Setting Off The Sprinklers

         The man sat in reception was not at all what Stefan had pictured. Not even slightly. He was old, much older than he had been expecting, and he had this awful, ravaged sort of look about him. His suit, though not tattered exactly, looked as though he had been wearing it since he left school. His skin was yellowing and papery, his posture was crumpled, his entire body just seemed to have been beaten. In short, he looked as though he had spent his entire adult life in the dingy depths of a pool hall.
         Stefan had only been in recruitment for a few short months, but he knew instantly that the next fifteen minutes were going to be a complete waste of his time.
         “Mr Thomas? How are you doing? I’m Stefan.”
         Mr Thomas stands, brushes his palms down the front of his shirt and extends a hand to shake.
         “Sorry. I’m a little early.”
         “You can never be early for an interview; you’re can only ever be punctual.”
         Mr Thomas shrugs.
         “I’ve had nothing else to do today, is all.”
         “Have you been offered a drink at all? Tea? Coffee? Water?”
         “No, thanks. I’d better not.”
         “OK. Well, if you’d just like to follow me through, we’ll get started.”
         Stefan leads the way through the corridors of the building to a small interview room. Save for a desk, a couple of chairs and a large photographic print of a Caribbean sunset, the room is as barren as a squash court.
         “Please, take a seat.”
         “Thank you.”
         Stefan takes his place behind the desk and then looks towards his feet as he speaks.
         “Mr Thomas, I can’t help but notice that you appear to be a lot older than your application would seem to suggest you were.”
         “Oh,” he says, not particularly surprised. “How old does it suggest I am?”
         “It says you’re 26.”
         Mr Thomas shrugs.
         “People lie on their CVs all the time. You of all people should know that.”
         “How old are you?”
         “38.”
         Stefan was guessing 45, 50.
         “I see. And are there any other lies on here that you want to tell me about before we continue?”
         “I can’t really remember. It’s been a while since I wrote it.”
         Mr Thomas takes a packet of cigarettes out from his inside jacket pocket and begins turning it about between his fingers.
         “The thing is, Mr Thomas, I’m a junior consultant. The vast majority of opportunities that come my way are for low-level temporary jobs or graduate positions. My clients are looking for people in their early to mid twenties, people prepared to take lower salaries for the sake of experience or to fund gap years. I mean this with the greatest deal of respect you understand, but I don’t imagine that there’s going to be much, if anything, on my books that will be that suitable for a man of your age.”
         “That’s OK,” he says, looking down at his cigarettes, tapping the packet against his thigh. “I’m not really that fussed about finding a job.”
         Stefan tries to catch this man’s eye, tries to lift his head up, but cannot seem to manage it.
         “Then what exactly are you here for?”
         Slowly, he slides a cigarette out from the packet, pinching it by the filter and plugging it between his pursed lips. He rustles about in another pocket for his lighter.
         “I’m afraid you can’t smoke that in here. This is a non-smoking building.”
         Mr Thomas pulls his hands from his pockets and brings them up to his mouth, as if he were about to play the harmonica. When he removes them seconds later, the cigarette is lit.
         “Mr Thomas. This is a non-smoking building.”
         “Oh, I’m sorry,” he says, sucking in with a smile. “Set off the sprinklers, will it?”
         “Well, no,” Stefan starts, “but it’s, erm... it’s against...”
         He can feel his cheeks burning. It’s visible. Mr Thomas laughs, exhaling a messy cloud of smoke.
         “Wow. This really makes you uncomfortable, doesn’t it?”
         He brings the cigarette up to eye level and wiggles it. Stefan tries too hard to ignore it.
         “Well, I’ll tell you this much. If you don’t like me doing this, then you’re really going to hate what I’m about to do.”
         Stefan shifts in his seat.
         “What are you about to do?”
         “What I’m about to do,” the man says, slouching forward and crossing his arms across his knees, “is wet myself.”
         He is smiling, still smiling, but he is not joking.
         Stefan blinks. The red in his cheeks begins to blanch rapidly.
         “You’re going to what?”
         “You heard. I’m going to wet myself. I’ve been fit to burst ever since I stepped on the bus here, so I thought ‘what the hell?’ - I’d just go ahead and wet myself.”
         Stefan blinks again.
         “Mr Thomas, if you need to go to the toilet we have a men’s room just down the corridor there on the right.”
         “Oh, I have no doubt. An office this size, I imagine you’re legally obliged to have a men’s room. You probably have men’s rooms on on every floor, but I’m happy enough here, thank you.”
         He flicks some ash onto the carpet and spreads it about with his foot.
         Instinctively, Stefan picks up the phone but as he brings it to his ear he realises that he has no idea who he intends to call.
         The dialtone buzzing in his ear, he watches Mr Thomas take a long, crackling drag and lay right back in the chair, tipping back his head. Stefan runs his fingers through his hair and wonders if standing up is the right or wrong thing to do.
         Then it begins. The unusual yet unmistakable sound of urine trickling through the underside of a man’s trouser leg and landing on carpet. Like a muffled drum roll, it builds a sense of anxiety, a sense of expectancy in Stefan. It causes his brain to tick over quicker, to trip itself up. He becomes increasingly aware of his breathing and how arrhythmic it is becoming. By the time he is able to calm himself enough to be able to regulate it, it is all over.
         Mr Thomas lets a satisfied sigh out through his nostrils and lets the half smoked cigarette drop from between his fingers. It hisses and extinguishes itself in the puddle in front of the seat.
         “Well,” he says, slapping his hands down on his thighs and pushing himself up out of the chair, “I’ll see myself out.”