Herbert Gordon

Chapter (-i.i) - Monday

It's a Monday morning. Everywhere you see Monday Morning expressions. They're in passenger seats of Audi's and driver seats of Jaguars. They're in busses, on bikes, on skateboards, in suits and skirts. The expressions match the weather - overcast and dull, with a hint of rain if it can be bothered. It's warm enough to sweat in, cold enough for a jacket. A real "The weekend is over. Fuck" sort of day. Suits buy coffees and scowl as they pay. Baristas move in a bothered whirl, throwing coffees onto tables as they stalk about. Rare laughter is pummeled into the walls, where it slumps, whimpering in terror at the hateful misery that passes by. One expression stands out. Amidst the constantly dour expressions that stare morbidly forwards, there walks a man who stares down. He does not slump, he does not stride. He plods along with not a thought in his mind. Pedestrians in suits dejectedly bustle around him. Beggars give him a single desultory glance and hold their sad hands out. He notices nothing. He is nothing. He is Herbert Gordon.

For Herbert, Monday is no different to Tuesday, which is the same as Wednesday, identical to Thursday and differs slightly from Friday. Every day his radio screeches him awake at 6:45. He showers, dresses in the same grey pants with white shirt with blue tie with black blazer with brown shoes.   he has 2 pieces of toast with jam for breakfast, accompanied by a single black coffee.At 7:09 he climbs into his car and drives to the train station. He catches the 7:23 train which drops him at Britomart at 7:46, and he walks halfway up Hobson street to enter the office 5 minutes early as per usual. He grunts a reply to the receptionist's cheery "Good morning Herbert!" , hangs his jacket on a hook in the wall, and seats himself in his chair.

His walls are unadorned with the exclusion of his framed degree. This sits embarrassed in the corner and watches him work. On the rare occasion someone enters his office, the degree is always the last thing they see. First you notice the jacket. It is dull and ordinary and cheap and well used. It is placed to the side of the white desk. There is a neat and unused notepad upon it. Next to it there is a glass of water. Depending on the time of the day, it could be anywhere from fill to empty. Your glance then rides to the back of the computer screen . To the left you see a filing cabinet fill of neatly labelled files of uniform colour and size, arranged by date. At this point the controller of these items will appear from behind the screen and greet you with an irritated "yes?". A little startled, you will quickly proceed with your business and turn to leave, feeling as though you've stayed too long. And then you will see it. It seems to glare at you as you leave. You walk out befuddled and confused. The pretty receptionist will beam you an over-enthusiastic smile. You will smile back, and leave your doubts and well wishes behind.

For four hours, Herbert will work. He is a small person in a large company and deals exclusively with doing multiple clients book-keeping. He seldom has to meet the clients. He simply sits and works through entry after entry.He checks balances and figures and tax rates and expenses and ignores as much as possible. Every hour, the receptionist smiles into his office and fills up his glass of water. He ignores her too. At 11:55 he gets up from his desk, puts on his jacket, visits the bathroom and walks down to the local cafe. He has a cheese and ham roll with a slice of chocolate cake and a black coffee. He takes an extra napkin. He ignores the pitying smile from the waiter. He sits at a table hidden by the counter. He cuts the roll into 12 equal sections, the cake into six. He methodically eats his way through it. He is beautiful in his mechanical dedication. 2 slow pieces of roll followed by a sip of coffee. He repeats this twice, and follows it with a piece of cake. 3 times he does this. He pushes the plates away. He pulls the coffee closer. He takes the  serviette wrapped around the cutlery and uses it to wrap the remaining pieces of cake up. He sips his coffee. Places the cake into his pocket. One final sip of coffee. He wipes his mouth with the spare serviette. He rises, leaving the unfinished coffee and empty plates on the table. He pushes in his chair, and plods out of the cafe, up the stairs and into his office,  seated by 12:20.