Читать книгу Speak to the Man Called Hope - Lawrence Hall - Страница 3

The tune is familiar and the words are the same, Happy Birthday to You. He remembers his grandparents, both of them on his mum’s side telling him, ‘its not nice being old.’ Their mind was as sharp as a thirty year old, the body far from able. Seeing the candles displaying seventy-six is daunting, he doesn’t feel it at all. A half-hearted thrust of air emits from his lungs through his mouth and extinguishes the soft candlelight leaving an eerie darkness though only momentarily. The bright room lights are flicked on and a number of separate discussions start-up continuing from where they left off prior to the singing interlude. He is the only one with nobody to talk to. Its moments like these he feels the loneliness. He loves his independence, he enjoys being on his own to do what he wants, when he wants and how he wants. It’s been a trait he has struggled with all his life because it’s not socially acceptable. He misses his wife, his best friend but many years gone, she finding new love and a new life. He misses his mum and dad or more the memories of his early days with them. The relationship when he left home faded gradually. Strangely, it is his grandparents he misses most. Oldest memories are often the rosiest and he’s conscious of this distortion. The relationship he shared with them was a mutual love at its simplest, a mutual admiration and pure enjoyment of each others’ company. He is a simple person in that he is easily contented and appreciative of simple things like the dawn of a day expectant of the bluest sky, the most golden of sun and the stillest air.

‘Did you want some more cake, Dad’ asks the hand that waves past his eyes. ‘You’ve been reminiscing again’ his daughter quaffs. His children are good to him but their focus is on their own lives, their own busy families and for the three of them its clear that time with Dad is a chore. They drop-in because they have to, his birthdays are attended by less grandchildren every year. He never expected to reach this age in all honesty and now he wonders if he really wanted to. He always felt the complexity of life, the need to be busy, the perception that the happiest people are those that are telling you how busy they are, very confronting. His want of a simple life interceded by the pressure to be busy doing meant he did not enjoy life much. He is not a material person, he did not judge himself by how he looked, what he had on his back, where he lived, the sort of house he lived in or the type of car he drove. No, all he wanted was a quiet place away from the ramparts of who one is. A smile crosses his face as he remembers a quote from Margaret Thatcher that stayed with him all his years, ‘People are too busy trying to be somebody, rather than doing something worthwhile’, he related to it instantly when he first heard it. Now though, its just some sort of rationale to a life lost to regret and missed opportunities. ‘Where is that coffee I asked for?’ Ro blurts out, instantly silencing the room and drawing everyone’s attention. He clearly spoke with more pitch and disdain than he expected. No doubt the birthday gathering will close abruptly leaving him to his carers and more uninteresting TV in a bed already reserved for the next poor soul shuffled off from their place of comfort, solace and familiarity to the cold, white, characterless shed that is the local nursing home; the only place he has ever been called Mr Chai.

It is a recurring nightmare. A constant battle with anxiety and depression, the countless periods of tight chests, headaches, dizziness and nervousness that have led him, in his own mind, to succumb to a shorter life expectancy. He always thought that he would die of a heart attack crossing the road. He would feel the shortness of breath, the pain in the chest from trying to breathe deeply, but this time it gets shorter and shorter as he walks. As he reaches the kerb to cross the road his vision turns blurry. He has felt this before but not as severe. Its like he has been on a roundabout swing and cannot see nor walk straight. The pain in the chest sharpens intensely and the world around him disappears from view. He keels over as he loses control of his own body and then blacks out. Whilst his arm and hand initially move toward the ground to cushion the fall they turn loose as he loses bodily control. His body hits the ground with the torso making first impact closely followed by his head. Given that the initial pains are common, the onslaught of the accident is unexpected but is it consciously noticed at the time? He does not know. It is the end.

Despite these predictions, Ro does believe that he is the master of his own destiny. Well, maybe it’s more of a hope that the future can be different and that he can determine how it pans out. This is his silent and private partner, his imaginary friend, the man called 'Hope'.

Hope is his link to reality, his bridge from dreams. He seeks not to be the centre of attention nor the bombastic and fearless leader seeking public or corporate glory. He longs only for a sense of achievement, the understanding that he is doing the right thing and has something of value to contribute. "Hope is a good thing", as many men will tell you for they have been avid watchers of 'The Shawshank Redemption' and often list it as their favourite movie. Andy Dufresne sits against the prison and makes this positive reference of hope to his friend, Red. Hope is a lost belief, a fading sunset, clenched fingers to a cliff of fear but a chance still at salvation.

In his challenging daily grind, the brighter days see the man called hope stand quietly by his side, ever-present but needed not. On the dark days, Hope fights the battle between good and evil between the path of reality and the cone of despair. The mind games hog the playground of the brain's activity starving it of any energy to operate and function as normal outside the body.

