BROWSE Columns
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Note 1 - a page of A4, carefully taped along all its edges to the cupboard, bears size 20 font which reads:
To the person who is using my Work Mug, please stop. You do not wash it up properly and it is not yours. My mug is black and has Kevin Costner’s Robin Hood on it, my wife bought it for me because ‘(Everything I Do) I Do It For You’ is Our Song. I have kept it safe for a long time and it means a great deal to me. We are allowed to have personal mugs, you should get your own. Today, it was not in the cupboard and I can only assume you have it on your desk or have taken it home accidentally. I want it back or I will be forced to notify HR. If it is returned, clean, by lunch then I will forget this ever happened.
Thank you and best wishes,
Bartholomew Higgins (call me “Barry”)
Note 2 - a pink sticky note on which the old glue is failing, handwritten block capitals read:
FUCK YOUR MUG BARRY
Note 3 - A plastic stand on the countertop contains a memo headed with the company logo and signed by HR, it reads:
To ALL employees. Firstly, please refrain from placing unauthorised internal memorandums in the communal areas as it has been brought to our attention that acts of passive aggression can cause serious workplace disharmony. Secondly, not only does the Buddha teach us to never use harsh words, but also company policy prohibits the use of foul language between colleagues. Instead, endeavour to earn the respect of your fellows
with friendship.
Note 4 - Reeking of fresh toner, it is taped over Note 1, the message reads:
My mug is my personal property and I was attempting to resolve it in an adult manner within this, our work community. I feel I must ask, how are Notes now cancelled as well? Why are these snowflakes allowed to do whatever they want and not receive any rebuke? What is wrong with society that a person, a real human being, can’t communicate politely with the written word and be listened to? I had thought a professional work environment would be the last place I’d find [...]
Note 5 - a pink sticky, with capital letters engraved into the thin paper, covers the last portion of Note 4. It reads:
YOU’RE NOTHING AND I HOPE YOU GET CUCKOLDED.
Barry, fists clenched, watched the surface of his milky tea ripple as his leg bounced uncontrollably under his desk. The borrowed mug was plain white but for the signs of dishwasher stress at the lip. It was one of a million, washed, slurped at, then washed again. Over and over, a thousand different mouths guzzling from it. The only personality it conjured was one of tiredness and overuse. Barry didn’t like that, it was worse than looking in a mirror.
He thought about all of the time he had spent sitting in that cubicle. How many chairs had he worn through over the years? How many monitors, keyboards, and mice? His waist ballooned and his bank account grew thick, but outside of that cubicle what had he achieved? Kids: reared. Wife: loved. Garden: mown. Had it all been treading water? Did it mean anything to him anymore?
Barry uncurled the fingers of his right hand and looked at the crumpled pink note. Cuckolded? What was it - the fucking Middle Ages? Barry felt his temper getting the better of him as he stood up. A uniform sea of cubicles stretched away from him in every direction. Balding heads bobbed around in them to the accompanying clack of on-the-clock typing. He wondered if they were all laughing at him, and wondered too which of them had done it. Cuckolded? Fucking cuckolded?
“I AM something” he whispered the mantra as he walked out of the labyrinth of cubicles and towards the big corner office. The plaque next to the open door read ‘Harold Regis, HR (Devonshire District)’. Barry saw that HR’s desk was decorated with the decapitated head of Buddha. The gilded bonce was no doubt of the variety some of his fancier neighbours might buy at a garden centre to hide in their flower beds. It stared at him smugly.
“Come in Barry, I think I might know what you’re here about.” The man stood and pointed to the empty seat in front of Buddha. “Troubling, isn’t it. I hope you didn’t take it to heart. There’s a lot of unhinged people in this place.” HR showed all his teeth in a facsimile of a smile to indicate he had finished talking. Barry felt his skin crawl as he took the offered seat.
“It is harassment.” Barry had heard that word a lot in various training seminars over the decades he had held a white-collar job. The shifting culture, as he saw it, meant that pretty much anything might be considered harassment nowadays.
“Yeah. Yes. Yeah.” HR nodded, giving the illusion that he had been listening- though his eyes had glazed over.
“So, what are you going to do about it?”
“Right, well you will have seen the sternly worded memo that I put up?”
“The one about no unauthorised memos?”
“That’s the one.”
“What about my mug? What is your memo going to about that?”
“It is in a plastic stand Barry. That’s a permanent change you’ve encouraged. You should be proud.” HR punctuated his words with a thumbs-up.
Barry shook his head and locked gazes with the Buddha instead. The immobile features somehow seemed more like a person than the disassociated marionette of HR. A glint of colour on the desk made Barry lean forward. A pad of pink sticky notes were tucked behind the head. He narrowed his eyes.
“Are you not going to find who wrote those notes?” Asked Barry, slyly.
“You know Barry, witch hunts are frowned upon these days. I doubt it’d get much traction upstairs.” HR pointed at the ceiling. Barry gritted his teeth.
“We’re on the top floor.”
“Isn’t that great Barry?” HR stood up. “Look this has been a great chat Barry, but I must get on. You would not believe the mountain of work I have today.” Barry, deflated, stood to leave but as he did so - he saw the black handle of a broken mug nestled amongst the rubbish in HR’s bin. The slow-burning fuse finally met the payload behind his eyes.
“You crazy bastard! It was you, wasn’t it?! Cuckolded?! Fucking Cuckolded?!” Barry hefted the Buddha, arms burning with righteous strength. “Well, Fuck you Harold!”
A windowed envelope, torn along the licked line of glue, contains a single folded page. Ir reads:
Dear Bartholomew,
This letter serves to inform you that as of today, we will no longer require your services. We appreciated working with you over the past thirty years, but due to recent events, we will be terminating our employment contract with you and ejecting you from our pension scheme. In light of the nature of the circumstances of your termination, we will ship your personal effects (including your mug which we found in the sink) to your home to preclude the need for you to ever return to the Devon office premises.
Sincerely,
HR
Ben Holroyd-Dell is a writer and podcaster whose dark and characterful tales are infused with unrequited optimism and a passion for history. He is the Co-Host of the short story fiction podcast The Tiny Bookcase, which he started with his long-time collaborator Nico Rogers in 2020. He is currently editing his Magicpunk Fantasy novel and co-writing a Dwarven Comedy Fantasy novella, whilst also producing genre-spanning short fiction. He holds a Bachelor’s degree in Creative Writing and English Literature as well as a Master’s in Literature. Ben writes, records, and resides in Cambridge, UK.
