Stephen had just photocopied his arse again—for the twelfth time that morning. George, the director of the factory, sat in his cramped office, taking a break from doing nothing in particular. He was watching him from the window overlooking the production hall. This wasn’t the first time he’d caught Stephen so hard at work. Stephen wasn’t known to be a meticulous and dedicated worker, but this was unusual, even for him. George had to address the matter, although not right away. Maybe later, after a coffee, or two.
Four coffees later, George finally gathered the energy to move. He trudged downstairs to the production floor, almost giving up halfway, and dragged his feet towards the back of the warehouse. The factory was in full swing through another monotonous day.
Bored workers in nondescript coveralls fumbled through menial tasks with half-hearted, uncoordinated movements, like extras in low-budget sci-fi series. Their exchange of arbitrary instructions blended with the dull hum of industrial machines, diligently failing to produce anything of value. Antiquated forklifts loaded crates onto lorries bound for made-up destinations with unpronounceable names.
After what felt like a six-month journey, George eventually made it to the quality control area. A group of nameless workers shuffled nervously, glancing at one another when they spotted him—a visit from the boss was never a good sign. George paid them no mind and approached Stephen, who was still sitting on the photocopier, with his underwear around his ankles.
“Erm… Stephen, could we have a word?” George asked, as a ray of light from the copier illuminated his face briefly. “In private.”
“Yeah, lemme just finish this,” Stephen replied, refilling the paper tray.
“I’ll be in my office,” George said, shaking his head as he was walking off.
“I’ll be right there.”
Satisfied with the tan on his derrière, Stephen pulled up his trousers and made his way to George’s office. Moments later, he stood outside the office, gathering his thoughts. “G. Crackshaw, Director,” spelled out in crinkled golden letters on the frosted glass door, warned of the danger waiting within. He knocked and entered.
“Take a seat,” George said, offering a worn-out chair.
Stephen scanned the room, taking in the outdated and cluttered decor at once, and sat down. “So… what’s this all about?”
Behind a plywood desk that had seen better days, George sat up and stared at him intently. The bifocal glasses perched at the tip of his nose magnified his eyes, giving him a clownish look. He turned towards the production floor, letting out a long resigned sigh.
“Bumlit has been in business for over thirty years, as you know,” George began, “and we’ve been the market leader for twenty-five years straight. It wasn’t easy, and there were many ups and downs along the way. It took time, but Rome wasn’t built in a day, and neither was Bumlit.”
Stephen swivelled in his chair with unease, wondering where this conversation—this monologue—was heading. “I understand,” he said, feigning interest.
George went on. “As you can imagine, there are many ways to run a successful company, but ultimately, all roads lead to Rome—hard work and dedication are key. What is a company, if not the sum of its people? During my sixteen years at the head of Bumlit, I’ve crossed paths with many people—good and bad. A lot of colourful characters, let me tell you! Dedicated individuals who gave their heart and soul to Bumlit, and as a result, deserve to still be with us today—the old-timers: Greg, Sally, and Hector, to name a few. And then, at the opposite side of the spectrum, there are those who, sadly, I had to let go because they were so utterly useless…” He took a swig of water, letting it all sink in.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Stephen blurted out, expecting George to end his sentence with “just like you” and slap him on the wrist, or more fittingly, on the arse. “I love working at Bumlit! I’ve always looked up to you and what you’ve achieved. And I’m not kissing your arse by saying this, I mean it.” He grinned. “That’s why I always work my arse off, every day!” he added, finding yet another opportunity to put his vast repertoire of arse-related idioms to good use. “And I hope you appreciate that.”
“I do appreciate it, Stephen, I do, but as the saying goes, when in Rome, do as the Romans do,” George said, continuing on the Roman theme. “Everyone at Bumlit slacks a little, I understand, but you really push the envelope, and you make everyone look bad!
Stephen’s cheeks—on his face—turned a vivid red, while the other ones lower down, tensed up, and sweat trickled down his back.
George persisted, “Over fifty photocopies of your bum, this morning alone? Fifty, Stephen? Five-zero. When most people barely manage ten in a day. That’s just incredible!”
Stephen sat still, staring at George with wide eyes.
“At this rate, Stephen, we’re gonna have to double the A4 paper budget! Look, you leave me no choice but to promote you to Chief Bum Officer. You’ll be supervising the entire production!”
Stephen remained silent, as if a paralysing speech impediment had just sealed his lips. George kept talking, but all he could hear was the pounding of his heart in his chest, pumping blood throughout his corpulent body which for an instant seemed weightless.
His future looked bright—brighter even than his arse on that photocopier.