Everyone said the sniff was to blame for Rob going off the rails. They thought it was why he stopped hitting his sales targets. Ruben warned him that if he came under on his numbers for the quarter again then that’d be that—he was done.
Fucken Ruben.
That guy’s not real sales. You and me have both gone on pitches with him and he’s embarrassing. He can’t build rapport with prospects to save his life. It’s all product knowledge, not relationship building. He hides behind that serious, I’m-in-charge, Sales Director nonsense.
It was freaky when Rob went missing after the company Christmas Party. Whoever booked a burlesque-themed Crimbo lunch in Camden needs to take a long look in the mirror. If you’re drinking prosecco from noon and doing cheeky lines on the side, then you have to expect total carnage.
Am I wrong?
Rob was funny in the bar, doing his funky robot moves and dry-humping an inflatable reindeer.
Ruben’s face said it all.
None of us ate the lunch as it was rank. Drinking on an empty stomach was why everyone was extra mashed in the pub we went to afterwards.
End of days stuff.
The marketing girls, dressed in their sexy Elf outfits, rolling backwards off that couch, legs in the air, giving everyone a flash of their coochies as per usual.
Katie blowing chunks into her handbag.
Not like you noticed.
You were too busy snogging the face off Barbara from procurement. She’s so ancient but I always said she had a naughty side. I bet she was up to all sorts when she was young. Shame that was fifty years ago. Jokes.
And then the whole drama of no one hearing from Rob and us realising he’d disappeared.
So, that’s what I’m telling you: I’ve found him.
I thought he was just battered at the party, waffling on about the hole in the garden terrace of his flat. He tried to explain how the hole got deeper and wider the more he scratched with his hands and burrowed. He bought himself a shovel from the DIY store. Once he’d dug to about chest height, he said he found a tunnel.
“You’re chatting shit,” I told him.
He got moody and said, “I mean it. I’m going in tonight.”
“Oh, do me a favour.”
“All the way.”
“You need to chill out. Let’s get some shots in.”
I forgot about his story at first. My memory was still mush when the police questioned us. Prosecco. Lager. Flaming sambucas. Untold amounts of Bolivian marching powder. No wonder none of us had a Scooby what happened to him. We were well and truly arseholed. They searched the canal near the places where we’d been drinking. I gave a detective the details of his ex, that crazy Aussie girl, Tarryn. She told the police Rob sent texts to her on the night of the party, gunning for some ex-sex. She didn’t bother answering Rob because she said he was a two-timing druggie who hung about with a bunch of knuckle-dragging losers.
Like she can talk.
It was the CCTV footage of him buying a shawarma in the kebab shop near his flat that made the police realise he’d got at least that far back from the festive fun. What unfolded afterwards was anyone’s guess. If this was a genre for TV, it’d be called a mystery, a suspense thriller. Until, that is, yours truly had a spliff-inspired flashback and recalled Rob talking about the tunnel.
Brace yourself.
Last Saturday afternoon I took the Northern Line to Rob’s gaff and let myself in, searching for clues. Evidence. It’s Rob’s place so there’s the old skool collection of VHS porn, all themed and alphabetised like a library, and his record collection. Black and white pics of The Jam-era Paul Weller on the wall, Quadrophenia and all that Mod pap. Let’s be honest, Rob’s pretentious.
I found his infamous ‘Box of Delights’ and had a dab of MDMA. Don’t ask me how the police missed it. I used the key for the back door to the terrace. It looked like a building site with a pile of rubble and a spade. Guess the coppers were in a hurry and thought Rob was in the middle of renovations. If they’d lifted the planks of wood, they would’ve found the hole. I dropped into it, switching on the torch on my phone. The tunnel was there, like Rob told me.
I crawled through the soil and mud. It got hotter and I started to sweat my nads off. Made me realise I’ve piled on the pounds in the past 12 months. I’m not great in confined spaces either, but luckily I’d brought the MDMA with me. It’s scientifically proven – by Germans no less, so Rob said – to help combat stress. I tell you, crawling is fucken knackering. I had to stop to catch my breath.
We deffo need to get the five-a-side lads back together and lace up our shooting boots. It was a right laugh and decent exercise too. We shouldn’t have let that slide.
COME ON THE HOOPS.
It felt like it took forever to worm down the tunnel. I was in darkness for a while, trying to save the battery on my phone. I properly thought I was losing the plot when I saw a dot of light in the distance and heard voices.
