AUT Master of Creative Writing Thesis Exegesis - Scholarly ...

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AUT Master of Creative Writing 2008 Shorty © Michael Botur 2009 ‘Anyway, you guys’ve been here a month and you’re under our wing, so we’re just tightening… our wing. And yous’ve gotta get yourselves on Bebo pronto, to help out your residency thing, which is gonna be an issue, coz of India being a subcontinent and not a country. I’m expecting to take the fall for that.’ Jyoti kept her head lowered and played with her cut finger. ‘Well, yous’re welcome. It’s just – take care of yourselves, get rid of that franchise fee. On that note… ’ He gave Jyoti a handful of business cards. ‘Oi, do you have my card?' Running through the Institute logo, the cards read Danal Keerthisingh – Reception / Personal Assistant to the Manager. Danal had been changed to Danny on every card, crossed out with a biro. Keerthisingh was scribbled out entirely. ‘How do you pernounce this shit anyway?’ he asked her. She explained to him, ‘This is Keer-ta-sing. Keerthisingh. Tamil from Sri Lanka.’ Danny looked like he disagreed, and mumbled his name to himself. The Manager opened her office door and trotted down the hall. Danal scrambled on his desktop, found a piece of chewing gum and savaged it. Stale air leaked out from the Manager’s office. Flowers withered in her office, although the plastic ones thrived. She had a masterly air conditioning system, which pumped her hand-me-down air into Reception. She wore an invisible cape which held her shoulders back and her chin up, but she studied the carpet with her eyes at the same time. She flicked her fingers and adjusted her rings. She said as she approached Danny, 'My keyboard is filthy, it’s dirtying my hands. Are the cleaners not certified?' She placed her fingertips on the reception countertop, then shifted the snack box and its off-putting Indians to one side. She reached over the desk and plucked the RECEPTION sign from Danal’s In Tray. She put it in its place. She toed the carpet, where there was a whitish patch. ‘Turns out they’re not on Bebo,’ Danal said, ‘haven’t tried Facebook yet though.’ His legs were well under his desk. The Manager couldn’t see his working class jeans. Whitewash’s cleaning advertisement was on the 40
AUT Master of Creative Writing 2008 Shorty © Michael Botur 2009 Trade Me screen. Danal looked organised. He picked up the cleaners’ log book, scowling at Jyoti. His wrist clicked. The Manager put her elbow on the countertop and rested her jowl on her palm. book, ‘Oh, you’re looking for your wrist pad? I’ve borrowed it.’ Danal said to Jyoti with a fresh pen in his fingers, stabbing at the log ‘Can I just say while we’ve got my superior here: don’t go writing in here in pencil okay? Know what I’m saying? No-writ-ey in pen-cil.’ He waved the folder, which he had torn by putting his feet on the desk. ‘It looks unprofessional.’ ‘I used to be a cleaner,’ said the Manager with a smile, ‘but I’ve cleaned myself up now.’ Her smiled vanished. Her boob job wobbled under the silk scarf wrapped around her upper body. Sunlight made the glitter in her eye shadow sparkle and gave definition to the cracks in her flesh. ‘Ensure we don’t pay for these items, they are disgusting.’ She fingered the packet of broken cashews, the crumbled Cookie Time. She paused and sniffed. ‘Has one of you been smoking?’ ‘So this is one of the cleaners, I dunno if you want to say some stuff to her or… ?’ ‘Have you told her the procedure? About their rubbish?’ ‘Yeah I’ve told them they’re rubbish, like you said. Joddy, you’ll need to pass that on to Prague, kay?’ Danal swallowed to clear the clunky words from his mouth. He pressed the RETURN key, having finished typing nothing. Jyoti‘s knees angled away from the Manager. The Manager took Jyoti’s bruised fingertips out of Jyoti’s lap and into her hand, and studied them. Her fingertips had the same bleached dimples and calluses as Prayag, a sign of their bondage. She fingered the paper cut and the spots and scowled and threw Jyoti’s hand back at her. Jyoti lifted her finger, but didn’t suck it. ‘Listen to me: when you're splashing chemicals around I want you to be bloody careful, dear. Do you understand what I’m saying? The-car-pet is ve-ry-val-u-ble.’ 41
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