Having to take care of the paperwork after one’s employment has come to an end, and consequently scouring the various government departments for the right forms, is hell, especially in thirty-plus degrees. But it does have its up sides.
A few weeks ago, I had to drop by the Union to update my files there and make sure my income would be guaranteed and I was helped by this petite, slightly confused and jittery, but utterly charming girl. You must know I am very bad at picking up any of the possible signals that may exist between the sexes for discreetly conveying messages of a romantic nature, but there was definitely something wrong here. I could tell that much.
There were too many dramatic pauses, plenty of shuffling of papers and the occasional involuntary giggles, on both parts. The conversation, normally swift and efficient, slowed down and became filled with stares and smiles and those weird raised eyebrow movements people make when they are at a loss for words. When business was, in fact, taken care of, she asked: “Do you have any other, um, documents I should perhaps look at?” I said: “I don’t know, maybe you could explain this bit again?” I had no idea what she, or I for that matter, was talking about. But it was getting too much and, eventually I had to leave. Other people with real problems waiting in line, you see.
A few days later I got a phone call. The girl from the Union had noticed some mistake on one of the papers, a trifle really. Could I come round and pick up a new form? I couldn’t unfortunately, but if they could send it by mail, I said, I could bring it in later and perhaps call her when I had done so? To check if everything was, well, okay, right? After all, one has to be certain about these things. “Very much so,” she responded with a nervous tittering.
Time passed, and luckily red tape will always find something that is out of order. Another phone call, more giggles at the other end of the line, another document gone missing – a copy of my previous contract this time – but, hey, what can you do? Never before have I had to supply anyone with such a piece of paper – it was a bureaucratic anomaly, so to speak – but still I was only happy to comply.
Today I trotted back there, jumped the line and handed her the document in question. “I’m so sorry to have made you come all this way again,” she said. But did she mean it? Let’s see, giggle-giggle, dum-de-dum it went, until every button that could be pressed on her PC was pressed, every stamp taken care of, every paper clip realigned and my file well and truly in order. Hang on; there was still one more thing, obviously: “How about I, um, give you a receipt for this?” she finally asked. Yes, that’s good, a receipt, I thought. One must have receipts in these situations. But that was about all I could think of.
Places where we might have lunch – or something, whatever – were now scrolling in front of my eyes like those PA boards at airports, at times tuning in to a name you think you recognize but never really materializing. I guess mine came up with Flight Cancelled. Then I thought: I have friends with the press and in the music industry, perhaps I could get concert tickets to something? Think, man, think! I accepted the receipt and folded it carefully.
“Well, I guess that’s it?” I said, by now grinning stupidly, no doubt, trying my Peter Falk face as if there was ‘still one more thing, Miss…’
But there was nothing left to say, except what I wanted to but couldn’t. Finally, I blurted something out along the lines of: “Well, I hope I won’t see you again anytime soon,” or something as daft as that and I hurried out of there, hitting myself on the head – quite literally, I might add, and raising a few eyebrows with the folks around me.
Outside the sun was still beaming, the pavement a sweltering, choking glare and slowly, silently, life continued its natural course and I got on the tram.
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