Friday, August 07, 2020

Fables from a Forgotten Place: The Commuters


Tim Walker

Picture this:
The camera frames a view of grassy verge, unkempt in these days of shortage, then pans to the entrance of Utopia Mansions. Our viewpoint now dollies through the doorway, passes the letterbox grid to the left and ascends the single flight of stairs to the narrow landing of doors numbered quite sensibly 1 through to 10. Doors to the right, railing and open air to the left.
We move forward now, down past Apts 1… 2… past apt 10 to where the landing ends in a solid brick wall, stop and slow pan left to reveal the majesty of the Factory that rises like some burnt gunmetal beetle from the centre of our little town.
It is said that no one is ever further than 50m from a Factory entrance, dotted as they are in their own horizontal grid of doors that when opened reveal for many, the downward running escalators leading to the tunnels that feed the workers to their subterranean entrances.
Back at our apartment block, Dog Jones, at the advent of the day, opens the door to Apt 1 and steps out onto the landing. Reaching into his pocket for his keys, he lowers his bag in order to lock the door for the day.
The door to Apt 2 ejects Big Jim Boon, once again too late to avoid the open door of Apt 1 that invariably blocks his daily egress from the landing. Sally Bon Farah exits Apt 3 and greets Big Jim with a shy smile.
“Good morning” says he and turns to glare at the polished brass 1 screwed at eyelevel on the blue door.
The occupants of Apt 4 through to Apt 10 spill out into the queue already formed by the Dog Jones’ inability to find his keys in his pockets; him now dodging back into Apt 1 to look for them there, leaving open the door that yet impedes 90% of the floor from arriving on time at their workstations within the factory.
This happens every day with slight variations in timing but with the end result always a traffic jam.

Protest:
“Can you make an effort to be a little more efficient in your execution of your morning routine”
Says Big Jim Boon to Dog Jones around the barrier of the open door to Apt 1.
“Yeah” says Sally Bon Farah.
“Yeah” says Fergal Finnigan from Apt 4.
Dog Jones hears nothing bar the aspirational speech playing in his earphones; the one entitled Vertical Productivity Elevation.
Helga Tornado, who lives in Apt 10 had, weeks earlier, decided to set her alarm for 30 minutes later than the company recommended wake-up time (CRWT) thereby avoiding have to spend those 30 minutes on the landing waiting for the jam to clear. But then, according to her mother, Helga had always been pragmatic.
Meanwhile Tom Patcher, Apt 7, who, according to all sources, has always been a passive-aggressive ball of class-based anxiety, leans out of his door and, after apologising to Margo from At 8, adds his voice to the chorus of Yeah’s.

Unrest:
There came, after some many days, the voices of dissent from behind:
“Oi, get a fucking move on up there”
“You’re making us all late”
“They deducted an hour from my wage last week because of you Mr. Lah-di-dah, Mr. № One”
Mister Number One was, of course, oblivious to all but the “how to manage people” seminars that he has taken to playing through his earphones every morning on the way to work. Clever Dog Jones, proud of his efficient use of time, was indeed oblivious to his negative impact on the world.

Revolution:
There came a day when Big Jim Boon - a gentle man in the eyes of his peers and indeed in the (unrequited) loving eyes of Sally Bon Farah – there came a day when he was moved to action.
Big Jim Boon, our bronze bulged hero causes on the eve of the following shift, a weighty volume 8 of the Encyclopaedia Apoplexy to be wedge against the outward arcing door of Apt 1 Utopia Mansions.

Resolution:
Come the morning shift alarm, now set to 7:30 (since none can see any reason for appearing any earlier than the precedent already set) Helga Tornado exits Apt 10 at her usual time and, as instructed by our hero, raps on the door of Apt 9 as she passes.
The very recently rapped door to Apt 9 swings open to expel our flamboyant accountant, who in passing, rattles her lacquered fingernails on the door to Apt 8. Margo knocks on Tom’s door in passing.
Tom knocks Apt 6’s flaking door, still sporting here in May, a festive Xmas wreath.
Brad, our threadbare but still well stitched designer gets Fergal Finnigan out the door of Apt 5 to jiggle the handle of Apt 4 which in turn expels the obsequious Ray to greet Sally Bon Farah, ever an early entrant to witness the exit of our big hero Jim Boon who, after curling an arm around Sally’s waist, flips the encyclopaedia to one side, releasing the door to Apt 1 which has been shouldered repeatedly (but without success) since 7:00 by the managerial, but hapless, Dog Jones.

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