David Brindley was a man of the quiet, unassuming type. Every office, no matter how full it is with thrusting executives, has one. A man who says yes to everything, who keeps his head down, who makes the tea when asked to, who never haggles for promotion and/or a raise. Unfortunately, that type of man is often stepped on by thrusting executives who may trample him to the ground without a second thought.
David, however. never really worried about the disregard his fellow man had for him at the workplace, because he was profoundly religious, contented with his lot in life, contented with his sweet wife and four intelligent, gentle, brown-eyed children, and generally placid and amicable. The force of fifty rampaging businessmen weighing down upon his head never bothered the son of a devout Christian minister and a devout Christian minister's wife. His father and his mother (God rest her soul) had brought him up to be good and kind and tolerant of his fellow men, and to help when he could, and to take all the shit that the world could throw at him.. Until now, however, his life had been pleasant, if unremarkable, and David had no intention of changing things in the least. He was one of those people who are often called "generous" and "a good old soul" by people who like him, and "a prat" by the people who work with him.
When he was thirty-seven, balding, thin and still generally amicable, something happened to David Brindley which worried him a great deal.
He was given a promotion.
The company he worked for, which produced a great variety of very nasty pills for the severely drunk and hung-over, was run by a man who was generally drunk and hung-over, Reginald Tybalt-Smith. Reginald was a sad fat drunk who had pissed his life into the gutter and knew it, despite being worth several million pounds and owning one of the fastest-growing drug companies in Britain. Most of his money went on whiskey and whores, and the rest went on paying for very expensive and experimental medical treatment in an attempt to spin his miserable life out a little longer. Finally however Tybalt-Smith dropped dead of cirrhosis of the liver, and his rather more self-controlled son took over.
James Tybalt-Smith was a hard-headed businessman who recognised a doormat when he saw one, and selected David to be Assistant Grand Leader of the rapidly expanding business. This not only worried David, it terrified him; for years he had managed to slink quietly in to work each morning, slip behind his desk, sign papers and drink coffee, and slip quietly out again at five in the evening, to kiss his wife and children, eat his tea in the family's small but functional kitchen, read for a bit and then pop off to bed with his wife after reading the kids (who were four, six, and ten (the twins) respectively) a bedtime story.
Now though, it was all going to change. David was expected to be at work at whatever time the first board meeting started and finish at whatever time James Tybalt-Smith said he could go. He was expected to give reports and presentation, to discuss the company's future with ambitious junior executives, and clinch deals with the firm's customers, with whom he had never had contact before.
The very thought of it was alarming to David Brindley. He was, however, the type of man who always said yes to everything, and so agreed to the promotion, pay rise, and years of executive stress and stomach ulcers which would doubtless follow as a result.
It took five years for David to become entirely disillusioned with the company, with his colleagues, and with everything he had ever believed to be true. The first morning had been a nightmare, and ever since then, he knew that people snickered at him in the corridors, that even the most junior of junior executives could out-perform him, and that Reginald Tybalt-Smith was turning somersaults in his grave.
It had been a fairly simple assignment: give the guys a quick talk on the projected sales figures for this year, would you Dave, and I'll be back this afternoon. And do it right, you little nerd, had been the unspoken entreaty. With a heavy heart and a briefcase full of papers David went home, kissed his wife, kissed the kids, and sat at the kitchen table all night making his report. At ten the next morning, he gave the talk to the executives. The men nodded and smiled politely when he addressed them, politely smiled when he attempted a crap joke, politely looked at the table top when he dropped the carefully prepared papers all over the floor, couldn't work the slide-projector, and ended up gibbering helplessly while an up-and-coming thrusting junior took over. Since that day, he had cringed at the very mention of projected sales-figures and board-room meetings, and was allowed to sit in the cramped, dark office performing menial tasks until such a time as James Tybalt-Smith could find a decent excuse to fire him.
