Have you got the hunger, even though you're hungover?

Our hero receives the ill-informed advice that a career in recruitment would be just the thing.


Richard Nork was tall and, even to Johnson’s untrained eye, expensively, possibly Italian-suited. He swept into the reception area, Armani vents flapping in his wake, heavy gold links winked from his Savile Row cuffs as he shot his hand out to meet Johnson’s in a firm, clean grasp.
“Johnson,” stated Richard Nork, pumping his hand. He didn’t speak in a questioning fashion, he was sure, and Johnson was sure that this was a man who knew all of the answers before he’d even had a glimpse of the questions.
“Mr. Nork,” Johnson replied, pumping back as hard as his dehydrated arm could manage.
“Right. Follow,” announced Richard Nork.
Johnson strode along behind, and as hard as he tried, he found it hard to draw alongside Richard Nork. He trotted amongst flapping suit and in the wake of a pricey after-shave.
They were walking through a sixties office building which had been refurbished like a Scandinavian sauna. The wood panelling on the walls echoed the boards on the floor and the ceiling. Isn’t it good? thought Johnson.
“What are you doing at the moment?” asked Richard Nork.
“Job hunting,” replied Johnson, “I mean, I took some time out after graduating and now I’m sorting out the career,” he said, correcting himself hurriedly.
“Right. Sales floor through there,” Richard Nork waved at a large door inlaid with a pair of small, wire-threaded windows, Johnson glanced in as they sped past. Everyone seemed to be on the phone, but they do have wide-screen TV, he noted.
“OK. In here. Interview room. For candidates, normally.”
Richard Nork opened a door, indicated a chair and took the other. There was a heavy duty, hessian-type carpet in the room, a certificate of some sort on one wall which Johnson couldn’t quite make out, and, on the other, a framed and faded Monet print.
“So, why recruitment?” asked Richard Nork.
Johnson felt confident that he’d done enough of this interview business in recent months to sail through this one without a hitch.
“I’m not sure I’m getting the hunger from you,” said Richard Nork after twenty minutes.
Oh no, thought Johnson, another arsehole.
“I’m hungry alright,” said Johnson, truthfully. He’d felt sick all morning, and worse since getting out of the bath, but now the nausea was abating, and for the last ten minutes he’d had a real problem in concentrating on anything other than a grilled mature cheese sandwich with beefsteak tomato.
“I’ll make it clear Johnson,” said Richard Nork, frowning. “Our people make their money, no, to be perfectly correct, the good ones, that is to say, the really good ones, make their money, good money, let me remind you, good money, by putting the hours in, by tenacity, by attitude. Without attitude, Johnson, you will not attain altitude.”
Fuck me, he is another one. He might be the worst one yet, mused Johnson.
“Hunger. Hunger, Johnson, is the key. Have you got hunger?”
Toasted sandwich, a little burnt on the edges, cheddar, the best aged Canadian, oozing out of the sides, the bread slathered with olive paste and layered with hot sliced tomato. Johnson could almost taste his reward.
“I’ll show you fucking hunger,” he said, hammering his fist on the table and leaping to his feet. “You think you’ve seen it with those people out there? Hunger? They don’t know fucking hunger, just you wait, I’m ready to step up. I’m raring to go, I’ve got the matrices going on. You just fucking watch. Just you fucking well watch me. You’ve seen nothing, you ain’t seen nothing. Nothing,” as Johnson grimaced the final ‘nuthin’ he feared he might be giving it a bit too much Brando, but it was too late to stop now, he was in character. He was grasping the edges of the table, a vein bulged impressively on his temple, and he could feel the blood careering around in his head. Bad for morale, thought Johnson, if I were to have a stroke right now, or perhaps it might be good for morale. See what this man was prepared to go through to make it? Death, that’s what. Might be an angle for someone’s next motivational talk. Something to think about, anyway. Johnson continued his tirade.
When he’d given the table another belting to signal the end, Richard Nork said, “Anger. Attitude. I like that. Bit of hunger, I like that too.”
A bit? thought Johnson, a bit of hunger? I’m drained, I’ve got nothing left to give after that performance. This is going to be harder than I thought.
“Come with me. I’ll show you where you’re going to be working.”
“Oh,” said Johnson, “working?”
“Congratulations,” said Richard Nork, offering his manicured hand again, “you’re in, and I don’t say that very often.”
“Oh,” Johnson gave a strangled choke, “thank you very much. When do I start?”
“Give you a trial right now, I think,” decided Richard Nork.
“Now?” queried Johnson. What about my toasted sandwich?
“Yes. Get you out on the floor, see what you can do.”
“Right,” said Johnson.
“What is it now, five?”
“Five o’clock,” confirmed Johnson. Be home by six.
“Gives you a good three hours then.”
“Three hours?”
“At least. Right, with me.”
