Page 32 of Little Miss Fortune

Boredom, Fuko

Not a single soul moves, watching the numbers on the lift go from the seventh floor down to our third. My jaw is clenched, muscles are tense. I can feel my heartbeat in my knees.

A distant, menacing tune of an accordion echoes from the shaft—the oesophagus of the metal cage. The door dings like a timer that has run out. Fog emanates from the maw and then belches out onto the corporate carpeted floors.

A clanking trolley rolls out, with a stack of boxes and tools, a man pushing it from behind, as Charon himself ferried the boat down the river Styx.

‘Brewer,’ the trolley man called me to the front with a surprising inflection that explained why everyone is so terrified of calling FM.

That man... is French.

‘Um, yes, hi, it’s the printer...’

‘So.’ He lifts his hand up to stop me from talking. ‘You broke the printer.’

‘No, it was already broken. You know, technology breaks,’ I defend myself, strong and unwavering.

‘No, technology does not break. You broke the printer, and now you are making it my problem.’

There are so many Rs in his sentences—as if he is winding his fury into his final ultimate fighting move. I open and close my mouth trying to find anything that absolves me of the guilt.

‘I—’

‘I speak four languages. I graduated from Sorbonne Université, but you people think you can tell me to crawl on my hands and knees, fixing the cables for you, whilst you break the printer machines?’

He moves closer and closer to me with every word. His arms undulate in an interpretive dance that brings his shoulders up beyond his ears and down to his knees. It’s uncertain whether he is seconds away from exploding or completely deflating. He traverses like a puppet pulled by strings, so completely inhuman. Every gesture is a flamboyant display of his misery, Pierrot himself covetous at this display.

‘What did you do to the printer?’ His face is inches from mine. I wouldn’t put it past him if he decided to lick me to show dominance.

‘I swear it wasn’t me.’

‘That’s what they all say.’ He drops his gaze at the staff; it’s as loud as thunder. ‘I will take the printer today, but it is not my job to fix your pathetic lives. You need to take some responsibility for your actions. You think you’re better than me? You are four floors below me. Remember that.’

He unplugs the broken printer and uses one of the tools to load it onto the trolley. When the doors shut behind him, the music is gone; the temperature returns to normal, but no one is the same.

‘What just happened?’ I turn to Toby.

‘I think he likes you.’

‘He... he had a go at me for asking him to do his job. And made me feel really bad about myself for it.’ I go back to my chair, replaying the interaction from start to finish.

‘Welcome to SIMPO’s FM team of one—Jean Luc.’

My head rests on the table.

‘You did well.’ Toby lies down on the table with me.

With his soft, encouraging gaze so close, my heart is felt through my body again, but not from fear this time. No, this is wrong. I snap back straight in the chair.

‘Have you ever tried doing something to improve your luck?’

‘No, you can’t,’ I respond, too quickly and harshly, the tightness in my chest getting more apparent.

‘Maybe we can try something to make that bell ring so that I am the one who calls the other Jean Luc clone next time. What do you think?’ he reaches his hand out for a handshake.

There are calluses on the cushions under his fingers, freckles spilling from his forearms, blue veins rising and falling over the tendons. No. No, this is a bad idea. I shake my head. ‘I’m all right without it, thanks.’

He playfully clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes. ‘See, that’s what I mean. You are a bit too boring to be lucky.’