Cards Against Urbanity

Bullshit jobs. That’s what the article the other day had called them.

“Bullshit Job (n). A job that provides no societal good, and that the person doing it views to be pointless”

Yep, Gemma thought, That pretty much sums it up.

Gemma was Junior Graphic Designer at a reasonably-sized ad agency. Mostly, her job was to take the brand logos, and slightly change the font or the colour scheme until they were improved in a way so marginal only industry insiders would ever notice or care.

In other words, a bullshit job.

Gemma pushed her laptop back and put her head down on her desk. Lying down, could see the sides of two objects: her pack of cards and her little black notebook.

The cards were from her old life: from years spent playing poker in seedy bars and smoky basements.

She’d been good at cards. People who’s money she’d taken had called her a “Scammer”. A “Card shark”. A “Grifter”. A “Con artist”. One slightly old-fashioned man in a tweed suit had even called her a “Mountebank”, which she actually quite liked the sound of. But Gemma had never cheated. She was just good at cards.

The notebook was even older. It was from her childhood. Inside were page after page of cartoons that Gemma had doodled. She’d been good at drawing too. Growing up by the sea, she’d spend hour after hour on the beach, sketching the waves as they lapped gently against the golden shore.

Gemma used to dream of being a professional cartoonist. Some part of her still did. But that’s all it was now, a dream. Going into a career that risky would have required some money as a safety net. And there was no money anymore. Not since her mother had been sick.

“Radcliffe!”

Gemma sat bolt upright and looked over. Her manager was waving her into his office.

“Gemma Radcliffe. We’ve got one of the clients you’ve been doing a redesign for. Can we have a quick meeting?”

Gemma nodded and headed towards her manager’s office, vaguely wondering if she might get to die soon.

They may all be long days, but this one has been particularly long.

It had started with her burning her hand while making her morning coffee at home. In her half-awake state she hadn’t been paying attention as she poured the water from the kettle. She’d been daydreaming, staring out of the window of her cramped kitchenette. Not that the view from the cramped city apartment she shared with three people was worth getting burnt over. Back when she’d lived by the sea, she’d woken up and looked out of her window to see the sun shimmering on the ocean. Today she’d woken up to two pigeons fighting over a packet of Fritos.

Gemma had then thrown herself onto the subway, wedged between someone’s back fat and the armpit of someone who presumably came from a far away part of the city where deodorant hadn’t been invented yet.

After making it to the grey tower in which she spent 8 hours a day, she’d sat at her desk and had been working flat ever since.

And now, now that the day was finally almost over, she had to sit through a meeting with her manager.

Gemma thought of the “Bullshit Jobs” article she’d read a few days ago. It inspired her to make up her own definition:

Meeting (n): A competitive sport in which men in suits come together to see who can say the word “synergy” the most.

Still, Gemma trundled over to her manager’s office. It’s what they pay me for.

At one point Gemma had had money. Her poker could be very lucrative. But it was risky. Some months she’d make $5,000. Some months she’d lose as much. Still, over the years she’d successfully saved enough of her winnings to pay for art school. She’d hoped to save up enough that she could set her herself up as a freelance cartoonist.

When she’d discovered her mother was sick, Gemma had done the right thing. She’d moved to the city to be nearer her. She’d handed over her savings to cover the medical expenses. And she’d gotten a regular, sensible job that guaranteed an income, even if it was a low one.

It hadn’t made a difference.

Cancer and the American healthcare system had been like a pair of magicians. The cancer had taken her mother and made her disappear. The healthcare system had taken Gemma’s money and transformed it into debt. And people called me a scammer.

Gemma walked into her manager’s office.

Inside were two men. The slimmer of the two was her manager Jeff Nelson. Outside the office he was nice, if shy. Inside the office he was a useless empty suit. Her time working under him had only cemented Gemma’s growing suspicions that most people in management spent their time shuffling paper around and arbitrarily giving instructions in order to look busy. Nervous and indecisive to his core, Nelson’s main skill seemed to be knowing when to throw in the phrase “Brand optics” into meetings to sound clued in.

The larger man of the two men was a stranger.

“Johnson Ponder” he introduced himself, without looking to get up or shake her hand. He spoke in the way that rich people that private school are taught to: loud, brash, commending, dismissive. As though everything they said should be of interest to everyone, and they were doing you a favour even to take the time to say it.

“Ponder’s an old friend of mine from my days at Hampton and Ambrose,” Nelson continued. “Back in the day I swear we spent less time in the office and more time in the bar”.

“Not to mention the casinos” Ponder added.

In her mind Gemma could smell the old pub basements she used to gamble in, but the feeling disappeared as fast as it had come.

“Anyway, Johnson’s our contact for the fast-food redesign” Nelson continued.

For the first time all day, Gemma felt a jolt of excitement. She hadn’t realised he was THAT client.

