The Process and the Pain

They said that Process had survived a near fatal accident, which was the reason his head was such an extraordinary shape. They said the incident had done a strange thing to his sweat glands such that he would shine with a dull glow like a poorly polished heirloom no matter what the weather.

He glared across the room at me from beneath the granite outcrop of his brow.

“Simple. Hard to get it wrong. God knows how you manage it.” He snapped.

I held the precious file to my chest. It was a weighty volume and represented the reality of the hard work the team had put in at the Airport over the last few weeks.

“Can’t imagine why it has taken so long.”

It struck me that Process may not have read a word of the submission. I held on to the file, the ninth file I had brought into this room, the ninth in a progression of ever more complex documents. I decided to challenge him. “Have you not read anything we’ve done?”

I saw a thin smile play across his mouth, “I cannot.”

“You cannot?”

“I cannot,” he reached down into a lower drawer in his desk, “because,” and drew out a set of bathroom scales, “I doubt that even this diligently crafted piece of work weighs quite enough.” He laid the domestic instrument gently on his paper blotter.

“Weighs enough? All this time and effort and a ream of blank paper would have made the difference?” I wanted to throw the file at him. I wanted to rain blows on his disfigured cliff of a skull. I wanted all the sheets of A4 to fly out and paper cut him to shreds.

“Client Guideline.” He nodded, sweat glistened, “Not the Law, but Client Guidelines must be observed otherwise we are all wasting our time, don’t you think?”

I nodded. Dumb.

“I would be criticised,” he went on, “We would be seen as lightweights if we didn’t comply, wouldn’t you say?”

“Will you weigh it then?” I forced a smile,

“I’d like to, yes.” He showed me three teeth.

“Here,” I held the file out to him.

He took it, hefted it, felt its mass. “No. Excellent. Yes, that feels like it might well be over the threshold.”

“What’s that?”

“Sorry. Confidential information.” He laid the file next to the bathroom scales. “Now all I need is the form relating to the Guideline. I should have one here.”

He turned to his filing cabinet. A single tiny droplet of sweat on the end of his flattened nose sparkled for a moment as it left its host and flew through the air. I watched it as it arced across the desk and vanished into the carpet-tiled floor. Process flicked open files from front to back and back again.

“Simple really, wouldn’t you say?” He said, not glancing up from his task, “If it was too heavy then it’s too much information and you need to edit, strip some of the guff out. If it is too light then it’s obvious that not enough work has been done and you are trying to skim it. Simple Quality Assurance, not asking for much, just enough.”

“Is this why everything takes so long here?” I asked.

“If you lot were any good at your jobs it wouldn’t be nearly so complicated, don’t you think?” He stopped his search, his shoulders dropped. “Seems I have run out of the form. I will have to print a new one. You should come back tomorrow.”

“What?”

“I’m beginning to worry about you and your team. You might be new but you must have some idea how things work around here.”

“But an entire day to wait for a form?”

“It’s a Controlled Document.”

“Can’t you just weigh it now and fill the form in afterwards?”

“Come back tomorrow.”

“No.”

“I can’t accept your file without weighing it first.”

“Then weigh it.”

“I can’t weigh it without the form.”

I picked up the file and made to place it on the scales. Process spun around and swept the scales into the desk drawer. Beads of sweat scattered about his head like a demonic halo. The file crashed onto the damp blotter with a solid thump. He was breathing heavily and his face had coloured up a deep crimson.

“Take. That. Thing. Off. My. Desk.” He panted.

I leaned forward to pick it up. I felt his hot breath on my cheek and when I looked up we were brow to brow. His skin was iridescent. He shone like a trout in the net and minute teardrops of sweat decorated his eyelashes.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I cannot.”

“Then I will have no choice but to disqualify your bid.”

I hefted the file and left the room.