‘Not frustrations, as such,’ I begin. He only sees my frustrations when I pluck up enough courage to ask if he’s thought any more about my future at this company. Honestly, sometimes it feels like I’d be better off getting an internship somewhere else, but animation jobs are limited in Cardiff.
‘Oh?’
My hand slips on the handlebars and I accidentally hit the bell. A piercing ring echoes around us. Clive winces. ‘Sorry. Uh… it’s just, when I started here, I thought I’d be animating by now, but it just feels like all I’m doing is putting numbers in a spreadsheet. Every time I’ve gone for a promotion you’ve hired someone else.’ Plus, this job is convenient, close to my apartment. Less commuting time always sways it for me. Why stress myself over doing something else when I could get there and suddenly realise this job is actually perfect?
It’s not, but you have to pick your battles.
My life is in Cardiff. Always has been. It’s not perfect, but it will get better. It has to get better.
‘A very importantrole.’ Clive turns back to his computer, opening an email. He peers at it, his glasses cast aside by his keyboard flecked with old soup. ‘You are valuedhere.’ Clive smiles. ‘That’s why I thought I’d let you know that weareletting you go.’
The bike falls from under me and I land on the stained, brittle carpet floor. ‘Letting mego?’
‘Well,potentially,’ Clive says, looking at his computer. I struggle to lift the bike as I get to my feet. ‘Yes, yourjobis one of theonesat risk.’
Racing heart, I try and make sense of what Clive has said. ‘Wait, so, Ihavelost my job? Or Imightlose my job?’ Hey, look at that. Theproperway to put emphasis on a word, Clive.
‘Yes.’
I pause. ‘Which one is it, Clive?’
Clive places two hands at either end of his screen, pulling it towards him. ‘Yes, you are atrisk.’
Jesus. My hands are shaking. I need an asthma pump, even though I don’t have asthma. I angle the bike back against the wall, hoping it doesn’t fall like my future. ‘When can I expect to know?’
‘Please sit.’
I move the bike away from the wall again, straddling it once more with reluctance.
Clive doesn’t say a word.
‘Uh, Clive?’
‘Yes?’
‘When will I know if I’ve lost my job?’
‘Oh, don’taskme.’
‘You’re my manager so, you know, I kind of expect you to have answers, Clive.’
‘Yes, you would think so,wouldn’tyou?’ He barks out a laugh, ignoring my stony expression. ‘Well, the newmanagement, you see, believes wecanutilise new ChatGPTtechnology for certain rolesandyour job is one that they seem to think could be done more efficiently. With new managementcomes newopportunities.’
Fuck ChatGPT.
‘Not surprising,’ I mutter. ‘Do you mean AI?’
‘Am I what?’
I sigh. ‘Don’t worry, Clive.’
Fuck AI.
‘Yes, so. BecauseI value you somuch, I just thought I’d let youknowthat.’
Is he hinting at me that he knows something else? Something that he can’t tell me yet? Is he even that switched on? How do men like Clive get in these positions? I rub my hands on my jeans, balancing on the bike, trying not to break out into a sweat. Mystomach churns, from hunger but also something else. ‘I need this job. Would I be able to maybe be employed somewhere else? The animation department, perhaps? I’ve been trying for years to get someone to see me and my talents. Surely the new managers can see my dedication to this place. I don’t mind starting from the bottom and?—’
His Mac starts to ring, and Clive leaps back, yelping.
