Cocksure

The cloud-botched sky is postcard-still from my office window and I'm calmly sipping a herbal tea when a Greans sky advertisement sprouting "Our Fish Oil is the Answer" appears. I’m looking at its lettering, a brilliant, eye-catching red, and thinking: fuck, they've done that well.

My DeSalza shoes, made from African elephant hide, are tapping against the floor. I loosen my Devereaux tie. I rub my nose, thoughts presenting and then erasing just as they take form in my head; it's million-miles-an-hour-time.  

Pacing the room, I kick my Argentinian soccer ball into my office net, give the framed portrait of myself the acid eye. I undo a couple of shirt buttons, revealing the $15,000 Chiveez necklace I bought in Dubai, and roll up my sleeves, Farmer Beagle-style. I think about checking myself out in the mirror, but I’m sidetracked by a rattle against the window. Looking outside, the Greans advert is twisting in the wind, its capital F scrunched up, the whole thing a haggard, black-red streak across a graying sky.
I exhale, reach into my refreshments fridge for a fresh bottle of San Perignino, some ice cubes and lime, and sit down in my easy chair, watching the struggle as the first spits of rain hit the window. 

Top of your game at 21, the Company hounded you out straight out of university. Your charms, they'd take you to the top of the advertising tree, a recruiter said.
It wasn't always this easy. The first few years you didn't stop working. In the apartment they set you up in, a few doors down from the office, you'd down an upper and a short macchiato and force your reddened eyes to plot, plan, ponder.
One day, finally, they called you in upstairs, gave you the exclusive handshake. He seemed smarmy, the silver-haired suit, but he was only a year or so away from cashing in his super cheque. 

Outside, in Open Plan Central, I know The Plebs are either asleep, web-surfing, sucking chocolate through their teeth, or considering which colleague has the worst perspiration, the cleanest orifices. If only they spent time contemplating the level of pressure I'm under in here, then I could excuse their lack of work ethic.
Recently I called them in to announce cutbacks. Until we’ve weathered the storm, I was told to say. After a good portion of bodies were hauled out, I designated more work to the remaining Plebs; including work the Super Toffs recommended I take to ease the load.

I flick on the security camera. I really should go out and stir things up.

I always have my office door closed. This time of afternoon I lock it, using the remote-controlled bolt lock, all shimmering gold, that our richest client put me on to. I knew the Super Toffs wouldn’t approve it, let alone pay for it, despite my demands, so I paid for it out of my back pocket. It's rich man’s prerogative, to pay for something one wants, but I'll recoup it in some way. Smooth as.

For the first few days after it was installed I'd sit at my desk, 20 or so metres away from the door, sporadically taking aim with the remote, which doubles as a pager to the locksmith. The locksmith was on the camp side, with his extended gaze-holds and a roving eye that would inevitably fall on my groin region.
No time's inconvenient, he'd said, not once but twice, with a wink and a gold-toothed smile that, for all his butchered looks, actually worked.

I can't blame the jolly locksmith, though. I've often considered how all my other assets have been overshadowed by my manhood, and how it's taken a life of its own rather than just a physical extension. At this hour of the day, three to four, all I can do to help myself is admire, release and fondle.

My manhood – for want of a more politically-correct word – has become something of a sordid fascination for the women in here; I see the desperation in their eyes, the wetness on their hanging tongues. One Saturday afternoon recently I purchased a charcoal-grey Dierre Talia suit. When I tried on the pants I thought everything fitted, or should I say clung, one-to-two percent better than normal, but I never expected the reaction that came the following Monday morning. First the doll-faced-but-soldier-faced receptionist – whose hair is tied back into a tight bun and whose upward-inflected “good morning”s rattle the phlegm in my throat so much I have to restrain myself not to spit at her – licked her lips as I walked by, as if I were her favourite ice cream or something.

 Then what happened was I got the lift with five or six skirts, mid-level as far as I could tell,  and they all stole gloss-lipped glances. I felt like Robert Palmer in the "Simply Irresistible" film clip. I like to think of all the stifled moaning coming from behind the ladies' cubicles that morning.

Normally I have my cleaning lady – I call her Miss Vanilla, on account of her blonde hair and impeccable spit-polish abilities – send my suits to the dry cleaners after two days' wear. Other times, if I don't get any reaction, I'll just throw the suit out, or give it to one of the several homeless cats who hang around downstairs. You should see the look on their face when I hand the bundled Italian cotton over: at first their eyes shine with delight, only be replaced by disappointment, like I've kicked their money container down the street, or emptied their last bottle.

But today is Wednesday, the third day in row I've worn my new pants. This is because of an unconquered quest: my secretary of three weeks, Dianne, and her reaction. I'm sure even she blushed, had the wild look in her eye.

