I started a casual gig across the road a month ago now to subsidise my income while I complete my book.

It seemed idealic, at first.

Close to home. Really well paid. Pretty chill working environment. Perfect.

Till I commenced training.

The training seemed fairly straight forward: Get a lift to the airport with a fellow new employee, sit in an office for a week and complete some Wizard based software package on a clunky PC until every aspect of the position had been covered, and learned thoroughly.

Straight forward enough.

Except for one thing. Well, two.

The first being, I’m really quite average at multiple choice questions. I failed my final exam last semester in Psychology due largely to this. I’ve always failed at multiple choice exams. I like to write, not tick boxes.

I don’t try to be difficult about this, it’s just a fact. If it involves multiple choice, I’m likely to do poorly.

I try not to think about this, but at the end of the day, we grow taller through acknowledging our falibilities– and for me, this is one.

Needless to say, I was struggling with the training from the get-go. It was laborious. I’m not so PC savvy, really. And then there was the guy I was training with.

The first day together I resigned myself to the fact that this was not going to be a reciprocal arrangement. This guy had a lot of problems. Has a lot of problems. I reminded myself that this was just a buffer-gig. Something to tie me over. And that this guy, at best, was to be tolerated, if nothing else.

That was day one.

The stories came out thick and fast. He’s been an animal trainer in Vegas. A dancer in Paris and Tokyo. He’d taken a lot of drugs over the years. Had multiple epiphanies on said illicit substances, and was not backward in coming forward about them. All of this, mind you, while I was trying really, really hard to answer a), b) or c) to some inane question about car insurance or travel voucher levers.


The second day we agreed to meet by a cafe up the road from my place– in my opinion some of the finest coffee in Sydney– But whatever. I’d buy him a latte and he’d drive us both to the airport.

On this particular day the anecdotes were all coming out a wee bit too prematurely. He made mention of the fact my hair looked like it was full of fuck-knots. He began to put me down a lot as the system would crash and I’d have to log out, log back in and restart the module. He asked me if I was “Fucking dyslexic!” He boasted wildly of his sexual conquests and by 3pm I really had tolerated as much as I could possibly bare.

We drove back to the city in silence that afternoon. I had him drop me off a block from my place so he wouldn’t know where I lived. He asked me if I had a boyfriend, to which I said yes, which was kind of a lie, though it felt real at the time.

I arrived at my apartment, trapsed up the four flights of stairs, dumped my bag and danced for a good two hours till the whole sticky set up was out of my hair, so to speak…

The next day I reluctantly bought him a fucking latte as he drove rather erratically all the way to the airport.

I asked him where the anger came from. The rage. I said I didn’t feel safe being in a car with him really, though I was appreciative of the lift– an alternate $20 sojourn on the train out the airport every day was not really a fiscal option for me, you see.

He didn’t say much for a while.

He just drove like a maniac, tail gating everyone and anyone for fun.

Once we’d arrived safe and sound I proposed we not talk for the day as I’d fallen behind in training and really just wanted to get out of that office, and in to the role in question.

He agreed.

For an hour, he agreed.

And then the soliliqueys began again.

On and on and on and on about this and that. Nothing really. Vulgar, explicit anecdotes of his failed career as an artist. His dabblings in antiques. He’s evil ex-wife. On and on.

And then came the clanger.

The big story.

The one tale too many.

The ugly one.

While I was wrestling with a module on how to enter foreign licenses in to the database he, this man, began to divulge to me the specifics of his rape as a ten year old boy. He made mention of the fact that his perpetrator had spat on his cock before inserting it in to his anus. That his aunt had walked in on the act, etc. , etc.

Fucking hell…

I went home that afternoon with a decision to make. A simple one, really.

I spent the evening imagining myself as a sprightly 19 year old girl, which I once was, with all the naivity, to be frank, I never really had, and in this same situation with this guy and his belly full of foul anecdotes.

I imagined how confronting a situation might be for someone with a little less sass.

I always wanted to do the right thing.

I spent a restless night, tossing and turning, trying to decide.

And as the rain teamed in through my kitchen window, and the sun rose I sat up right in bed, jumped on my laptop and sent my new boss a wee email.

An email of complaint.

I wasn’t dramatic or overly emotional or cunning or manipulative in anyway, in my opinion. I just stated some facts and said that I was uncomfortable working with this man and was fairly certain most others were going to encounter similar experiences as I had. That this was only going to escalate and that I was no longer some young thing prepared to tolerate this sort of carry-on.

The email was taken seriously and I was promptly called in to the office to establish what action was to follow.

My boss informed me that he, the other employee, had sighted the email I’d written. Had responded accordingly and that now the choice was mine– to either take the case to a tribunal with HR or to let the statement be filed, in addition to the assurance that I would not have to work in close proximity with this man ever again.

I didn’t want to make a scene.

I just didn’t want to have to work with the feck.

So I chose answer b).

To my chagrin.

The following day I lobbed in to work only to be placed right next to this guy.

I was livid.

And growing increasingly unimpressed by this company, this set up. This joke.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, I received a phone call today from my manager informing me that I’d not completed the training in time and as such my rolicking employment sojourn with this company had come to a  sharp, short end.


I relay this to you now, to the best of my ability for a very simply reason really.

Nice guys continue to finish last.



“The blizzard of the world has crossed the threshold and it’s overturned the order of the soul…” – L.C.

4 Responses to “X.X.”
  1. Brian says:

    What an absolute nightmare… you’re better off out of there and away from that creep, but still the injustice of it must rankle.

  2. Nick says:

    In future do two things,

    tell guys like that to go away quickly


    get a car!

    • Sage advice if:

      You are;
      a) prepared to spend oodles of senseless dollars on some slow train to the airport to train for some casual gig you hardly care for…


      b) In a position to want to stay in Sydney long enough to own a car.


      Those are both negatives, not kisses.

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