I Felt Like a Secret Agent

People rush, all dressed in black. The lights change from red to green contrasting against the grey sky. Click, click. The footpaths are busy with people, even at 9.30 as I pass along.

I took a photo of Haighs in Collins Street, I don’t now why? I had some vague idea that I am going to send it to my old mate Stacey. I was supposed to buy her Haighs chocolates, how many years ago, instead she has got a couple photos of Haighs shop windows. She must feel special. Perhaps, I guess, I have to conclude that I am a cheap cunt!

I stopped off and bought a pineapple muffin at Collins Place, as I walked down Collins Street to work. I’m so into pineapple muffins, at the moment, they are my new favourite thing. Yum, yum.

I was five minutes late. I’d been approx. 5 minutes late each morning, not a good thing for a temporary staff member. (the woman I’m working with) hasn’t said any thing, although that doesn’t mean she hasn’t said something to my boss. I’ve been expecting her to say something. Ah, I thought. I slipped in with my own slipstream, streaming in in my own wake, came rushing in the door, n a nonchalant kind of way. Was she-who-tells-me-what-to-do say something? She looked up and said to me,

“Quick, go and get you coffee, as they are taking over the kitchen for a presentation any minute.”

I raced up and got my coffee from the barista. Lovely. So civilised.

She didn’t say anything when I returned, yay. She should have, I guess. But really, 5 minutes, do we need to be that uptight? Good for her. Good for me. Big smile.

(the woman I’m working with) works odd hours, I haven’t asked her why. She doesn’t come in until 9am (which is why I start at 9.30, so she can pull work together for me) and she goes to lunch between 2.30 and 3.30 and then leaves right on 5pm, just before, actually. She hasn’t told me her reasons for this, but I suspect a child must be involved. She has a picture of a child as wallpaper on her computer but, despite nearly, I haven’t asked, I’ve stopped myself. It is my solo protest putting children back into second place. You know you can do anything you want when you have a child. A child now a days is a ticket to ask for any hours you want to work.

I’m sure my mother’s generation would be bemused. I wish I could ask her, to tell you the truth. It is one of the things that I miss with this debilitating disease.

I hear (the woman I’m working with) on the phone saying something about working late. She is one of those too busy, too much work, snowed under, too tired kind of people. So, I’m thinking that I am not going to get my time after work, after she has gone home, to get the spreadsheets I want. I suspect I am not going to get my alone time after 5pm, as she switches over to martyr mode.

It’s a funny situation to copy the said spreadsheets, as it would be a sackable offence, certainly from the company I’m working at, and possibly from (my company) as well, if I was caught, even though the first thing I am going to do is delete any company specific information out of them. I’m not interested in their information, I just want the spread sheets, which are particularly good ones, which will save me lots of time.

I asked Sam if the IT department would be able to tell that I’d copied the spread sheets across on to USB?

“Only if they see you,” was his reply.

I shrugged and wondered if she was going to lunch today, it might be my only chance, with her working tonight and tomorrow being Friday and my last day. Then she said she was going to lunch, but she wouldn’t be long. Wouldn’t be long? What does that mean? She never said that normally? I haven’t I noticed? I’m not sure. I resist the urge to ask her when she would be back, as I’ve never asked her that.

So as soon as she headed out the door in her tacky coat with her vinyl bag over her shoulder, I was reaching straight down into my briefcase to get my USB stick. I was looking over my shoulder, thinking about what Sam said, watching the HR chick who sits outside my office door so she doesn’t see me.

I clicked on “explore.”

I felt like a secret agent. I felt like the spy operative being sent into the enemy office to take the data. I clicked the USB into its slot. I gazed over my shoulder.

I opened the folder containing the desired files.

I looked over my shoulder, everybody in the outer office was going about their business. I moved the mouse over the files and clicked copy.

I moved the mouse to the USB and hit paste.

I gazed over my shoulder, nobody was watching me, you know, like I felt that they were.

I looked back at the screen.

I looked down at the USB sticking out from my computer. I slide my hand over it and pulled it out.

Floop. I held in my hand and gazed over my shoulder again, expecting people to be pointing. Nothing.

She-who-tells-me-what-to-do was back in an hour, not long hey? So I needn’t have stressed, had plenty of time. I caught myself gazing down at my brief case at her appearance.

I worked till 5.30. The day slipped away. And I hate being a clock watcher, but as temp staff, I don’t get paid for extra hours, or at least, I get paid by the hour

“Good night,” I say.

“Oh… are you available next week?” asked (the woman I’m working with), as I was leaving.

“Yes,” I say. I feel myself being hesitant… which is stupid, as I wouldn’t mind a permanent role here, except the pay is lousy, I checked. I guess I am used to rich [bloodsucking] lawyers.

“I need you next week,” said (the woman I’m working with).

Another week’s work. Yay. I hope my day in Brighton isn’t going to get in the way.

I headed out the door with my brief case seemingly throbbing under my arm. I clutched my brief case tight.

I walked home in the rain. The cold weather hasn’t left us as yet. It is dark and somewhat bleak and still winter in ye olde Melbourne town this week.

I walk straight up Little Collins and straight across Spring Street to Gisbourne Street, crossing at all the pedestrian crossings, rather than dicing with the traffic in Collins Street, crossing at the Spring Street intersection where there isn’t really pedestrian access at all. Oh, dicing with death on Spring Street.

I wonder if Stuart will give next week to some other temp as I am in Brighton. He’d better not. If he did, it means he’d get another day charged out from a client. I’d get a day and another person would get 5 days, total 6 rather than 5 as it stands. I wonder if that would happen?

I lit a fire when I got home and hung out in the lounge room. I can’t escape to my bedroom, as I need to be around so Shane can tell me he is going away for the weekend, so I can remind him about the rent and he can’t disappear inter state without giving it to me. I have to keep at him, otherwise his thoughts never stray much passed himself.

The cold, dark evening. The solitude is exhilarating. The light from the TV screen and my lap top screen. There is also light from the golden coals in the fireplace. It is just me and the cat. You know, I like it like that. I’m good on my own, in fact I prefer it. I wonder if ultimately if that is healthy? I wonder if ultimately that is the only possible way to live? Realistically, the thing I would add is a dog. People, really, in the end usually only prove to be annoying.