My Drawers

Yesterday I received a very terse email from the American Express Corporate Card Collections Department in Mexico, to say that bills remain unpaid and the card is now suspended.

Mexico. Go figure.

Not long after that, Maria walked past my desk so I asked her what it was all about:

Maria: "Oh - well yes I don't know. Maybe I put down on the expenses claim for you to be paid in cash and so they didn't pay the credit card company because it went to you. Next time I will put pay by credit card but now too late. So Mr Anthony have you been paid this money?"

-- "I don't know."

"Why don't you know Mr Anthony? You should know already from your bank account if the payment has gone through."

In one swift turn, she had sliced a piece of blame off the bone and handed it to me. I braced as chewed on it, waiting for another piece.

Me -- "I don't know. I just haven't checked it lately. But anyway where are the Amex bills? Why haven't you received them? You're supposed to manage them aren't you?"

"Yes I should get them. But I didn't" [pause] Oh. Wait! No! I checked last week and they told me that these are now put in your pigeon hole instead."

-- "I have a pigeon hole?"

"Yes you do."

-- "Where is it?"

"I don't know."

-- "Why do I have a pigeon hole?"

"I don't know. But you do."

"Well don't worry anyway because right now you have this one so you're responsible for this one only."

She pointed to the empty drawers under my desk which she had, for some reason, recently arranged.

-- "But I still have a pigeon hole?"

"Yes."

-- "So aren't I also responsible for that ... as well?"

"Yes."

-- "And aren't my Amex bills in there?"

"Yes."

-- "So now that I have these drawers [point] I have to check 2 things for mail and carry 2 keys?"

"Yes."

She used that "once more for the dumbies" tone to her voice, making the Her "yes" rise, then fall slowly. This was to imply that she had arrived at this conclusion some time ago, and I was slowly catching up.

-- "How can I find out where it is?"

"Where what is?"

-- "My pigeon hole."

"Oh. Wait. Yes! I someone told me on Friday. Come with me."

Maria never admits to forgeting anything. She is quick on her feet and

repackages any oversights as recent, late-breaking news. It's "yesterday" or "just this morning" that she discovered some new piece of information that I had been waiting on for weeks. She

was just waiting for me to be out of meetings so she could tell me. She would have told me already if I didn't rudely interrupt her with all these questions.

I followed Maria around the office, looking for the pigeon hole. I was trailing behind with my head bowed like an insolent child. Hers was held high and there was no doubt who was the boss and who was in the wrong.

We reached an oasis of white lockable things.

My pigeon hole turned out to be a large locker with my name on it. The surname was slightly misspelt so that my name doesn't just sound the same as "fuckwit" in Indonesian ... they've adopted the Indonesian spelling as well.

The locker itself is located at the end of the row, hugging a thoroughfare. This ensures that most people who work in or visit this area get to chuckle at my surname and therefore my expense.

No wonder everyone knows who I am. Here's me thinking it was because I was white, and eligible.

It could be worse. I have a colleague whose first name is Asfaq. This makes it difficult for him to run workshops in English speaking countries (and almost impossible for me to introduce him to people without smirking). Sometimes I like to imagine Asfaq working in Canberra, at one of those large porno supermarkets - supervising and restocking aisles 7 and 8.

"Why am I always put on aisles 7 and 8?"

-- "Because on your first day when you introduced yourself, the boss misunderstood your accent and thought you were asking to work in this section."

"Oh no. Not again."

Back to Anthony Fuckwit.

We needed to find a key to my locker, which pretty much tied Maria up for the rest of the day.

Maria has an Endora-like quality of just turning up.

This morning I sensed that someone was at my desk and looked around to find Maria staring at me, stoically holding up a key between her right thumb and index finger. The look on her face indicated that it is possible to be both smug and bored at the same time.

Me: "Good morning Maria. What's this?"

Maria: "Your key Mr Anthony. The pigeon hole."

This comment was delivered in monotone, with a machine like quality. Maria often adopts this machine speech pattern, usually when she has the smug/bored expression appears. It's as if she's using it as a type of speech make-up - slapped on at the time, to match her face.

Off we went again to my "pigeon hole", again with my head bowed. As I went to use the key, we realised that it was already opened.

Inside it we found 8 American Express envelopes and a warning note from our Workplace Security which said that I had failed an audit at 19:00 on 14 July 2010.

My surname was misspelt. Clearly the Workplace Security department had decided to adopt the Fuckwit Spelling convention. They also referred to me not as a person, but as a violator.

Anthony Fuckwit, the Violator.

I showed this to Maria, who rolled her eyes and said "We call this a love letter".

Then she picked up my Amex envelopes, assured me she would take care of everything and took off.

She did not head in the direction of her desk. I expect she took my envelopes for a smoke.

She Has Curlers In Her Hair - I Even Heard Her Singing In The Abbey

The office Social Club recently launched a competition, with entries to be posted on their Facebook group.

I have no idea what this competition is for, but Maria has submitted a video entry.

She is dressed as a famous Indonesian pop star, with hair in flowing ringlets which are moving in the breeze. The breeze is being created by a small fan operated by one of her crew. Maria is heavily made up and lip-synching to the pop star's latest hit.

This video also features 2 of Maria's colleagues, playing characters from the pop star's real life: her current boyfriend and his ex-wife. Apparently, before getting with Maria's character, he caught his wife cheating on him and this eventually lead to their divorce.

The boyfriend is played by a small, thin man from level 18. I think he works in the Security office. His ex-wife works on our floor, in Finance. The only other character to appear is the person holding the fan, who inadvertently wanders into frame a couple of times.

