The Ascendant

Chapter Three

Sat on the stairs, I impatiently awaited the postman’s delivery.

It had been nearly a week since I sent the educational 'reference' back to my prospective employers, and yet I had still heard nothing in return.

The most frustrating and tortuous aspect of waiting for something which is beyond your control is the sheer futility of it all. The actual interview seemed to go as well as I could have hoped, and surely they wouldn’t have bothered obtaining references if I wasn’t being seriously considered for the job, so why the delay?

Who knows. The references were flattering but hardly obsequious while the letters were posted on separate days and from different locations so as not to arouse suspicion. The good Professor wrote of my intelligence, analytical nature, bright and cheerful disposition and hunger for information; commenting how it came as little surprise that this highly talented student earned a double first in English. All in all he typed about a page of complimentary stuff ... a most generous act indeed!

Meanwhile, my “present employer”, Principle Holdings Ltd.  – a finance company based in Cardiff’s business sector  – wrote a rather more concise but equally supportive note for which I was similarly grateful. The Finance Director, Mike Shirley, enthused about my excellent organisational and communication skills, and also noted my strong sense of initiative and leadership qualities. “An excellent manager and a key and popular employee throughout his four years with the company –   there will be mixed emotions if and when Ben moves on to new challenges.”

The employer reference was rather more expensive, not to mention hazardous, as it had to be written on authentic company headed paper. As long as my prospective employers didn’t actually contact my "referees" I would be in the clear.

That I had to resort to writing the references myself was due (by my own admission) to having been under achieving a little of late. Well, since about 1989 actually, when I turned thirteen, but I don’t wish to be labelled as an under-achiever or a waster for the rest of my life. I want a new chance and a fresh start. I want more life and less languor, and I'm prepared to do whatever it takes to achieve that outcome.

I reckon I'm smart enough to enjoy a successful career in a challenging and competitive industry. It's just taken me longer than others to realise that and get my life in gear. But there's still time, I'm only twenty six years old: young enough to do something with my life but old enough to have to get on with it now. People were overtaking me or simply leaving me behind altogether. If I tried going back through the education system at this stage in life, by the time I’d have the qualifications needed to make an impact, I’d be in my thirties. And who would take a chance on me then? Sometimes you need to take the odd shortcut, to use some initiative ...

The time was 8.43am. Where the fuck was the postman? He should have been here half an hour ago.

There was a click to my left as one of my neighbours came out of his bedsit flat. I hadn’t seen this guy before but I'd heard he’d been living there longer than I had, and I’d been there too long already. He was wearing a craggy tartan dressing gown and an amber pair of threadbare socks which were probably once white. I would have guessed that he was in his fifties but it’s not always easy to tell; he looked like he’d had a rough life. He gave me a startled look through his cracked spectacles and I nodded back at him as a form of greeting, but he paid me no heed and waddled off down the hallway towards the toilet. A stench of stale cigarettes and sweat escaped his room in waves and I had to raise my fingers to my nose to restrict my air intake. I simply had to get out of this rut before I ended up like that guy.

As I heard the toilet flushing, the postman’s silhouette appeared against the frosted glass of the front door, as he unceremoniously crammed the mail through the letterbox. I bounded forward and crouched over the pile, anxiously discarding anything that wasn’t mine. I sifted through each of the packages; there were perhaps fifteen in all, addressed to eight or nine past or present inhabitants, but none of them was for me.

I was still in a state of trauma and disillusionment when I heard a voice call from behind me.

‘Is there anything for me?’ I turned my head to see my cranky neighbour from a few moments ago standing over me.

How would I know, I thought to my self, I don’t even know your fucking name. I lifted the bundle of mail, stood upright, and held it out to him. ‘Dunno mate, why don’t you take a look for yourself?’ I replied. He gave me that same startled look as he had earlier without any sign or prospect of a practical response.

I let the mail drop to the floor and he looked down to see all but the blue and red hoops around the ankles of his socks had been obscured. He looked back to me again, mouth agape and that was that – I turned for the front door, due in for work fifteen minutes ago.