A WAY OUT

By Norman Geddes

 

Ben Winston felt out of place and the feeling was not new. The others were young and vigorous with trendy suits and film star hairstyles. Ben was pushing sixty and weary of the whole business. He slouched in a suit which aged him more accurately than the grey of his hair or anything else about him. He owned better suits but refused to wear them to work. It was a small token of rebellion.

Eight sales representatives were cramped into Colin Rice's small office for the weekly meeting. There were seats for only five so Ben, having been last to arrive, leaned against a steel filing cabinet like a carelessly dumped roll of carpet. Ben glanced at his colleagues noting the rapt attention on each face as they listened to their keen young sales manager. Colin Rice had come, newly promoted, with the recent take-over; twenty six years old and impatient to soar.

"I came here," Rice was saying in his now familiar rhetoric, "to revitalise the sales team. My first six months have been praised from on high (he pointed at the ceiling) but, personally, I am disappointed."

Ben's sigh was audible. Rice shot him a stare that would have turned the Niagara Falls into an ice sculpture, then resumed. "Some of you have responded quite promisingly to the new initiative. Others…" He paused theatrically for effect, "…seem to think they are still employed by the same tired old firm, now defunct and replaced by Wilson Hastings Ltd."

As Rice leaned back in his chair looking very chuffed with himself, Ben repressed a snort of laughter with great difficulty. But Rice was moving on. "Get out there and sell! Remember, there is a vast difference between a salesman and an order collector."

When the meeting finally broke up Ben was asked to remain behind. Rice did not resume his chair but perched himself on the edge of his desk with a calculated air of informality. Ben sat on one of the newly vacated chairs.

"You've been at this game a long time, Ben, eh?"

"Thirty three years."

"Same company all that time?"

Ben nodded. "Until you lot took over. When I started I didn't even have a car. Used buses and trains. I did good business and I got it without any of this high pressure stuff. I did business by winning the respect and loyalty of my customers."
Rice treated him to a sad little smile. "Times change, Ben. We all have to keep up. You're not too old to change. The younger lads may have youth on their side but you have experience. All it needs is commitment and application."

As he drove home in the company owned Ford Cortina, Ben considered his situation. It had always seemed to him that Rice's words of encouragement were delivered with exactly the opposite intention. Telling a sixty year old salesman that he could change into a high power whiz kid was like telling a bus driver that, with a little application, he could become an airline pilot.
Pringle's Model shop came back into Ben's mind as he drove. They needed an assistant and Ben knew and loved their business. A model railway enthusiast, he had been a customer of Pringle's since he'd been a lad. Old John Pringle had jokingly offered him the job a few days ago and had been surprised by Ben's semi-serious interest.

"I'd take you on in a minute, Ben. Only, there's not much money in it and no Ford Cortina."

Ben had started thinking seriously about it. The money wasn't that important. He and Alice weren't rich but neither were they hard up. With a little care they could manage fine on Pringle's wages. The problem was Alice.

"A model shop, Ben?" she had said. "What would people say?"

"They can say what they like," was Ben's reaction. He had no time for the petty snobbery of his neighbourhood but he knew that his wife was very much caught up in it. "Look at Stan down the road there. He had some fancy job when he moved here but now he works in a garden centre."

"Quite so," Alice acknowledged, "but he isn't exactly there through choice, is he?"

"No," Ben responded strongly, "he's there because he lost his licence through drinking."

"Exactly," said Alice. "He didn't abdicate his position, there was no suggestion that he was a failure. In a similar sort of way John Weatherburn had to give up his directorship with Mitchell's because of his heart attack. He's a solicitors' messenger now." She paused for a moment then said; "You might like to try that. Get Dr. Sharp to declare you unfit for your present job. Stress, perhaps. Then you could work in the model shop. People would understand."

"You wouldn't mind if I did that, Alice? There would be no car, remember. I don't think we could afford to run one of our own."

Alice shook her head. "The car wouldn't bother me. If you are dead set on running away from your present job, that is the way to go about it. We don't want people thinking you're a failure, do we?"

But Ben was proud of his health and would rather be branded a failure than a wreck.

The following Monday morning, just as he was leaving the office, he was intercepted by Colin Rice. "Still here, Ben?" A crisp shirt cuff was ceremoniously pulled back to reveal an ostentatious wrist watch.

"Just going," said Ben.

"Not before time. The early bird and all that. I bet our competitors aren't slurping coffee until this time."

During the whole week, Ben was subjected to a daily dose of Rice's acid sarcasm. By Friday he was thirsting for revenge.

Friday afternoons were set aside for the weekly sales meeting. Afterwards most of the salesmen went across the road to The Sportsman where, within the hour, they were joined by Rice. Ben had never joined them on these occasions but, on the Friday in question, he made a point of it.

"What's this, Ben, taking to the demon drink?"

Ben grinned as he sat beside them. "It's the demon Rice I'm after," he said with feeling. There were approving oohs and ahs at this and some good natured laughter. They all liked Ben even if they did call him the dinosaur behind his back. Drink flowed freely and time slid past. Then Rice showed up, standing at their table, surveying the empty glasses and the overflowing ash trays.

"Good God, is that the time?" he asked, pretending to be taken aback. Why, Ben! Is that really you?"

Ben, by now leaning at a slight angle, grinned. "H'llo, Mr Rice."

Rice beamed insincerely. "Never mind the Mr Rice bit after hours, Ben We're all mates together here."

"Really? In that case, nice t' see you, Colin and mine's a large whisky if you're on the bell."

Someone's suppressed snigger escaped as a raucous snort. Rice managed a smile and the moment passed.

A convivial chat followed, all shop talk, which effectively kept Ben silent. Rice eyed him suspiciously. "You seem to find the conversation boring, Ben?"

"Absolutely!" said Ben, his eyes wide, his grin sarcastic. "There's other things in life 'part from the bloody job."

"Of course," Rice said, leaning forward, his eyes bright with the prospect of a skirmish.

"But you'd be hard pushed to think of any," Ben went on.

Rice's frown deepened unpleasantly. "How do you mean?"

"I mean, sonny boy, that you eat, sleep and drink Wilson Hastings. You haven't a square inch of space in your brain for anything else. You think you're the bees knees and you know what…..?" Ben rose unsteadily to his feet and gripped the back of someone else's chair. "You're a p'thetic excuse for a man with your silly wee tash and your mind numbing battle-cry speeches. You're a pain in the arse and I'm the only one here who cares little enough to tell you." He buttoned the centre button of his jacket in the top button hole and straightened himself up to deliver his final salvo. "You can take my job and stick it up beside the pain."

Rice sat, arms folded, staring straight ahead. He made no response, said absolutely nothing.

Ben went to the Gents and doused his face with cold water. He felt good. When he came out he saw Rice heading towards the car park. At a pay phone he dialled a number which he read off a scrap of paper.

"I want to report a drunk driver," he said.

Within two streets of The Sportsman he was stopped. At the police station, much later on, one of the officers said to him, "It was an anonymous phone caller, you know. Gave us registration number, the lot."

"Gerraway?" said Ben. "That's me lost my job now."

"Should've thought of that earlier, Mr Winston."

"Oh I did," said Ben. Got myself fixed up with a nice little job this morning. Pringle's model shop."
The two police officers exchanged puzzled glances. Ben began laughing and he was still laughing when a kindly neighbour called to drive him home.

 

 

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