Insert Chassis Albuquerque: Invoice S11034

20 December 2016

Invoice S11034

The new Director, I don't know where he'd learnt to be a person but he could certainly use some revision. I’m not saying he’s an immigrant but with the nose and eyes of a foreigner raising questions about his ethnic background you’d have had some really good results  animal testing him, why within weeks of his taking command of the company the persecutions had begun.
Further, I’d just fallen asleep in the toilet the other day updating myself, how unprofessional when the shadow of his smudgy, distorted face pressed through the glass opaque cubicle toilet door looking for answers only I had apparently.
“Johnson, we have accounts on the line and they have a query regarding invoice S11034 - invoice S11034, do you know it…?"

Holy Jesus! Surely this must be transgressing some professional ethic, disturbing a man as he was when I was in the toilet, sleeping? I wasn't going to reply, I’d no idea what accounts wanted or what their reference “S11034” meant. I thought maybe it was a misunderstanding and he’d needed to use the bathroom but then I recalled this asshole had his own toilet as big as an apartment - I’d walked past his office the other day on the way to the morgue - sorry, I mean accounts - and seeing him in there, a most disgusting display of opulence if ever, the door open, him on the toilet, expensive trousers round his ankles and leafing through paperwork, calculator in hand and his secretary  in there with him, too, taking notes as he enumerated various queries.
Johnson!” he’d called when he spotted me, “Get some toilet paper from Supplies, will you? Good man!” He was still seated on the toilet when he’d said that and of course I didn’t, it just seemed somehow professionally inappropriate.
It was as equally professionally inappropriate as him standing outside the cubicle door face pressed to the glass. He knocked on the door, he tried the toilet-door handle.
I watched it jiggle and turn, back and forth.
“Are you going to be long, Johnson? I just need to know if you’re going to be and do you know anything about it, invoice S11034 - do you, do you know anything…?”  His face pressed closer to the glass door, “Johnson…?”
It's always common debate, last ditch effort the argument for reason and logic and man’s lack of all them. None of which I’d felt ability to demonstrate and I’d instead replied by telling him an incredibly erotic story through the toilet door about his mother (whom I’d no prior knowledge of) and Heinrich Himmler the occultist - and, on the organisational side, killer Nazi. Of course, invoice S11034 featured heavily in the plot and, indirectly, what was ultimately responsible for Germany losing the war. Completely reasonable under the circumstances, I mean, I’m a writer and that’s what I do when  not working. My goal? “Now tell me, Director, what’s your mother think about all that?” I asked through the cubicle door. This does the trick nicely and clearly disturbed the Director left.
As a writer I keep a diary, of sorts, for instance whenever I visited a toilet cubicle I liked to write on the wall or door, just a little something, oh, you know, how my day was going, what my thoughts were. In a self-destructive mode I  wrote on the cubicle wall  the new Director sucked cock and for a good time anyone interested should contact him directly on his mobile number, which I also provided but first I’d had to go to Human Resources, surreptitiously look his number up and then return to finish up in the cubicle.
Talk about a shitstorming can of worms I opened, apparently quite a few people - more than likely disgruntled employees - had contacted him and next thing Human Resources was on my case and I was hauled before them. Writing such offensive material and desecrating work property was immediate, dismissible offence they told me, careful to stress that this “desecration” was in no way religious, which everyone's so touchy about these days.
“Now, Johnson,” the Director said, “Looking at your file I can see this is not your first time here and whilst you appear to be a barely satisfactory sales person we’ve conducted a scientific analysis of the evidence - mountains of evidence, some of it true - and concluded you’ve the incorrect attitude for this organisation. How do you respond?”
I was going to lose my temper with him and the other arbitration panel member, despite all evidence to the contrary, obviously it was possible I had written what I’d written on the cubicle wall. I'm not proud of it, hardly original and nowhere near my best work but I figured nobody was hurt too badly. So I wasn’t going to respond but then I said, “That is slightly annoying, you posit some valid points on a very complex situation. However, I, too, have considered the evidence and your evidence is circumstantial - scientific evidence actually suggests I’m innocent. So, too bad, there’s no evidence to support your case.”
But it wasn’t long before someone produced the evidence, CCTV in nature, and I was now having to face an entirely new set of accusations.
“Is that you entering the bathroom?”  the Director asked.
“It sure is,” I confirmed.
“And what is it you’re going to do in there?”
“I‘d planned to take a shit, I think - obviously with the toilet door closed and no doubt locked it’s difficult to keep track of these things exactly and of course these intrusive CCTV recordings can’t see through the door - what day was that…?”
“Well, the evidence strikes me as overwhelming,” the Director maintained.
“I see - but I disagree, all you’ve offered is little more than the anecdotal evidence of your feelings about  the matter. Now tell me, what does your mother have to say about that...?” I wondered, looking at her.