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37
For After
The photocopier was stuck. I lifted the lid and peered into its innards. The smell of wet ink met my nose. But nothing obvious stood out to me.
I slipped a hand into the gap between the cubicle wall and the machine, searching for another opening. The lights blinked. A soft beep emitted. But no drawer miraculously presented itself.
Standing back up, I stared down at the thing. Thirty copies of the flyer I was printing sat in the out tray. I needed twenty more before I went off to North Shore Hospital for the In-Service.
I glanced around the open-plan office, but I couldn’t see anyone in their cubbies who could help me.
Biting my lip, I crouched down and started pressing buttons.
Half an hour later, I gave up. Thirty copies would just have to do it.
I returned to my desk and placed the sheets of paper into a manila folder. Then gathered up the samples and training devices I’d need for the session.
It was raining when I stepped outside. I covered my head with my briefcase and crushed the manila folder to my chest to keep its contents dry. The car unlocked with a fumbled beep and I threw my gear on the backseat and then dived into the driver’s side.
When I glanced over my shoulder to reverse out of my parking space, Michael was standing there. Rain fell off his nose and dribbled down his chin. His hair was wet, and his white shirt looked practically transparent.
But in his hands was a folder, which he somehow managed to keep dry. And inside it, once he’d passed it through my opened window, was the last twenty copies of my flyer.
I looked at him, and he looked at me.
And then he was gone in the downpour, lost to the warehouse, disappearing back inside where it was dry.
* * *
Icame out of the training meeting with my boss feeling exhausted. We’d gone over my extensive product base with a fine-toothed comb. My head ached from trying to take in such a vast volume of information. My eyes felt gritty and sore from concentrating on line after line of bulleted points on his laptop.
I sat down in my office chair and stretched my neck. Then placed my elbows on the desk and rubbed my temples.
None of it had stuck. Not a single bulleted point. Not a word.
I stared at my blotter pad and asked myself if I could do this. If I could actually do this job or not.
A chair rolled up to my side. I turned and looked at its occupant.
Michael leaned forward and placed one of those little motivational picture books on my desk. The title on the front said,Don’t Let The Bastards Get You Down.
I stared at it.
“You can do this,” he said.
And then rolled his chair away and disappeared.
* * *
Iwalked out of the operating theatre feeling lightheaded. I’d seen my fair share of blood. I’d danced in that particular type of rain. I’d been smothered in it.
My hand shook as I reached up to wipe the sweat off my face. My hair kept getting stuck to my forehead. I ran my fingers through the strands and tried to think.
Open heart surgery should not make me panic.
Should not make me think of billowing curtains and shattered glass. Of upside-down cars and fishing rods. Of wrinkled hands and flying ducks. Of Weet-Bix boxes.
But it did.
