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Sunday 13th December
Exercise 1 hour “Yo sé todo – I know everything”
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Kicking aside his boxer shorts as he turned to put his left arm into the shirt sleeve he saw the sun catch on the silver on the cat’s collar, trembling as she stared out of the window at a bird exploring the hot asphalt. Early morning and already a stifling heat, his shirt sticking between shoulder blades where moisture started to collect.
He wouldn’t be the first to arrive at the building. The building that sat at the water’s edge, gleaming in the sunlight a cat collar disk that trapped them inside like so many pigeons. The first would be the Italian manager who arrived at 6.30am, driving his car the 3 blocks from where he lived in a serviced apartment also on the water’s edge, opened the underground carpark with the security key that only 4 people had access to, and went upstairs with nothing in his pockets but a worn Montblanc. He wouldn’t be the first to arrive but he would be one of the last to leave, having seen all come and go and knowing all their secrets.
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It would be a long journey to the building, not 3 blocks but a train and then 2 buses and final sprint. He knew he’d stand on the train so as not to crush his perfectly ironed clothes. Looking at the cat again he carefully unbuttoned his shirt and hung it over the long plastic drycleaning bag hoping there was no dust accumulated by the static. Once, a long time ago, he had noticed halfway through his working day a fleck of grey, a fish scale that when he tried to flick it off dug in, permeating the shirt with a rotting smell and seeming to spread in indelible greyness across his professionalism like Tiger Woods’ shame.
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If he knew all the secrets of the people in the building the cat knew his. She observed from the window how he swore when the newspaper slipped from his lap whilst on the toilet, the ungainly reach to reorganise sections and pages reminding him what he was really there for. She saw shirts come on and off 2 or 3 times before he left the apartment in the morning, the smell of drycleaning chemicals so alike that of Whiskers she licked the bottom of the bags that hung on the wardrobe door. Sleeping once on a discarded shirt he’d forgotten to hang, she left a nest of dark hairs to torment him upon his return. This morning he organised her food bowls, slipped into the shirt again and out the door, leather shoes reflecting brief winks and her pigeon tv show continued.
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He hoped he might catch someone today. Those days when he caught someone were the best. There was a reduction on normal days, he had them all in his pocket, the nervous accountants on the 9th, the early empty handed Italian on the 5th, all the unfulfilled secretaries and posturing sales. Not that he thought he owned the place, this was no exaggerated power. Sometimes, there was a surprise, like the English teacher that arrived in a rush at 10 to 6 hoping to be early for some executive’s evening class. He’d have to stop the peak hour flow, interrupt his whole system and make space for her like she was some kind of celebrity. That wasn’t a problem anymore now that Carlos had told him how to do it – pass the bag over as if the teacher were leaving with the rest of them. See through to her jogging shoes and two sweaters, sunblock and pot of yoghurt, sanitary products, some makeup although not as much as the secretaries and nothing compared to visiting Mexican women – if you didn’t stop the flow you’d have a better chance of having the day expand from this system, put her through backwards and you’d catch a sales – invariably sales -
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there was a gift his aunt from Chile used to bring from a childrens’ specialty toy store that was really for adults – a shell closed that was to be dropped in water and a coloured paper flower would unfurl in slow motion filling the glass
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a little black box the laptop ready to slide through unnoticed
Hey Pancho, what did you think of the football results?
and he’d make a hand signal to Carlos who understood and flicked the switch corresponding to this guy’s floor, in silent fast motion the sweep across the 7th would wind back to half an hour ago when they were all packing their desks and the black box, so unobtrusive Pancho knew to look for it, barcode lifted with a penknife that got through a few weeks ago under the pretence of removing a computer case to repair something for a colleague, could be seen being zipped into the briefcase. No bells nor alarms nor panicked shouting, just a smooth frond uncurling and he’d pass the English teacher’s bag to her, wondering at the weight of it and whether she had a sore back, and say
I don’t know much about football, but I know everything about you. Carlos will take you out the back where you can explain to us why you have Telecom property in your briefcase.
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Stunned, there would be no way to leave the building and Carlos silently smiling at his side whilst his colleagues pushed past through the turnstiles, dinners to be made and long journeys endured.
The security man glanced down the perfect crease of his shirtsleeve to admire the legs of one of the girls from 12th, they seemed busier showing each other up than anything, bags always a neat display of hair comb and mobile phone as if to tease him, and felt with satisfaction the stretching of the first frond unfurled from the little shell flower in the glass.
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