Richard Nork sprinted away again and Johnson scrambled along after him.
“What’s with the TV’s then?” asked Johnson.
There was a widescreen TV at each end of the sales floor. Both tuned to the same satellite rolling news station.
“Well,” said Richard Nork, “we tell clients that it’s to make sure our consultants are totally up to date with world events, current affairs, currency markets, you know? Keep ahead of the game.”
“You tell your, sorry, our clients that?”
“Yes.”
“But in reality?”
“I think they look good. Big TV’s, and they’re just for show, really,” said Richard Nork, “top of the range, all the channels, watch the football in the evenings if you like, we have some lively nights when there’s football. Play and record. Pause the live action. You know the sort of thing. All the channels.”
Johnson had a feeling that people were ducking imperceptibly as Richard Nork passed by them. That’s ridiculous, he decided, it’s not a schoolroom is it?
“Now, I’d better take you to meet Simon,” announced Richard Nork.
“Simon?”
“Our MD. Very important man.”
“Right,” said Johnson.
“I’ll drop you into Simon, and by the time you’ve come back we’ll have sorted out a space for you, OK?”
Simon was fresh faced and had short curly fair hair. The sort of look that meant he would always look rather too much like a baby to be taken completely seriously. Johnson decided he was probably around forty and obviously successful, but perhaps the scrubbed pink cheeks, cherubic features and the spirals of blond locks which seemed to count against him meant he had really come up the hard way. Not to be underestimated, Johnson decided. Office dead opposite the ladies and gents, though, that’s hardly pole position.
Simon Hart gave Johnson the usual talk on the history of the company. Johnson glanced casually around the office as Simon Hart was speaking. Smoked glass windows and table tops, muted lighting, expensive electronic equipment scattered around, a Bang and Olufsen in the corner, playing Kenny G by the sound of it, oh dear. Easy chairs - leather slung low over chrome, and a lot of self-help-psychology-management-style books, with titles like, ‘How To Hurt The People Who Hate Winners By Winning In Style!’, ‘Finished Second? You Loser!’, and ‘Go For Gold’.
“I like to think of us here as a family,” said Simon Hart.
“Oh, yes?” Johnson grinned his Goebbels-family-cyanide-grin.
“And once you’re part of the Locked-In family, you know what?”
“You’re locked in?” suggested Johnson.
“Exactly,” Said Simon Hart, returning Johnson’s grin.
Simon Hart was absent-mindedly pushing a pen around his desk.
“Should get yourself a choo-choo train,” said Johnson, riskily.
“What? Not a bad idea, that. I like a good idea. A choo-choo train eh?”
“Yeees,” said Johnson, cagily this time.
“Now, you’re backtracking now, I can sense it. Word of advice, shouldn’t backtrack on a good one. You think it’s a good one then pick it up and….”
“Run with it?” interrupted Johnson.
“Give it some air, I was going to say,” said Simon Hart, sounding a little hurt, “Pick it up and give it some air. Fly it like a kite out in the big blue sky and, you know what? Then you might see some real blue sky thinking.”
“Alright,” agreed Johnson.
“But I like your idea of picking it up and running with it.”
“You do?”
“Certainly do,” said Simon Hart, “must write it down.”
Simon Hart leapt to his feet and crossed to a white laminate board which was mounted on the wall behind Johnson. A black marker pen squeaked across the board as he wrote ‘pick it up and run with it’. He turned around, baby-cheeks flushed with colour.
“Motivation.”
“Oh, yes,” said Johnson, fervently.
“Like a bit of motivation.”
“Great.”
“Have you had a look in the gents?”
“For what?” Johnson asked.
“We have a board in there, just like this one,” said Simon Hart.
“Right,” said Johnson.
“I like to sketch the odd motivational thought on there from time to time.”
“You do?”
“Helps keep up the old morale.”
“It does?” asked Johnson, trying to button down the sarcasm as he wondered, whose morale are we talking about here, exactly?
“I might put up the odd quiz thing now and then.”
“A quiz?”
Simon Hart wandered around the office until he reached another stretch of smoked glass, this time it was serving as sliding doors atop a mahogany cabinet.
“Drink?” suggested Simon Hart.
“Scotch, thanks,” Johnson replied, quickly.
“Water, still or gassy, cola or grapefruit juice.”
“Nothing in it thanks. Certainly not grapefruit juice.”
“What?”
Finally, Johnson sighted the man-trap, he hoped he wasn’t too late, and hadn‘t already blundered in.
“Sorry, didn’t hear you. Water would be fine.”
“Still?”
“With gas, thanks.”
Simon Hart poured fizzy water from two tiny bottles into two impossibly tall and heavy tumblers, the water barely reached a quarter of the way up the glass. Johnson took his glass and had to tilt his head back a long way before the gassy liquid reached his mouth.