The brightness made me blink and the chat got louder. When the tunnel came to an end, I peered to see an enormous chamber beneath me, filled with the noise of people at desks and talking on phones. This room goes on forever and it’s spotless. Imagine Heathrow airport, all the terminals combined, but sparkly clean.
I used a ladder to climb to the ground. It was made of metal and that’s when it hit me how the place was roasting. I’m not kidding. Hotter than in the tunnel. The ladder itself scalded my hands.
Our boy was waiting for me when I reached the bottom.
He said, “Alright, mate, you took your fucken time.”
I gave him a hug. “What you playing at?” I said. “You’ve got us running about like headless chickens up there.”
“I told you where I was going.”
“We had you for a goner.”
“Maybe I am,” he said, grinning. “Come meet the boss.”
We walked to a desk that was fancier than the others. I noticed how there were no computers, only rotary phones with curly cables like your girlfriend, Barbara, would use… Jokes.
There was a woman at the desk, wearing a designer suit.
“Catch you later,” said Rob.
“Hold on, we need to speak.”
“Later.”
“Money never sleeps,” said the woman in a flirty American accent that’s the right side of husky.
“Nice setup,” I said, taking in her tight-fitting trousers and jacket with a red carnation on her lapel.
“Let me show you around,” she said, giving me the eyes.
Everyone was chatting on landline phones. Pitching in different languages, French, Spanish, Arabic, Mandarin, you name it. They were dressed in shorts and t-shirts because of the heat. Don’t think that means they’re on holiday and dossing because that’s not the case. These lot are grafters. They’re on it. Not like you, playing fucken Football Manager at the start of every quarter—flicking screen tabs when Ruben does his office patrol.
“You need some computers and air con,” I said.
“Do we?”
“This is the twenty-first century.”
“You English are funny.”
Seems she’s gathering all the sales people on the planet who keep missing their targets, got fired or ‘released’. She wants the rejected, the outcasts and the mavericks. In her mind, that makes them genuine sales. They’ve earned their stripes doing door-to-door. Done the hard yards cold-calling. They’ve known the dizzy, champagne highs of the multi-year mega deal and the fucken heartache of the verbal ‘yes’ from a prospect which never turns into a written confirmation and purchase order.
“Sales is gnarly,” she said.
“Yeah-it-is.”
She took me to a vacant desk. “This’ll be where you sit.”
I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Mate, you know I’m a sucker for blood-red lipstick and I like women to have curves. Something to hold onto. Not like these skinny, yoga-obsessed, selfie-taking gym bunnies.
“But I don’t belong with rejects. I’m a top performer,” I said.
“You’ve not made your target in the last three quarters.”
“A deal’s been verballed for Q4 and that’ll get me over the line.”
“It won’t happen. They’re going to tell you that a key decision-maker is on maternity leave. They’ll go quiet, refusing to answer your calls or reply to your emails.”
“Fuckers,” I said.
I’d felt something was off in the sales cycle. Did I tell you about how Ruben, in my last appraisal, suggested I wasn’t a closer?
Twat.
She said, “I’ll give you 24 hours to decide and then we have to collapse the tunnel.”
“What would I be selling?”
“Does it matter?”
“Not really.”
“You’re sales through and through. All I ask is that you approach each sale like it’s a matter of life and death.”
“It’s not insurance?”
She did a deep, smoky laugh. I swear, it gave me wood. She said, “No, it’s not.”
“I’ll sell anything except insurance.”
“Speak to your friend—he can join us too,” she said, gesturing to another empty desk next to mine.
That’s right, she’s heard all about you.
So, Rob collected me and showed me to the tunnel. He wouldn’t let on about what they do precisely, or the commission structure. I reckon the basic pay will be ropey, but he seemed convinced it’s the best sales job he’s ever had.
“The boss gets us,” he said. “She gives us confidence.”
“It’s a confidence game.”
We bumped fists and I climbed up to the tunnel.
Fuck Ruben and his performance quartiles. I’m done.
What do you reckon? You, me and Rob together—the dream team reunited.
Let’s meet at Rob’s gaff for seven-thirty. We’ll do some lines and play tunes before going in.
All I’m packing is a suit, tie and shoes. The rest will be shorts, t-shirts, a pair of trainers and oven gloves for that bastard ladder.
Rob’s well up for five-a-side too, so bring your football.
The boss is going to want us to graft but I reckon it’ll be a laugh.
Think Ibiza in July / August, minus sunlight.
We’ll be livin' la vida loca.
Good times.
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