A few months ago, Gemma had been given the job of redesigning the logo of a major fast-food company. This company had been using the same cartoon bird as their logo for decades. It was iconic. But it was also, they felt, too old.

So Gemma had been given the rare chance to actually put her cartooning skills to work. For weeks on end she’d been let loose, allowed free reign to create a new cartoon character to go on their packaging, and their uniforms, and their trucks and so on.

Well, relatively free reign anyway. There had been the usual meddling from corporate. The usual contradictory demands: “Make it daring and controversial, yet safe”, “innovative while still familiar”, “Old but new”. Still, it had still been easily the most fulfilling work Gemma had ever done as a graphic designer.

Gemma smiled. “Oh yes, tell me more.”

Nelson looked uncomfortable. “Yes, it’s bad news I’m afraid. Your, well, the cartoon you drew, you see…”.

“We’re not using your cartoon” Ponder cut in.

The moment hit Gemma like a knee to the kidneys. She said nothing.

“Um, yes, sorry about that” Nelson continued.

Gemma’s tongue felt it was made of lead. But you knew she had to reply with something. SO she ventured: “…You didn’t like it?”

“Oh I’m sure there was nothing was wrong with it,” Ponder said in his dismissive tone. “But after some additional research we’ve decided our customers like the old logo just fine.”

“Well… I’m sure if you give this one a chance… you don’t think they might like this one more?”

Ponder shrugged “Maybe. But they’re content with the one we have. And when you factor in the costs of putting a new logo all over our vehicles and uniforms and drive-ins, it’s frankly just not worth the effort.”

Gemma wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. She wanted to collapse into a ball and never get up. But she was in an office. So she did nothing.

Nelson added, “Yes… it’s all a matter of, um, brand optics I guess”.

Ponder nodded and checked his watch in a way that suggested this conversation had already taken longer than he’d hoped. “So, if that’s all…”

“Did you come all the way over just to tell me this?” Gemma didn’t really care. She just wanted the conversation to continue. Once it was over, her cartoon was dead. The one creative outlet she’d had over the last few months was dead.

Ponder laughed. “Hardly. I don’t have time to deliver bad news to everyone who makes my company a drawing. No, I came here I wanted to go drinking with Nelson.” He checked his watch again. “Speaking of which, are we heading off Jeff?”

“Um, yes, of course, um, where do you want to go?”

“We could go a bar? Or the races? Casino? I’m in the mood for a bit of a flutter.”

“My design…” Gemma started.

“was probably very pretty,” Ponder sighed.

“Probably? Have you even seen it?”

“Didn’t need to. We got the new research in before it ever got to my desk.”

“But, you can’t just reject my work without even looking at it!”

“I can do. And I did. Try not to take it personally. And now, it really is time to be going. Let’s do the casino Jeff, I feel like spending.”

For a moment, Gemma remained frozen in place. She knew she had lost. But she couldn’t just go back to her desk. She couldn’t just retreat. She couldn’t just receive another crushing blow from life and act like everything was okay.

This man had taken something from her. Men like him had been taking things from her for years. Men like him had come knocking for their money while her mother was still warm. Men like him had underpaid her and forced her to do dull, pointless tasks while they took all the profits. And now, this man had taken the only joy she’d managed to find in her miserable job.

It was time to take something back.

Gemma looked up and blurted: “I’ll come with you.”

Ponder scoffed. “Miss… whatever your name is. You are not going to change my mind about your cartoon.”

“I know,” Gemma said, thinking on her feet. “But I’d like to play some poker. It’s been a while, and I miss it.”

“She’s very good” Nelson added, “She’s shown everyone in the office some of her tricks”

“Well, I still don’t think it’s appropr…”

“Unless you don’t think you can beat someone like me.”

Ponder couldn’t resist. A lifetime of thinking he was better than people like Gemma couldn’t stand a challenge like that.

With a fixed smile, he gestured to the door and said “Fine. Lead the way…”

***

As Gemma walked home through the night air she felt renewed.

$20,000! She’d bilked that idiot out of $20,000.

It was enough for a fresh start. Enough that, if moved out of the city, she could pay for a few months rent in a flat by the sea. Enough to do what she’d always wanted.

The flat would have to be small. The hours would have to be long. Her meals would have to be cheap. Gemma knew there was a lot of Ramen and $1 noodle pots in her future. But she’d finally be doing what she loved. She could quit her job and set herself up as a freelance cartoonist.

Gemma felt like skipping. So she did. She was done not doing the things she wanted.

I could set up my website tonight, start flat-hunting tomorrow. Within a couple of weeks I could hand in my notice, and a month after that: I’m free.

With a grim on her face, Gemma envisioned clearing out her desk. Packing away her laptop. Her old playing cards. And of course, her little black notebook.