There were women from the get-go. In the office, after work, all weekend, all types.  They admired your occupation, your money, your fashion, your sharp looks, in any order. You're six-two, but you tell everyone you're six-three. You're lean in the torso and muscly around the shoulder. 
Soon after you started at the Company you and a colleague visited a city tattooist, where you had inked a cartoon portrait of yourself, below your initials, GJN, in dark green Chaali font. Although your jet-black hair is chopped and roughly textured these days – you vouch for RokkBalm wax – it's flexible enough in that, when washed, it has a business-like sheen for meetings with the Super Toffs. Your hairdresser, Fergal Deaken, ensures this hair never shrouds your aqua eyes, another of your jewels. Your chiselled jaw sprouts two-day stubble; you rub Joam du Paul aftershave through your whiskers each morning. The smell of fresh lavender spice lingers on your fingers when you rub them along your chin; perfect for shushing the lips of a chick who's babbling about this and that and all you want to do is get things started.

Diane's a funny one; only a few years younger than me at 27, but she seems a little, I don’t know, beleaguered. Like she’s constantly in dispute with herself. I can tell she doesn't want to be here, and the few times we've spoken she talks about some woman called Greer, about being a published writer and the book clubs and workshopping groups she's in. This is what she tells me she has planned when I ask her out for a drink. I tell her on day one to see me as a friend rather than a boss but within a week she was scooting off as soon as she's delivered my mail, brought in my morning mac, or watered the chilli plant on the window sill.

She didn't say anything about a boyfriend when I asked at the interview. He came into the lobby on Dianne's first day, wearing a ratty cardigan, skinny jeans and John Lennon glasses, a book in his hand. He gave me this look, like he knew something I didn't. I got security to kick him out of the building, but he just kept coming back. In a recurring dream, I have him by the throat, the suit against the student bum in clothing so old that it almost falls off him, and I'm snarling: use those brains of yours and get a job instead of rebelling against whatever it is you rebel against. The security guard pulls me away as I'm screaming that I'll kill him if he returns. 

I clear my throat. The whole situation has me confused. I'm looking at my chilli plant, my tongue tingling with anticipation. Perhaps some nachos and an icy Quo lager to start the evening off. I ring Diane, but it diverts to voice mail.
“Diane, I didn't know you had voice mail... At least, I don't recall authorising it... Anyway, can you come in here as soon as possible, I have a couple of requests... Yes... Was thinking maybe I could shout you some Mexican and a beer later on... if you're not doing anything, that is... Horaros do the best nachos—”

I cut myself off. I'm starting to sound like The Plebs. You don't need to sell it to her.

Today I'm wearing Devutti boxers, Italian cotton. After I finish myself off into a lavender-scented tissue I flick back to the iGoogle22 homepage and stand up, the thing still hanging out, dripping, as I walk over to the window. Approaching the glass, I see a gold-tinged reflection of myself with a beard – again I promise to check myself in the mirror – and, beyond that, the Greans advertisement, which I catch just before it disappears behind a cloud, and I don't want to know about it anymore. I'm nodding my head: I’m not going to leave the office until I’ve devised a plan to go one better.
Such positiveness gives me adrenaline, has me in awe of myself. 
A rainbow forms a back drop to the sky-rises all under my eye level, each one uglier than the next. I can't help thinking that everyone in them, suits and skirts existing on self-importance but floundering in stress, should be looking up at me, staring out of my office window, the beautiful man in the designer suit who carries the fortunes of a zillion-dollar company, the man who can admire his face in the shine of his shoes that are up on his desk while he plays Street Fighter on his iPhone Deluxe for at least two hours each day, the shirt white and crisply ironed, the tie expensive silk, and, yet, undone in a way that suggests there's plenty more where that came from. While I know some of them aren't necessarily Plebs, I know they’ll always disappear back into their hovels knowing that there'll always be something that's out of reach.

I start writing Dianne an email. Would you like to have a business dinner tonight? I promise I'll change my pants! I hold the cursor over the last bit, then send it.

The mirror awaits but I convince myself to wait a while. I'm looking outside again at the first strands of pale yellow light that indicate the afternoon is diminishing. I need inspiration. I look across at my portrait, at the line of freshly polished shoes – all of them different Italian brands – in front of the fireplace, and, finally, back at my computer screen. I notice an error message; the email to Dianne didn't go through.

 At first I take the message as reading: I can't receive this email because your charms are too much… and your cock, well... as if it's an automated message designed by Diane, and I stare in shock for a few seconds, before I realise it's what the IT Department call a Non-Recog Message, as if the email address doesn't exist.

