The Canteen

Hiya, I’m John‑o. John O’Marr, to be pre­cise. It’s the 11 o’clock tea break, my favourite time of the day. Of the work­ing day, that is. I sit straight but try to look relaxed, a cup­pa steam­ing on the table; not too close, nor too far from my freck­led right arm. Lyons Tea here, not Bar­ry’s. Slow­ly, as the usu­al faces pop up in the can­teen, I rip open a pack of jaf­fa cakes left from some­one’s bday the oth­er day. I pre­tend not to care, while those char­ac­ters slag each oth­er to draw atten­tion on them­selves. They come, as I do, from dif­fer­ent floors, tak­ing a breath from their directors.

It’s a good gang in here today, to be fair. Like bal­anced out. Lots of peo­ple. And for­eign­ers as well. I’m at the cen­tre but don’t talk much; just laugh at jokes. Stephen is talk­ing faster than usu­al. Wit­ty remarks and all, like he does, always. Girls laugh; his man­ners, his Belfast accent, his every­word gay­ness. The ladies feel OK around me as well. Don’t get me wrong; I’d bang them if I could. But they know I’d nev­er dare a move. I’m safe game. I’m an Irish man. No way I’d think of giv­ing meself away. Not sober I won’t. Not even tip­sy, and hard­ly after the fifth. Pint, that is.

Yet the girls make it hard some­times. Niamh spe­cial­ly. Jay­sus, she’s so hot like. A look­er, and blonde of course. Cristal blue eyes and a smile that melts your heart on the spot. And such fun she is; like West Cork fun­ny. Fills the room with that laugh­ter of hers; so clear, so reas­sur­ing. I know she sees me like a sib­ling. And she has a BF like. But gosh, wish I was a lit­tle bold­er. Like that argie dude in the pub. He does­n’t move much in here though. He does­n’t get it here, does he? The vibe of the hour I mean. He is some star in the office, and a suave mother at par­ties. But he nev­er stay much for the tea-break. None of the for­eign­ers do, except that rug­by fan aussie who fan­cies the pol­ish girl. He calls her Dags. Guess Dag­mara is just too long for-im.

No, for­eign­ers don’t min­gle much; not with us. They just don’t get it. I’m not count­ing the Eng­lish bloke o’course. Don is always the last to take off. A priv­ilige for ITs; they’ve no direc­tor to answer to. Sits often with Paul but nev­er miss a word. Sharp as a knife, the fock­er. And he laughs at every­body, for any­thing like. His HA-HA-HA will hurt you if you let it. Paul talks loud and laughs as much. He grabs the pack of Jaf­fas with­out a word and won’t let go. He sure­ly is over­weight. Guess it’s the dai­ly com­mut­ing from Droghe­da. When he comes in the car, he’s sure to load a few Mars bars, and Cokes. Same on the train like. Oth­er­wise there’s no stop­ping the roar in his bel­ly all day. And off to the shops, alright.

Here comes Dampsey. What a chap. He’s been here for ages, but the man does­n’t age. The print­ing lad for­ev­er. Wait, he’s pub aged alright. But dress­es like he’s always, so he looks the same. He’s good cra­ic to be hon­est. A proud Dubs, like Chris, the tea lady. Deep Dublin, know what I mean? Soo fun­ny see­ing new peo­ple in the office, spe­cial­ly those from abroad like, try­ing to get a word they say. 

Dampsey is giv­ing me a hard time these days, I tell ya. I shrug it off, like laugh­ing at his jokes all the same. Don’t know what’s in him. Why me? We were pals in the footie. I know I’m good at it, but don’t think an issue there. But since I took off on a sabat­ic with Siob­han and came back, he’s changed, like. We did what every­one does at our age. A gap year away, trav­el­ling around like. We froze our ars­es in Antar­ti­ca for fuck sake; saw sea lions, pen­guins, the lot of them alright. Like I pro­posed to Siob­han, after a minus zero dive, know what I mean? She’s gor­geous, what a lucky bas­tard I am…we’re engaged! We’re past 25, so why not? I know she’ll take over. Like a prop­er Irish woman she would. We have good jobs and we’ll get a mort­gage soon. We want a house, and kids. She said three; four tops. Jeez our par­ents got five or six, min­i­mum. Old Irish fam­i­lies I guess.

I know what to do: noth­ing much. Like always. It worked for me in school; it worked every time. Nev­er stick your head above the para­pet, see what I mean? Nice and steady. Always in the crowd. Nev­er point­ing fin­gers. Be cool. Anoth­er gin­ger dude; pop­u­lar, but not a show off. Even if if you’re the bright­est bulb in the box, look the dimmest haha. Guess I’m nei­ther; I just go with the tide.

The lads like me too. I get along with every­one. I’m good craic.

It’ll be grand.

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