allows for breaks lasting the time between the traffic lights turning red and then green.

She arrives at work at nine sharp, takes a seat at her desk and only gets up to leave at seven in the evening. She then goes home, has dinner, and between nine and eleven continues to work from home. She doesn’t like to leave unfinished tasks begun earlier in the day. After she’s done, she irons the blouse lined up for the next day and refills the coffeemaker. She goes to bed around midnight. Her bedding awaits her just as rumpled as she left it in the morning. She never bothers making it. She falls asleep with a sense of satisfaction, having seen yet another productive day to its end.

—

Next Monday, everything goes according to the usual plan – until she arrives at the office. She switches the computer on, then unpacks her bag: the sandwich goes on the desk, the diary in the drawer. She’s just about to reach for the mouse to click on her inbox when the phone on her desk rings.

It’s her boss, asking her in. There’s no time to wonder what he might want so early in the morning because her inner eye can only see the day’s tasks, lined up according to priorities: settle the details of Friday’s order with the relevant companies, formulate the marketing blurb in Italian, approve the minutes of last week’s meeting.

She makes it to the boss’s office and is offered a seat. She sits down and as she crosses her legs she can hear her immediate colleague sorting folders in the records office. This reminds her that for the last two weeks she’s been begging for the Stevenson file. She has to initiate a delayed bank transfer, for which she needs the account details indicated in the contract. There’s no time to waste; as soon as she’s done here, she’ll search for that file herself.

– Our company doesn’t require your services any longer.

– Pardon?

– You heard it right. As of tomorrow, there’s no need for you to come in. In fact, you can actually go home immediately. Please collect your belongings.

This news takes her completely by surprise. She turns pale. She breaks out in a sweat, unable to comprehend all this. Only a few days ago there was talk of a business trip to Kiev, as she had volunteered to represent the company at an international conference.

– And your reasons are? – she looks inquisitively at her boss.

– There’s no need for explanations. This is the management’s decision. We consider that your peers’ commitment to work is considerably stronger than yours.

She’s suddenly overwhelmed by the kind of rage that makes one’s blood boil.

– Your P45 and salary for this month will be sent over in the post. Leave your staff card with the porter.

She is gathering momentum to voice her outrage in defence of her efficiency. She is just about to open her mouth when her colleague, who has so far been quietly lying low in the records office, suddenly joins them. Carrying a pile of documents, she struts over to the boss and explains in an officious tone that these papers need signing without delay. The boss suavely approves and takes receipt of the papers, following which the woman strolls back to the adjacent room. They both behave as naturally as if she weren’t in the room anymore.

– Don’t imagine you are irreplaceable – the boss adds with insensitive arrogance, while scribbling his signature at the bottom of a document.

– The bastard! He’s even enjoying this chance to be supercilious – she fumes to herself.

She’d really like to lay into this sleazeball, who has just destroyed her perfect life in cold blood, and slap him until his nose bleeds.

– Time’s up, you can leave.

She jumps up from her chair, steps over to the desk and gives the man a smack so hard that he falls on his back, rolling leather chair and all.

– I appreciate that you are upset – the boss says in a nasal voice, smudging the blood streaming from his nose, but by then she has long left the office.

She empties her drawers, grabs her handbag and heads towards the elevator with an indignant look on her face. Her lunch is left behind on her desk. It’s only ten o’clock in the morning, but no one seems to find it strange that she’s on her way out. When she gets to the ground floor she tosses her staff card in front of the porter. He doesn’t even look at her, as he’s in the middle of an important call.

What should she do next? She collapses into herself and for a while sits on the stairs to the main entrance of a block of flats. All she can do is work; this has been her life so far. How should she fill her days from tomorrow?

She’s at her wits’ end. She observes the people around her: all are heading to work. No one is just hanging around musing about the sun chasing tattered clouds across the sky or about the sharp clattering of tram doors. And no one is moaning, while sitting on some cold and filthy stairs, that something hasn’t gone according to plan in their lives. They are working, carrying on with the hustle and bustle, to each their own, adapting to sudden changes. Except that her course has been snapped in two and the pavement lights on the roadside have gone out.

– Are you okay? Do you need any help? – a man touches her on the shoulder, and smiles at her with a concerned look on his face.

– I have just lost my job. From now on nothing will be okay – she replies, sobbing desperately.

– Don’t be silly! – the man laughs gently. You’ll find another job, perhaps an even better one.

– Do you think so? – she sniffs, gazing at the man with tearful eyes.

