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Authors: Cecelia Ahern
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machine punched a hole through my docket, the sound punching a hole in my pounding head. I was over two hours late, but I didn’t care who saw me trudging down the halls dressed in the same clothes as yesterday stinking of beer, sweat and smoke and minus my uniform.
Last night had started off like every other night—a few innocent after-work drinks down at the local drinking hole with my colleagues. And it had ended just like every other night with everyone saying their goodbyes after a couple of drinks, but as usual I didn’t leave. I didn’t or couldn’t drag myself off that bar stool and I didn’t or couldn’t drag my lips away from the beer glass. I woke up this morning not knowing where the hell I was, once again with goddamn Thumper sitting on my head. You see, I had no family to go home to; no one to convince me that dragging myself away from that bar stool and beer glass was worthwhile.
I could smell the alcohol seeping from my pores and the stench of stale cigarette smoke clinging to my clothes as I walked down the hall to my workspace. I saw the faces, the glances, the nudges, the looks of disgust and the smiles of sympathy. I knew what they could see; I saw it every morning when I looked in the mirror: a sad old man letting it all slip away. But that didn’t scare me because at least I had a goal. I’d lost the most important things in my life and, if I kept on going the way I was going, I’d lose everything else. What a result, what an achievement, a triumph of perseverance. I was a perfect advertisement for what you could do when you really put your mind to it. And there was a certain amount of bravery that came with what I was doing, I believed. Not many people have the guts to throw absolutely everything away. They’re always stupid enough to hold onto something small, selfish enough to think that one thing could be a small comfort. But it’s not: it’s a reminder that you used to be somebody, that you used to belong to someone and they to you. If you’re going to do something, do it right, get rid of it all. The first thing I lost was my heart, everything after that was a cinch.
But who the hell works on 24 December? I hear you ask. Us, that’s who. We leave everything until the last minute and then have to work all hours to get the job done, every single year. The boss says we can’t start earlier because the clients don’t start ordering the goods until the run-up to Christmas. The others thrive on the manic times, I don’t. But I used to.
I work in a factory. A great, big, depressing, monstrous warehouse with no windows. I have a theory on the lack of windows: while we’re working, we can’t see how many hours have passed and the beauty of the changing day. That suits me just fine.
We’ve a boss who’s above us both geographically and mentally. He’s got an office way up at the top of the building with great big windows so he can look down on us all. Which he does. And I’ve been called up to that office once or twice and I see what he sees: hundreds of us working away like little ants, ready to be stomped on at any time.
In case you’re wondering what I do, I work on a production line. The factory makes toys, which is why we’re so busy at this time of the year. I say that it’s the factory that makes toys, not me: this Christmas all I was responsible for was sticking a plastic arm into a hole of the shoulder of some scary-looking doll with eyes so blue and dead I think I’m looking at myself. Happy Holly. That’s what they call her on the box. But I bet the kids wouldn’t touch her with a bargepole if they knew how she started out looking. When she getsto me she’s bald with no legs or arms, just a plastic torso and a head with eyes. This thing ends up singin’ and dancin’ and talkin’ and probably spittin’ if you want her to.
But every day for the past week I’ve been staring at this doll, been staring at those eyes dead and cold and thinking my development has
Last night had started off like every other night—a few innocent after-work drinks down at the local drinking hole with my colleagues. And it had ended just like every other night with everyone saying their goodbyes after a couple of drinks, but as usual I didn’t leave. I didn’t or couldn’t drag myself off that bar stool and I didn’t or couldn’t drag my lips away from the beer glass. I woke up this morning not knowing where the hell I was, once again with goddamn Thumper sitting on my head. You see, I had no family to go home to; no one to convince me that dragging myself away from that bar stool and beer glass was worthwhile.
I could smell the alcohol seeping from my pores and the stench of stale cigarette smoke clinging to my clothes as I walked down the hall to my workspace. I saw the faces, the glances, the nudges, the looks of disgust and the smiles of sympathy. I knew what they could see; I saw it every morning when I looked in the mirror: a sad old man letting it all slip away. But that didn’t scare me because at least I had a goal. I’d lost the most important things in my life and, if I kept on going the way I was going, I’d lose everything else. What a result, what an achievement, a triumph of perseverance. I was a perfect advertisement for what you could do when you really put your mind to it. And there was a certain amount of bravery that came with what I was doing, I believed. Not many people have the guts to throw absolutely everything away. They’re always stupid enough to hold onto something small, selfish enough to think that one thing could be a small comfort. But it’s not: it’s a reminder that you used to be somebody, that you used to belong to someone and they to you. If you’re going to do something, do it right, get rid of it all. The first thing I lost was my heart, everything after that was a cinch.
But who the hell works on 24 December? I hear you ask. Us, that’s who. We leave everything until the last minute and then have to work all hours to get the job done, every single year. The boss says we can’t start earlier because the clients don’t start ordering the goods until the run-up to Christmas. The others thrive on the manic times, I don’t. But I used to.
I work in a factory. A great, big, depressing, monstrous warehouse with no windows. I have a theory on the lack of windows: while we’re working, we can’t see how many hours have passed and the beauty of the changing day. That suits me just fine.
We’ve a boss who’s above us both geographically and mentally. He’s got an office way up at the top of the building with great big windows so he can look down on us all. Which he does. And I’ve been called up to that office once or twice and I see what he sees: hundreds of us working away like little ants, ready to be stomped on at any time.
In case you’re wondering what I do, I work on a production line. The factory makes toys, which is why we’re so busy at this time of the year. I say that it’s the factory that makes toys, not me: this Christmas all I was responsible for was sticking a plastic arm into a hole of the shoulder of some scary-looking doll with eyes so blue and dead I think I’m looking at myself. Happy Holly. That’s what they call her on the box. But I bet the kids wouldn’t touch her with a bargepole if they knew how she started out looking. When she getsto me she’s bald with no legs or arms, just a plastic torso and a head with eyes. This thing ends up singin’ and dancin’ and talkin’ and probably spittin’ if you want her to.
But every day for the past week I’ve been staring at this doll, been staring at those eyes dead and cold and thinking my development has
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