Whilst the man called Hope is non-purposeful, his aspirations are rational, he turns the minutes into hours and the hours into days. He continues the journey one foot in front of the other until the sun is able to shine once more. He is a constant companion for Ro Chai, a senseless emotion, an un-tooled sherpa carrying the burdensome weight of insignificance on his shoulders. It is a friendship stronger and richer than religious faith yet uncompromisingly similar in its abstractness and its invalidated prophecy. The man called hope ensures that where that which falls, stays where it is, everlasting like a waterfall, sometimes near dry, barren or empty but ready to flow again, resolute and unwavering. It is the epiphany of resilience, the foundations of which remain steadfast.

On a good day, it is this slight optimism that returns the smile to the face, the joy in the voice and the spring in the step. It is what makes Ro's outer appearance warm and friendly, liked by his peers and valued by his bosses. He will need to be as the team commences to grow from 2 to 10 and further in the months ahead.

The aspired for contentment on these good days makes everything seem possible. Yet, Hope reinforces the solace of such a state, a mindset, where materiality is not the object of desire but the mind is at peace and the world seems simple, beautiful and wonderful. Complexity complicates and objects of desire wield an axe of distraction where ‘must do’ and ‘have to’ along with deadlines steal the mind from its open oasis to the closed in walls of fear of anxiety.

Ro’s mind refracts to the stale office interior and the old, albeit 3 years, laptop calling for his attention. He turns to look outside and glimpses the glistening sun in the openness of the bright blue sky. He unhinges the laptop from its lock, gathers his phone along with his small notepad and pen. Knowing that all his research and requisite documentation exist on the laptop hard drive, he has no immediate need for connection to the ethernet nor internet. It is mid-morning and the birds are calling for him to work outside. Ro knows just the place.

Mick’s café bar and bistro has been a haunt for Ro for several years now and he has got to know the proprietor and his wife. Mick and Barbara are in their mid-fifties. This café is their nest-egg which they plan to sell in the near future to fund their pension. They have built a solid franchise with cabaret style décor that sets it apart from the typical contemporary white tiled and wooden bench look of most cafes these days. Barbara had first envisaged an ‘Emerson & Green’ style rooftop bar and bistro. She had very fond memories of the popular place during their safari to the Serengeti many years ago finished with a relaxing few days in Zanzibar’s Spice Town. It had such a relaxed feel with Berber rugs and silk cushions everywhere. The four-poster bed style roof allowed respite from the harsh sun enabling longer duration viewing out to the beach and sea where dhows meandered back and forth across the bay. Unfortunately, the city council were not so open to Barbara’s idea and redevelopment of her rooftop so she switched to a Belle Epoque style café where lingering was not only allowed but encouraged. Coffees, pastries and short order eggs were the breakfast menu whilst homemade pizza, salads and pastas were the afternoon and early evening offer. The cosy bar listed local and international wines, with tap and bottled beers also on offer.

After a while, Mick was keen to try out his subtle coffee variations on Ro during the quieter mid-morning hours. Variations on sourced coffee beans, roasting styles, grinding and tamping methods gave Ro many types of coffee to provide opinion on. Ro soon learnt that the many permutations produced varying levels of quality coffee. This day was no different. As Ro walked in, a familiar couple exited via the sliding door. The lady, in her early forties, was voluptuous and sensual; confident enough to wear a mini-skirt with black patent leather high heels. Her red and white horizontal striped top was tight enough to exacerbate her medium sized breasts. Her skin was in immaculate condition with the only indication of age being around her eyes. The young gentleman in his early twenties showing very much a ‘He-Man’ type physique with bulging chest and super self-confidence to match was dressed down in his mauve shirt and plain dark pink tie with fitted trousers and black slip-ons. His slicked back hair was now dry from the office air conditioning and was starting to displace somewhat. Ro glanced at Mick, there was no need for words as the two smirked at each other, probably more in envy than humour at the exiting couple. They were regulars at Mick’s bar and were no doubt keeping their courting as private as possible. It’s unfortunate, however, how office people notice these things so early on in the piece.

Ro sat down to draft the Quarterly Board Report for his area of responsibility. Whilst another major bank, Wilson Jamieson, had taken over his vendor Atkins Robertson for over $400m, the Mason Thompson business was still performing adequately. The Wilson Jamieson broking division was now making over $150m profit annually and had a keen interest to protect its patch. It had decided that one way to do this was to buy Atkins Robertson, the second largest broker, to maintain effective control over the evolution of the industry. Atkins Robertson was an independent broker who provided wholesale broking services to banks wanting to offer broking services to their clients; often referred to as ‘whitelabel’. For the last ten years Mason Thompson was a major client. With all business and technology functions outsourced to Atkins Robertson, Mason Thompson had only reputational risk to consider with little or no capital investment required and very low ongoing capital expenditure. It was a lean and profitable business but one showing anaemic subscriber and client growth. Client service levels both phone and online had remained consistent post the acquisition and operational process times had kept relatively steady but still below industry benchmark levels. Knowing that they were on the cusp of a multi-million dollar takeover, the major individual shareholders of Atkins Robertson were keen to demonstrate very high profitability and thus kept operational expenditure very tight. The specifics of the outsourced deal meant that Mason Thompson had little wriggle room in terms of headcount in the office unless service levels deteriorated significantly. The Board Report would show a status quo being maintained.