After long years of working on tedious and inconsequential office tasks, Bob was still rather puzzled about the end purpose of his job. He realized that he was a cog, but it was much harder to grasp which wheels he was helping to turn. So when the all-staff email asking for volunteers for redundancy slid into his inbox, Bob was uncharacteristically jubilant. He was first to volunteer.
‘What am I waiting for?’ he mused, ‘even if the deal leaves me a bit shorter than usual, it’s a relief not to do another 200 years on the same treadmill with no prospects’
Once the redundancy details were laid out, it was clear that Bob might need to take on a bit of work to supplement the ungenerous terms. Interesting work, for preference. No more hanging around waiting for the clock to move on, and no more pointless paper shifting.
There were quite a few adverts for part time work. Hospitality? Nah. Care work? Unlikely. Anyway he had no experience of caring for anyone, and wasn’t it a bit vocational? There was one possibility – an attendant in an art gallery. Bob wasn’t very knowledgeable about the art world, but he knew what he liked. So he applied and was surprised to get the job as an employee of Tate Liverpool.
His work required him to keep an eye out for dodgy characters getting too near the pictures. There were also bits and pieces such as pointing out the direction of the café and fetching water for people feeling faint. He had his own chair and was sometimes asked about a picture ( he had been given a gallery guide to help with this).
He was working on the floor which had a surrealism exhibition. Not all melting clocks, but some pretty weird stuff. He began to recognize some of the artists and developed a fellow feeling for the few Magritte pictures on display. Here was a man who understood boredom. His bowler-hatted men (one with an apple in front of his face and another with a bird) were bored. They worked as cogs all day and were waiting for something to happen in their lives.
Bob kept his artistic insights to himself of course, because the guide book said different. But Bob knew a cog when he saw one, and other Magritte faces had a glassy stare as though they too were hoping their wait for excitement would soon be relieved.
The visiting schools were lively. Why hadn’t he had his own kids? The younger children had no guile, and said what they felt. Bob asked a little girl what she thought of the man with hat and apple in front of his face.
‘He’s hungry’ she pronounced.
‘Brilliant’ thought Bob, ‘we’re each entitled tour own views’.
What a very wonderful escape from utter coghood this job was. Worth waiting half his working life to participate in the world of art appreciation.