Unfortunately, after five years of snide comments, exasperated and patronising remarks from his boss and humiliating lack of ability to perform even menial tasks while Tybalt-Smith glared hatefully at his through the adjoining door, David had somewhat lost his amicable and placid nature. In fact, he had become decidedly stressed, and when his wife sobered up for the first time in five weeks and decided to leave him, David honestly though things couldn't get much worse. She took the kids, all four of which had no respect for him, and the eldest two (the twin boys) of which thought him a blubbering twit. So, David Brindley worked from nine to five, came home, gazed sadly at a photograph of his wife and kids, ate dinner off a TV tray while watching a documentary on the rise of the anti-hangover company, got into bed, and fell asleep alone and unwanted, discarded by the world.
A few weeks after his wife left, David decided the time had come to do something about the crappy turn his life had taken. What's the point, he thought, in being placid and amicable, friendly and altruistic, warm and loving, if there's no-one around who cares whether I die in my own vomit or not? So he went to the office one day, told James Tybalt-Smith to stick his job up his arse, which would soon be as drink-swilled and rotten as his father's, gave the secretary a passionate kiss and stormed out to his new, thrusting life. Sadly he forgot to collect his pencil-case beforehand and had to slink abashedly back into his officer, under the baleful eye of his employer, before leaving the company for good.
One may think that this story has a happy ending, that, having recovered some sense of self-respect, and having made the decision not to be a doormat for the rest of his life, David Brindley regained the respect of his family and lived a peaceful and contented life somewhere beside the sea. Sadly this is not the case. As he strode out of the office building, filled with a huge sense of wonderful relief and elation, he realised that he cold never truly regain what he had lost. Not his wife, or his kids; not his job, or his self-respect. He had lost his faith; his faith in humanity, his faith in the world as a warm and gentle place. It had been crushed out of him, and he could never be really happy again. Lost in his thoughts, in which David tumbled endlessly down from a high pinnacle of newly-found self-respect into a miserable, dim pool of his misplaced trust, he stepped off the kerb without really looking, and didn't even attempt to get out of the way of the heavy-duty lorry, carrying a vast supply of anti-hangover drugs, which thundered down upon him. s he lay in a pool of spreading blood on the cold, hard pavement, thinking that at least his immortal soul might be more assertive, he realised something else: Heaven would be closed to him. There would be no afterlife for gentle David Brindley. Because, of course, without faith, the soul dies....and David's had died five years ago, without him even knowing it. So, as quietly and unobtrusively as he had lived, David Brindley, a very good friend of mine, died.
And no-one really noticed.
David, however. never really worried about the disregard his fellow man had for him at the workplace, because he was profoundly religious, contented with his lot in life, contented with his sweet wife and four intelligent, gentle, brown-eyed children, and generally placid and amicable. The force of fifty rampaging businessmen weighing down upon his head never bothered the son of a devout Christian minister and a devout Christian minister's wife. His father and his mother (God rest her soul) had brought him up to be good and kind and tolerant of his fellow men, and to help when he could, and to take all the shit that the world could throw at him.. Until now, however, his life had been pleasant, if unremarkable, and David had no intention of changing things in the least. He was one of those people who are often called "generous" and "a good old soul" by people who like him, and "a prat" by the people who work with him.
When he was thirty-seven, balding, thin and still generally amicable, something happened to David Brindley which worried him a great deal.
He was given a promotion.
The company he worked for, which produced a great variety of very nasty pills for the severely drunk and hung-over, was run by a man who was generally drunk and hung-over, Reginald Tybalt-Smith. Reginald was a sad fat drunk who had pissed his life into the gutter and knew it, despite being worth several million pounds and owning one of the fastest-growing drug companies in Britain. Most of his money went on whiskey and whores, and the rest went on paying for very expensive and experimental medical treatment in an attempt to spin his miserable life out a little longer. Finally however Tybalt-Smith dropped dead of cirrhosis of the liver, and his rather more self-controlled son took over.
James Tybalt-Smith was a hard-headed businessman who recognised a doormat when he saw one, and selected David to be Assistant Grand Leader of the rapidly expanding business. This not only worried David, it terrified him; for years he had managed to slink quietly in to work each morning, slip behind his desk, sign papers and drink coffee, and slip quietly out again at five in the evening, to kiss his wife and children, eat his tea in the family's small but functional kitchen, read for a bit and then pop off to bed with his wife after reading the kids (who were four, six, and ten (the twins) respectively) a bedtime story.
