At the Edge of the Game by Gareth Power Read Free Book Online Page A

that up.’
    I lift up a box
of photocopier paper.
    ‘Good. You can
lift 15kg. You are physically capacitated for mailroom work.’
    He shakes my
hand, leads me back to the desk, where I pick up my jacket. ‘Good luck, my
friend. I think you will do well. I don’t say that to many people.’
    ‘Thank you.’
    As I turn the
handle of the door that leads back to reception, he says: ‘Are you going to
leave without asking?’
    ‘Sorry?’
    ‘Are you
interested in how much the job pays?’
    ‘Oh, well, I
assumed it’s minimum wage.’ Can it possibly be higher? I scan his slight smirk.
    He leans back in
his chair, sighs. ‘Yes. I can confirm that in this you are correct.’
    ‘Right. Thanks.’
    ‘Again, goodbye
and good luck’
    The receptionist
ignores me as I take my leave, begin the bicycle-less trudge back to Ranelagh.
    Mobile starts
ringing in rainy Harcourt Street. It’s her. I’ll just let it ring out. It’ll
spoil the effect if I try to tell her about this on the phone. I can picture
myself getting annoyed at the need to repeat things, poking questions
diminishing the event in that way that they always do.
    ‘Didn’t you get
my call?’ she says at the front door twenty minutes later.
    ‘I didn’t hear
it. Listen, I have some good news. I’m starting a job in the morning.’
    The joy that
shows on her face, it almost makes me take a step back. I did not expect it.
She grabs my hands.
    ‘Oh, George.
That’s great. Is that where you were?’
    ‘Yeah, the
agency called me down. Got there just ahead of another fella. The games they
play with other people’s lives, making people race each other for work.’
    ‘How much does
it pay?’
    ‘It’s minimum
wage, a mailroom job in some pharma place.’
    ‘Minimum wage.’
    This takes the
wind out of her sails a bit.
    ‘We knew any of
these jobs would be minimum wage, Helen.’
    ‘I know, but –’
    ‘What?’
    ‘I just… hate to
think of you slaving for so little.’
    ‘Maybe if I get
enough work, we won’t have to have Mr Lodger here any more.’
    ‘Hmm,’ she
sounds into my shoulder, unwilling to humour this notion even for a moment.
     
     
     
    The dawn greys
itself into existence, light spreading thinly from the cold shallows of the
Irish Sea to the murk of the city. It is wrong, so wrong, to step outside at
this, the cruellest hour, when the driven air slaps you before you’ve made your
first step. Evasive faces scan the rough pavement, creased with the rage of
birthright denied. It should not be like this, goes the human mind. Beings such
as we, the species that dominates the physical world with blundering ease,
should transcend this sort of nonsense, should not be subjected to the
indignity and squalor of the dawn commute. Of course, this is only day one, so
I might get used to it.
    Endure another
tedious hike through town. Slouched crowd at the bus stop on the quay, no
chance of getting a seat. Get thrown about as the bus thuds its way up and
around past Heuston, through Inchicore, along the ugly, harsh Naas Road, all
the derelict car dealerships, retail warehouses, half-arsed fast fooderies. Get
stuck in some sort of stupid snarl-up at the Long Mile, police in tactical
armour and their silly obstructions. Same again at the Red Cow, more police,
keeping the interchange secure for Dublin’s remaining workers. All this eats up
my fifteen-minute margin of error. Watch out now, turning through these
industrial back roads, watch out for the right place to alight.
    Rain has started
to pelt. Raise my jacket hood as I stride across the empty car park, towards
the warm light of the Avatan reception.
    ‘I’m starting
here this morning,’ I tell the young receptionist and her complicated
deployment of make-up and hair. She turns away from me to make a call to Candy
McThomas. Wonder how I must seem to this young one. Suppose I must look old,
declining, weak. Maybe I am all of those. Depends on your point of view, at the
end of the day. Don’t