I sit there awhile, considering the error message, tapping my fingers on the desk, admiring the shine from my Nezarus Marble in-tray, running my fingers along the sweet pink font of company's business logo on an envelope addressed to me.

Their pay packets are bigger than yours, but their suits, far less stylish. We're in the long room, I'm peaking on caffeine and the furrowed faces around the table are all in agreement.
It’s affecting us more than we’d thought.
Well, we’ve doubled our efforts.
And your performance. We keep getting beaten to the—
But I'm on the cusp of an idea to blow Gr—
We've had various complaints.
What do you mean?

The suit's mouth is moving, he's talking out of the side of his mouth. He has a grape-sized wart on his forehead. None of the others have warts, but they're all merging into one and things are impossibly hazy.

I find myself blinking and I rub my eyes. My face is rough, blistered in parts. Running my hands through my hair, I can’t feel any wax, rather a filthy slickness. I stand up and start walking, floating, over to where the mahogany-framed mirror should be when I hear the wind rattle against the window again. Like a splat of red paint, the sky advertisement fills the window, like sideways credits in a movie, going from left to right: OUR… FISH... OIL.... IS... THE... ANSWER... It’s flapping against the glass and then, eventually, sticks. Transfixed, I reach out and touch the glass. I make a fist and my and my arm goes through but it doesn't cut me, it feels like silk, glorious silk, as I let it the advertisement fold itself around my arm. I’m smiling giddily; I know I'm stealing the idea but no one will see me and I'm sure this’ll put credits back in the bank. But then it's out of my control again; it unravels and falls, and I lean forward to watch it fall to the street below but my head bangs on the glass and then I'm on my arse, stars everywhere.

I wonder how it came to be night all of a sudden. Little twinkling shapes, diamond asterisks, are floating around, crashing into one another, each explosion releasing a thousand new stars.

Things are starting to take form again. The window above me, the outlines of my desk and computer, its screen a dark purple into grey, into light grey, into white, white, a brilliant white light and I can see a message forming on the screen: Call me, you bum. Luv Dianne...

I'm up like a shot and almost fall forward, tripping over a pile of clothes. I'm feeling around for my desk phone but I can't see it anywhere, and then, on the floor, I see a little red light on the ground. I pick it up, burning my fingers. I’m whispering in the darkness: Dianne... call me... please...

I see the sun arcing across the window, as if everything is in fast forward. I assume I've been knocked out overnight and the hours have gotten away from me. I sit down at my desk, the light streaming into the room, and I'm thinking how The Plebs had it easy yesterday, how I didn't even leave my office to check up on them, and then the thought that I should be hungry hits me, but instead of a rumbling in my stomach I feel it churn, churning like a stomach does when whiskey hits a raw, salmonella-tainted gullet, and I start dry-reaching as I see the sky falling outside, an icy chill against my cheeks as I see what looks like thousands of one-hundred-dollar bills floating in the air, and behind them, that infernal fish oil banner.

I hear laughter nearby. I'm guessing it's just outside my office door, so I crawl along the carpet which feels hard under my knees and I know I’ve torn my suit pants because I can feel the wetness of blood on my knees, but not only that, the smell of stale shit and piss hits me. In the darkness, I lean into the door to listen for voices but I don’t hear anything. I push against the door but it won't budge, and I'm sure I hear laughter again as I drift off again.

It's crystal clear: my locksmith, tutt-tutting as he finishes sawing off the gold lock, handing it to me.

Blinking again, I'm hard up against a wall, next to a large mini skip. There's a pile of cardboard and raggy clothing by my side, a pair of black shoes in need of polishing. Against the mini skip is a scraggly old woman in a smock and torn suit jacket, her dirty mouth open and her eyes rolling. I notice my knees, ripped up and purply-bloody, my knee bone visible. I feel a scorching burn in my groin region but I'm too afraid to look down there. Another snigger. I turn to my right and see a bearded dark man a few metres away, smoking, the smell metallic, its red tip glowing with each drag. His shiny, misty eyes catch mine as a smile bares ochre, broken teeth. "Wish I could take a trip like that," he says.

The dirty face, mouth still open, has fallen to the cobblestone with a slap. I look further down the alley and see others, heads down, wearing old suits or draping them over their knees to keep warm. The thought that I need to reclaim the suits flashes in my mind for a moment before I slide over to the black man, following a trail of faint blood on the concrete made visible by the street lights. He hands me the pipe. I drag deeply before wedging myself between two bins, looking up at the night sky, holding my gaze on the building across from us, its floors seemingly endless against the sky, most of its windows lit up. Feeling my cheeks warm, I take another drag and watch the shadows in the windows, looking out at the city, looking down on me.