Now though, it was all going to change. David was expected to be at work at whatever time the first board meeting started and finish at whatever time James Tybalt-Smith said he could go. He was expected to give reports and presentation, to discuss the company's future with ambitious junior executives, and clinch deals with the firm's customers, with whom he had never had contact before.
The very thought of it was alarming to David Brindley. He was, however, the type of man who always said yes to everything, and so agreed to the promotion, pay rise, and years of executive stress and stomach ulcers which would doubtless follow as a result.
It took five years for David to become entirely disillusioned with the company, with his colleagues, and with everything he had ever believed to be true. The first morning had been a nightmare, and ever since then, he knew that people snickered at him in the corridors, that even the most junior of junior executives could out-perform him, and that Reginald Tybalt-Smith was turning somersaults in his grave.
It had been a fairly simple assignment: give the guys a quick talk on the projected sales figures for this year, would you Dave, and I'll be back this afternoon. And do it right, you little nerd, had been the unspoken entreaty. With a heavy heart and a briefcase full of papers David went home, kissed his wife, kissed the kids, and sat at the kitchen table all night making his report. At ten the next morning, he gave the talk to the executives. The men nodded and smiled politely when he addressed them, politely smiled when he attempted a crap joke, politely looked at the table top when he dropped the carefully prepared papers all over the floor, couldn't work the slide-projector, and ended up gibbering helplessly while an up-and-coming thrusting junior took over. Since that day, he had cringed at the very mention of projected sales-figures and board-room meetings, and was allowed to sit in the cramped, dark office performing menial tasks until such a time as James Tybalt-Smith could find a decent excuse to fire him.
Unfortunately, after five years of snide comments, exasperated and patronising remarks from his boss and humiliating lack of ability to perform even menial tasks while Tybalt-Smith glared hatefully at his through the adjoining door, David had somewhat lost his amicable and placid nature. In fact, he had become decidedly stressed, and when his wife sobered up for the first time in five weeks and decided to leave him, David honestly though things couldn't get much worse. She took the kids, all four of which had no respect for him, and the eldest two (the twin boys) of which thought him a blubbering twit. So, David Brindley worked from nine to five, came home, gazed sadly at a photograph of his wife and kids, ate dinner off a TV tray while watching a documentary on the rise of the anti-hangover company, got into bed, and fell asleep alone and unwanted, discarded by the world.
A few weeks after his wife left, David decided the time had come to do something about the crappy turn his life had taken. What's the point, he thought, in being placid and amicable, friendly and altruistic, warm and loving, if there's no-one around who cares whether I die in my own vomit or not? So he went to the office one day, told James Tybalt-Smith to stick his job up his arse, which would soon be as drink-swilled and rotten as his father's, gave the secretary a passionate kiss and stormed out to his new, thrusting life. Sadly he forgot to collect his pencil-case beforehand and had to slink abashedly back into his officer, under the baleful eye of his employer, before leaving the company for good.
One may think that this story has a happy ending, that, having recovered some sense of self-respect, and having made the decision not to be a doormat for the rest of his life, David Brindley regained the respect of his family and lived a peaceful and contented life somewhere beside the sea. Sadly this is not the case. As he strode out of the office building, filled with a huge sense of wonderful relief and elation, he realised that he cold never truly regain what he had lost. Not his wife, or his kids; not his job, or his self-respect. He had lost his faith; his faith in humanity, his faith in the world as a warm and gentle place. It had been crushed out of him, and he could never be really happy again. Lost in his thoughts, in which David tumbled endlessly down from a high pinnacle of newly-found self-respect into a miserable, dim pool of his misplaced trust, he stepped off the kerb without really looking, and didn't even attempt to get out of the way of the heavy-duty lorry, carrying a vast supply of anti-hangover drugs, which thundered down upon him. s he lay in a pool of spreading blood on the cold, hard pavement, thinking that at least his immortal soul might be more assertive, he realised something else: Heaven would be closed to him. There would be no afterlife for gentle David Brindley. Because, of course, without faith, the soul dies....and David's had died five years ago, without him even knowing it. So, as quietly and unobtrusively as he had lived, David Brindley, a very good friend of mine, died.
And no-one really noticed.