The stranger ruminates for just enough time to push his glasses up his nose, and says:

– Trust me, Madam, I’m at much more of a dead-end than you right now, and there’s a slim chance I can sort things out – he says all this with such a kindly, radiant face and joyful voice that she can’t hide her smile.

– First of all, call someone you love and have a good chat; that will certainly make you feel calmer. Then go home, drink a glass of water and have a decent sleep. Tomorrow you won’t find this quite so awful, you’ll see.

She stares ahead with a vacant look. Call someone she loves? But she has no one. Every so often she beds random guys she picks up in bars, to relax after an overworked and exhausting day. There’s no time for a serious relationship because of the mountains of work.

– Don’t worry, there’s a way out of every hole.

– Thank you.

– Goodbye – he waves at her, smiling, as he takes to his heels, aiming for the bus that has just made its appearance at the end of the street.

Her gaze follows the stranger as he jumps on the bus by the back door, and the vehicle chugs on to the next stop. A cyclist whizzes past. A woman has a heated argument on her mobile while she arrogantly bangs the door of her white Vauxhall.

—

The intercom above her head buzzes. She looks up to find a delivery man standing in front of her, holding a parcel in his hand.

– Good morning – she greets him in a soft voice.

– Good morning, Madam.

– Would you happen to need any new staff? I’m looking for work.

– I’m only an employee myself – the man replies, taken by surprise, before he disappears through the door just opened for him by the addressee of the parcel.

Time to head home. She still has stomach cramps, but at least has started to breathe a little more steadily. When she gets to the underpass, the person who sells her usual sandwich in the mornings glances at her. They make eye contact, but the vendor doesn’t recognize her. A despondent smile appears on her face. By now, the tramp’s corpse has disappeared from the steps.

She enters her flat and kicks her shoes off, and her handbag lands on the sofa. She pauses and looks around; it’s only now that she can see the mess. She has been putting in so much extra time lately that she’s had no time to tidy up. She only took care of work-related things: suits, blouses, official documents and her desk. It’s crystal clear: the only thing to her credit is that she’s a hard worker. The red light on her answerphone flashes; she’s received a message. She listens to it. It was one of her colleagues instructing her to add a missing article to figure number six in last month’s report. She sighs, jaded. It seems the company system hasn’t been updated that she’s been fired.

She goes to the kitchen and fills a glass with water. She takes a pear from the glass bowl on the sideboard and bites into it. She looks at the clock on the wall: it’s only just past eleven. She’s never been home this early. She walks slowly to her desk in the living room. She switches on her laptop while taking another bite of the pear. There are three messages in her priority inbox, all from the company. She doesn’t read them, but presses delete instead. She opens her browser and types in the address of a jobseeker portal. While the page is loading she finishes her water and unbuttons her blouse. She spots the first ad: her company is seeking a reliable, loyal and capable worker for an immediate start. Her office chair is still warm, but the internet already carries a fresh and crisp offer to entice newbies to her barely vacated place.

– This is unjust! – tears flood to her eyes as she sees the ad.

She reaches out to the laptop lid and closes it. The machine goes straight to hibernation mode. She walks over to the bedroom. As usual, her duvet is scrunched up in the middle of the bed. Lying on her back, she immerses herself in thought while staring at the ceiling.

She must find her way back into the system. She needs to work, otherwise she’ll become powerless. She feels that it would do her good to take the stranger’s advice and have a decent sleep. She turns to one side and closes her eyes, but her overwhelming sense of duty doesn’t let her fall asleep. The phone rings in the living room. She listlessly crawls out of bed and plods over to pick the receiver up.

– Hello?

– Greetings, it’s Death here – she can hear from the other end of the line.

– So?

– I have a proposition for you.

– Look, I have no time for such nonsense. I need to find a new job straightaway!

– That is exactly what I mean. There’s loads of paperwork at present in the underworld. We are in need of a hard worker.

A smile appears on her face.

– You could become my personal assistant. I hate keeping a diary, but as a result I have difficulty remembering which client I’m due to visit at what time.

This doesn’t sound so bad, she thinks. New role, new experiences.

– What do you think? – Death asks in a suavely professional voice.

– I don’t mind, let’s meet in an hour.

– I’ll come for you.

– Fine. I’ll be expecting you.

She returns the receiver to its place. She ponders the recent conversation and is filled with a sense of cheerful excitement. It looks as if her unemployment problems are sorted, and much faster than she’d hoped. A new opportunity is opening up for her to prove that her extraordinary efficiency is simply indispensable.

She goes to the computer and prints out a copy of her updated CV.

– It’s pointless to carry on moaning – she says with a sense of satisfaction – this day can only end on a high.