“So, you do the quiz questions then?” Johnson enquired.
“Just on the board. Bit of fun, you know.”
“Bit of fun,” said Johnson.
“Yes. Winner gets a bottle of fizz,”
“Perrier?” asked Johnson, innocently.
“Oh no. No, no, no. Moet.”
“Of course,” said Johnson.
“I think I mentioned the family aspect of what we do here?” began Simon Hart.
Oh bollocks, said Johnson into his Sahara of a glass.
“Now, do you have any issues?”
“Issues?” asked Johnson.
Johnson regarded Simon Hart’s chubby cheeks and blond curls and wished he’d brought him a lollipop.
“Home, relationships, personal life, you know.”
Well, I feared I couldn’t get it up the other night but I got away with it, although I understand she’s unlikely to want to see me again, I’m drinking far too much, I can’t hold a job down, I’m worried that I might have an attitude problem, I’ve got about four quid in the bank and the rent’s due, my best friend - I suppose he’s my best friend as no-one else seems to like me - seems to be intent on supplying me with class A drugs but the saving grace is that having tried them, I don’t think I enjoyed the experience very much. Yet. I haven’t spoken to a member of my own family in weeks, and this career stuff is just getting me down. You understand, man? It’s getting me down. Maybe I’m heading for a breakdown.
“I’m all sorted, Simon,” said Johnson.
“You are?”
“Life is good,” Johnson reiterated.
“Really?” Simon Hart persisted.
“I’m the happiest, most well-adjusted, level-headed, potential recruitment consultant you’ll ever meet.”
“I’m sensing a contradiction here, Johnson,” said Simon Hart, “Just haven’t worked out what it is yet. You’ll have to leave it with me.”
“Right on Simon. Now, can I go and do my trial?” said Johnson, barely re-hydrated but somehow energised.
“OK. I like that. Moving forward, eh?” Simon Hart picked something from his drawer.
“What’s that?” asked Johnson.
“This is Teddy,” said Simon Hart.
“Your teddy bear?”
“Oh yes. He was a present from my grandmother. His name is actually Teddy,” said Simon Hart.
“Teddy?” asked Johnson.
“Couldn’t think of anything else,” said Simon Hart, rubbing Teddy against one of his chubby pink cheeks.
“I see,” said Johnson, rising from his chair.
“Johnson. One thing before you go. Teddy and I won’t be very pleased if you don’t make your targets in your first month.”
Simon Hart’s baby’s eyes went from silk to steel, and Johnson was stilled in his tracks.
“One month. Alright?”
“OK,” agreed Johnson. This can’t be for real, he thought.
“I actually thought he’d packed in the Teddy routine,” said Kate. Johnson was sitting next to her at a desk on the sales floor.
“Routine?” asked Johnson.
“Oh, you know. Something to throw people off kilter. I thought it had gone a bit stale, but he obviously doesn’t.”
“So, he didn’t get Teddy from his grandmother?”
“No,” said Kate, laughing.
“And he doesn’t talk to Teddy?”
“Oh, come on,” said Kate, laughing harder.
“And if Teddy’s not happy that doesn’t mean that the rest of us are in trouble?”
“Don’t be silly Johnson.”
“That’s a relief,” sighed Johnson.
“Remember though, it’s not a good idea to upset Simon.”
“Why’s that,” asked Johnson.
“Look, how can I explain, I’d say that Richard Nork is a bastard, but he’s also a bit of a wanker.”
“Which takes the edge off,” said Johnson.
“Exactly. Takes the edge off. He’s supposed to be the hard man, so if you go along with it, it helps him to maintain the image, even if we all know he’s beating himself blind every night over pictures of farm animals or boy scouts or whatever.”
“Is he?” asked Johnson, incredulously.
“It’ll do for me,” said Kate, firmly.
“And Simon?” asked Johnson.
“Simon is a right bastard,” said Kate.
Kate showed Johnson the ropes. Calling old clients, calling new clients. Interviewing hopers and no-hopers, usually after hours. Trying to slot curiously-shaped pegs into regulation holes. Persuading the candidate that this is the role they’ve been waiting for, cajoling employers into giving a someone a chance. Johnson tripped downstairs to the gents. Simon Hart’s door was opposite and open. Simon Hart was alerted by Johnson’s footfall on the stairs, he glanced up as Johnson passed, and made a show of checking his watch. Johnson nodded in passing at Simon Hart, the smoked glass, leather and chrome, and shut and locked the door. Johnson unzipped and as he streamed forth he checked the board which hung to his right.
Get out there and sell, people. Because we all know what awaits people who don’t sell, don’t we? Long lazy afternoons on the dole.
Johnson pondered this wisdom while his bladder emptied.
He picked up the black felt pen which hung from the wall on a string.
Sounds fucking lovely, he wrote, Bring on those lazy afternoons.