My worth is less than nothing. I already know this, but the confirmation in the eyes of those I’m forced to pester is an unwelcome reassurance.
The meeting with Josh had been a simple formality like I’d expected. He asked when I was free to start, and being eager for some pocket change, I said straight away. So I was given my uniform and sent off into the world as simply and quickly as that.
My view of the world is warped. Psychologists could argue the minutia of my mentality in this regard, but currently I’m speaking purely physical. I stare at the passersby through a tiny sheet of black netting, my peripheral vision non-existent. Damp heat rises up while sweat rolls down my face, meeting in the centre ground that is my eyes.
Someone kicks me from behind. I clumsily spin around but can’t pick out an obvious culprit. All of my recent thoughts of going teetotal are quickly dissolving in the face of humanity. I take a deep breath. There’s still work to be done.
I waddle down the street, pivoting erratically to try and intercept the paths of passersby. Everyone is going out of their way to avoid me. I can’t blame them. So far I’ve made at least two children cry just from the sight of me. Who the hell thought a giant costume of a human liver would be a good mascot? The damn thing is nightmare fuel.
I’m carrying a charity bucket and a bundle of leaflets explaining the dangers of drugs and alcohol, as well as common forms of liver disease. A cartoon version of the mascot, Lenny the Liver, helpfully explains the facts and passionately argues against excessive drinking. I already hate the little prick.
I’ve only been at it for an hour, but it feels like an eternity. How do people turn their brains off for eight to twelve hour shifts every day? It’s torture. I feel like I’m dying from the heat even though a fine drizzle is misting the air. It’s taking a monumental effort to be responsible and keep working.
I totter along, barely aware of my surroundings. Everything is a hazy blur. The number of leaflets don’t seem to be going down despite my best efforts. It’s all too much. I sag against a wall and scream into the muffled darkness of Lenny’s innards.
Someone pats me on the back. I turn and nearly shit myself. A giant blue otter is facing me down. I quickly realise that it’s another poor soul trapped inside a mascot. I can’t see their face, but I feel a sense of kinship and understanding pass between us.
“You new?” a masculine voice asks.
I nod, then remember that nobody can see my head.
“Yeah. First day. Is it that obvious?”
“The scream of despair into the void? Nah. We all do that now and then. The armful of fliers is the giveaway. Nobody spends more than an hour handing this crap out. Come with me.”
I follow him without hesitation. At worst he is a psychopath and I’m about to get murdered by a blue otter while dressed as a liver. That would, without doubt, be the highlight of my miserable life. Think of the headlines. Instead of a dark alley though he leads me into a nearby pub. We get a few stares from the patrons but mostly we are ignored.
As we approach the bar, the otter grabs my leaflets and places them beside several other piles of similar looking posters and booklets. The barman looks up at us but offers no other reaction. Weirdos littering his bar with crap was apparently a regular occurrence.
“The usual?” the barman asks. He isn’t looking at us. All of his attention is on the swirling browns of the Guinness he’s pouring.
“Cheers. Two,” the otter answers.
A few seconds later the barman places two bottles of Corona in front of us. The otter grabs one easily. I fumble clumsily with mine. Gripping anything in this suit is hard work. I move towards a seat but the otter shakes his oversized head, his whole body swaying with the motion. He leads me out the door and down the side of the building where a long plank of wood is fastened to the wall like a bench. He slumps down onto it and I follow suit.
“How long have you been doing this?” I ask.
“Three years,” the otter answers. He fiddles around his neck until the head comes loose, revealing an older man. He is bald with a greying, close-cropped beard.
I don’t have a head to remove so I have to unzip myself and pull the entire top half of the suit down to breathe a lungful of fresh air. I nearly choke on it. The pungent smell of piss fills the alleyway. The taste of Corona does nothing to wash it away.
“Three years,” the man repeats bitterly. “I used to make cutlery. Factory closed down a few years back and I couldn’t get a job doing something similar as the whole industry disappeared. People like me are relics of a dead past. Not smart enough to adapt, and too old to do honest labour.”
His words catch me off-guard. It’s a common story but it always hits too close to home.
“Same thing happened to my dad. That was twelve years ago.”
“It’s a tough world. What did he end up doing?”
“Killing himself.”
“Oh.”
The man falls silent. He drinks his Corona reflectively, his eyes firmly planted on his comically large otter feet. After a while he sighs then stretches, his frown easing as though he’s just reached some internal answer.
“It is what it is. Fuck me if it isn’t. Come on. You don’t want to get fired on your first day.”
Matthew Roys 