Cast
Gordon: an everyday office worker suffering from sleep deprivation.

Scene
A leafblower wakes me. Every Tuesday at seven AM, like clockwork, my neighbour’s leafblower wakes me up. I drag myself out of bed and brush down my suit, searching my bedding for a tie and slipping on my loafers. Stumble into the kitchen. The fridge is spluttering like it’s got Tourette’s so I kick it to shut it up.

I raid the plate of sandwiches I took home last Friday and slip one into a paper bag. The paper bag drawer squeaks shut and I make my fiftieth mental note to get WD40 on my way home. Spoiler alert, I forget.

The weather’s fine so I catch the train. Sit down next to a guy whose headphones would be the perfect volume if I was trying to listen to Avril Lavigne. I don’t say anything; last time I asked someone to turn their music down I got a black eye and a cracked rib. Two stops later another Avril Lavigne fan sits next to me and I’m hemmed in all the way to Central.

Arrive at work and go to my workstation. Santiago is on the phone. Santiago is the Chilean guy who used to work in an airport hangar. When his Spanglish dies down enough for me to vaguely hear, I immediately notice IT haven’t fixed my computer.

“Yeah hi, it’s Gordon from level six. My fan’s still making that noise. (pause) I know Lenovos are more useful as paper weights but it’s a company computer and you’re the IT guy.”

Santiago takes another call and Mike from IT is effectively gone. My day is an alternation between (in loud, Spanish accent) “You think I’m yoking? There are too many bariables” and (makes clicking, whirring noise).

Mr Nicholson calls me in for a meeting. “Gordon, what the fuck is with you, pal? Your performance is terrible. And you look awful. I thought you went into remission.” “I’ve never had cancer, sir. I’m just not sleeping so well.”

Catch the train home at the end of the day and I’m sandwiched between a death metal fan and a trance fan who are competing for the Loudest Dickhead on Public Transport award. Kids from the other units are running up and down the stairs until dinner time, when old Mr Hirsch puts the TV on at full blast. This stops at nine and the baby starts crying. It shuts its demonic little trap just as the family of possums wake up and start their breakdancing rehearsal. They stop at around one and the owl takes over, hooting irregularly so I can’t get used to it.

Wednesday morning, another leafblower comes in at seven fifteen. I drag myself out of bed and stumble into the kitchen. Sandwiches are starting to go sour. The ham one seems alright so I bag it and make my fifty-first mental note to get WD40 for the drawer. Spoiler alert, I forget, and the sandwich gives me food poisoning.

Today’s train ride brings us a teenage girl who hasn’t learned what an inside voice is making a series of inane phone calls. I’d be annoyed by this but something else is on my mind. LinkedIn has just sent me a job notification, and it’s the most perfect job. Sales manager. Small staff. Proactive self-starter. Works well without supervision. Translation: quiet office. I have to apply.

Santiago is away but the aircon in the conference room directly opposite me is broken so they leave the door open and have back to back meetings all day. I get home and work on an application, forgoing dinner thanks to the food poisoning. There’s the kids and TV and baby and possums and owl and it’s hard to focus.

Thursday, six-thirty AM, the hedge trimmer. It’s raining so I drive to work flanked by a motorcycle club. They must have waited around all day because they flank me on the way home too.

I read my application. I’ve misspelled both “excellent” and “communicator”. I’ll finish it tomorrow.

Tomorrow! There’s no neighbourhood maintenance on a Friday. It’s the one day I sleep. TV, baby, wildlife. I wake up at six fifty-five. There’s drilling in the unit next door.

Drilling? But it’s Friday.

“No! No fucking way!”...

END OF EXCERPT