About 3/4 of the way through the video, while mouthing some very gentle and loving lyrics, the ex-wife walks slowly behind Maria and the boyfriend. Even though Maria's back is to this woman, she reaches back and gives her a wallop to the head without even needing to look. Further proof of her Jedi skills.

In other news ... today I also received an email from our finance auditor, asking why my receipts have still not been sent to them after repeated requests. Clearly Maria has not been spending enough time at her desk. This has created an increasingly bad outcome for me. However, after seeing this video I'm pleased to know that her time is not being wasted. My financial well-being is a sacrifice I'm prepared to make, for the greater good.

Unpredictable As Weather

Like many couples, Maria and I like to spend time together doing things we both like. Our shared interests are not hiking, nor the theatre; or even tatting. We prefer to spend our quality time doing (and re-doing) my expenses.

Once a week (sometimes twice) I get an update from Maria on how she is progressing with my expenses. She usually tells me how she’s either gone nowhere or backwards, and we giggle like school girls.

Take yesterday for example. I called her to my desk for another round of receipts. She’d done something very strange with a bunch of taxis and I had received a stern warning from expenses audit, You’ve really gotta hand it to Maria – for someone so rarely at her desk, she certainly manages some complicated trickery

I imagined the auditors looking up my details when I resubmit the receipts. In my imagination it is a modern, minimalist crib with no windows and muted mood lighting. People walk by glass walls, clutching folders against their Armani suits. Someone is at their desk with a pile of my receipts to one side. They turn around to the computer and punch in my name – it’s just like an FBI databases on tv. My mugshot comes up instantly with a red “REPEAT OFFENDER” box flashing across my neck. There is mention of slippery old Maria though.

I asked Maria to pull up a chair as I went through the detail. This was going to be a long bonding session. She declined – said she was happy to stand. I offered again, thinking she was too polite but she insisted with an “I’m fine here thanksyou Mr Anthony”. It wasn’t until a few minutes later that I realized why she wanted to stand. To outsiders, this must give the impression that she is helping me; or even coaching me. It looks like I’ve done something wrong and she’s dropped in to fix it.

Our conversation was fairly typical. Most of my sentences began with “Why …” and “How …” and “This doesn’t look right at all …” while her replies began with “I wasn’t sure so I …” or “Because Mr Anthony you …” and the like.

Then our conversation took an odd turn.

Maria: “So anyway Mr Anthony you are divorced hey?”

Yes. [pause] “How do you now this?”

M: “Huh?”

— “I know you heard me the first time, Maria. How do you know I’m divorced? I didn’t tell you this.”

M: “Oh the other people.”

It's always the other people.

— “Which other people?”

M: “I don’t know. Just other people. The gossip. Not me. They just tell me things.”

— “Things like what?”

M: “Just when I come down to see you. To check that I know you’re not married and these joking things.”

— “I probably don’t want to know, do I?”

I didn’t get an answer to that. Which in itself was the answer.

We went back to untangling my expenses for a couple of minutes, before being interrupted by this:

“I'm not getting married.”

— “You’re what?”

“I'm not getting married. Never.”

She added some more firmness to her voice ... that blind resolve that people adopt to mute others from objecting to their shaky arguments ... a là “I just think politicians are all the same so why bother, and that’s what I think!”.

I turned around and looked back up to see if she was joking. She wasn’t. I quickly turned back around, like a school kid caught cheating in a test.

“Why you look at me like that?”

— ‘Like what?”

"Like that. Just now.”

— "Well maybe because you’re Indonesian. You’re expected to get married aren’t you?”

Whenever you ask a single Indonesian if they are married, they do not say “no”. They always say “not yet”. Always. Everyone is either married, or intending to be. Except for Maria, mind …

Maria: “I don’t care. I already told my mother.”

— “Wow. What did she say?”

"Oh ... she starting crying and everything. But I said no. I’m never getting married so get used to it I said no way. Not for me.”

— “Oh. And why not?”

“Because I'm not interesting in being the kitchen. Or the house.”

— “You don’t have to stay in the house just because you’re married."

“Yeah but anyway I don’t want these things so I just say no. I don’t want all the cooking and expected other things. Doing these things for a man or his family and all that.”

— “Fair enough.”

I could have been more encouraging, or curious, but was starting to get bored. So we went back to the taxis. I was in the middle of scrolling through a list of receipts when Maria interrupted again.

“And also I hate babies."

I turned back around to see her smiling slightly. This smile was not Blind Resolve. It was not even Defiance. It was Victory.

“Yes. Hate babies. ”

I wasn't sure if it was a grammatical error or an order. Either way, I could tell this was going to be good.

— “I think I under … me t… why? Why do you hate babies?”

“Loud and naughty.”

Then a pause.

Then this:

“Makes me do something I don't like.”

Dark images of Maria immediately sprung to mind, of her shaking and throwing babies . I froze slightly but maintained my composure. This was going to be interesting.

— “Things ...? Like what?”

Words like infanticide and filicide flashed before my eyes, startling me.

“Just things."

Words like paedophile and sadist lurked around the edges.

“Like all the poo and mess. Babies make too much dirty and I have to clean and wash them and change them. I don’t like that.”

After breathing a sigh of relief, I said:

— “Just get a nanny then.”

“No. It’s not fair. I don’t agree with using other people to look after babies. You should look after them yourself. So I don’t want to look after and I don't want babies and I don't want married.”

I started to get very concerned - not about Maria’s comments, but for me. I must be suffering from a strain of Stockholm syndrome because this was all starting to make perfect sense to me ... .

We finally got to the end of this expenses session. It seemed like the end of an era and I couldn't quite believe there was nothing left for us to do.

— "Do we have any more travel to do now Maria? Is that all?"

"Yes... that's all. Why? You wanna go somewhere else? Say no Mr Anthony. Too much papers and things."

— "No."