Breaking The Rules of The Little Black Book

As many may describe the feats of Shakespeare and Hemingway unparalleled or perhaps revolutionarily metamorphic, I describe myself in a humorously similar manner.

In my own, humble way I have revolutionised the definition of mediocre.

Perhaps some humans are simply designed for eminence and prosperity, maybe it is God's will to create certain people with attributes sure to set them on the road to greatness.

Which is probably a hop, skip and a jump down the M1 for me.

Greatness lies so far out of my reach, in fact, that I have found amusement in the mundanity of pressing a perfect circle through three sheets of paper at a time with my hole puncher.

Three.

Unfortunately for me, that thrilling task of the day is complete. Simply another thing to tick off on my to-do list as I sit glued to an office chair, with a laughably small window cracked open to aid my sweaty brow. I pinch the chambray material of my shirt and began to tug it up and down as it sticks to my skin, puffing out a breath of air in a futile attempt to cool myself.

Gently ushering my organised files to the left, my grabby hands reach forward to pick up a little, black book. My bible, if you will. I religiously live by the plans written in it, forged weeks in advance by pinning down every hourly activity I am set during my nine 'til five adventures.

My notebook gives me a sense of purpose, I feel some sort of twisted thrill every time my index finger trails down the listed items so I can tick one off.

12:30. Arrange client 29's files— done.

12:45. Boss will barge into my room and entrust me with a banal chore— pending.

Inside my ditsy head, this small book gives me the power to predict the future. Albeit a rather repetitive, colourless future with more humdrum than being left on hold for two hours, but a future nonetheless.

Just as my brain begins to rehearse an argument I got into over a decade ago, cursing me for not having a backbone, my manager pokes his head through the door.

As the man natters I realise my head is nodding along, agreeing with everything he's saying and being compliant. After a tedious few minutes of small talk he cuts to the chase, asking me to grab a briefcase of files from the storage room. Although, there isn't a question mark in sight. I don’t expect him to politely request anything, I doubt he even knows my name.

In fact, I'm certain he started off the conversation with an elongated, "Hey, you."

That's fine. It doesn't bother me at all.

I'm content floating by unnoticed every day of my life without fail. No one has yet to beat me at this onerous lifestyle, not even the interns. They all got pay rises last week.

I truly am awe-inspiring. So very humble, too. Not once have I ever pushed my numerous successes onto my colleagues, not once.

Not once have I spoken to half of them, either.

I am told not to look inside the briefcase as he makes himself scarce.

Using the armrests for support, I push myself out of the sticky chair and carve a path to the storage room. A dingy, stale-smelling area with masses upon masses of musty, tatty boxes stacked next to each other.

My hand fumbles to find the light but after a few seconds of floundering around like I've had ten too many Cosmopolitans, I end up punching the switch with a clenched fist. I am unexplainably glad no one walks in whilst I'm stuffing my knuckles into my mouth as part of a hopeless strive to ease the pain.

Exhale. Exhale. Exhale.

I forget to inhale.

Thankfully as the thought of finding that briefcase takes priority, my breathing goes back onto autopilot. My fingers tap along a number of horrendously nurtured boxes, possibly older than I am, but settle on one that grasps my attention in the restricted section.

It's still a repellant, stout brown just like all the others, however far newer and seeming less as though rats have nested inside it. More importantly, I notice my name on it, stamped high in the top, right corner along with a slightly peeling, white label.

Clearly, somebody does know who I am.

Although curiosity killed the cat, I am told cats have nine lives and since I have yet to live this one, I see no harm in opening up the personalised box. My nails dig under the lid, gaining a good grip so I can easily tug it off.

The top is quickly discarded as I delve into it, a young child on Christmas morning might not even be so excited. There is a tight-lipped smile crawling on and off my lips as I commit this minor juvenile delinquency. I am going against every fibre in my body, breaking the rules and the typical course of my day.

This activity wasn't in the little, black book.

But my high is a fleeting one and the low that comes second to it is shattering, humiliating. I sense a certain placidness flood my heart as the contents on the piece of paper I hold resonate with me.

It's a pink slip.

My eyebrows furrow as some of the frustrated embers buried within managed to lick their way through my stratum of numbness. I remind myself to remain calm, professional.

It's a notice of termination.

My mind has chilled over with an eerie quietness, a thick sheet of stupefaction settles on top of any anger I experience.

I am being dismissed— permanently.

My innate defence mechanisms kick in as I stuff the notice into the box and place it back where it belongs. The possibility of burning it flickers across the bewildered fragments of my head. Mediocrity has its perks, I doubt anyone would even realise.

But I don't.

I walk away from the situation and stomp on the problem until it's a mangled mess on the floor, twitching like something more dead than alive in a dark corner of my brain. It's not a perfect solution, temporary at best.

It's also all I've got right now.

I will bury the issue and deal with it once it’s unequivocally shoved back into the limelight. Up till then, I suppose I ought to find the briefcase.

My manager hadn’t been very specific with its whereabouts but he had said it was in the restricted area. I card through each section to no avail, feeling petulant and forlorn.

If I can’t even do this right, no wonder they want to—

Abruptly, poking into my peripheral vision, I can see a rectangular, black briefcase. I thank God that I’m not completely incompetent and catapult myself across the aisle, wrapping my fingers around the cool metal of its handle.

When I pick it up, I notice it’s discernibly heavier than your average set of files. It would seem I have not learnt from my last prying escaped because I set the briefcase back down and flick open it’s buckles regardless.

After all, what do I have to lose? Certainly not my job, that’s for sure.

Opening that structured, leather container is the best thing I have ever rebelliously partaken in. I view its contents like some sort of archaeologist unveiling a dusty bone or a jeweller examining a finely cut diamond with a set of pincers. It is truly magnificent.

In front of me are countless wads of twenty pound notes, arranged so meticulously I could cry. My fingers are itching to touch the money, to take the money, to spend the money. A part of me that retains its usual timorous, demure nature is screaming at me to put it back, lock the case and go about my day.

But then there’s a darker side to my mind.

One that caterwauls far louder than my meeker half, demanding that I take it all and run. It’s tempestuous and volatile, I can sense how much of a pathetic novice I am at handling these new emotions because I’m finding it difficult to resist. It’s all so very tempting.

There must be at least thirty thousand pounds sat in front of me, a life changing amount for an insignificant ant like me. Someone who has remained anonymous and unnamed to the world despite their best efforts to be heard.

I decide Shakespeare and Hemingway would roll in their graves if I stopped the story right here, depriving them of another chapter. An exciting plot line. Some much needed character development.

I am only human, the intrinsic yearn to live precariously washes over me. I refuse to be clad within the tight walls of amateurism any longer.

Besides, all of a sudden the M1 is looking awfully inviting.