Cockadoodledoo Inc.
As he says this there’s a roar from the locked room. He pushes his finger into his ear to hear what’s being said down the line. She’s not here right now, eh yeah, sure let me write it down. He searches the desk for a pen and paper. Finds a large manila envelope that I recognise. There’s another roar from the locked room. What, he asks, face all screwed up in frustration, blocking his free ear again. A nail appointment, yeah fine. He scribbles it down, then hangs up, his face a picture of irritation. Still holding the envelope, he storms over to the locked door, tries to open it again and then bangs on it with his fist when it’s not answered immediately.
Finally it opens. A pug comes rushing out and down the hall to the back of the building. I follow Tristan inside, removing my hat and my jacket and high-vis vest. The room is enormous, goes back deep, an extension, a kitchen leads off it, into the garden. An immaculately kept courtyard. This is another picture straight from a landscaped garden, colourful bean bags placed all around the paving. Mirrors and picture frames hanging on the concrete walls, an Instagram dream. But it’s the room we stand in that’s most fascinating. The walls are lined with old-school arcade machines. I count eight people crowded round one machine in particular.
Pac-Man.
Go on, Niallo.
As if he’s competing for gold in the Olympics.
Jazz is there. Long glow-in-the-dark yellow nails, bicycle shorts and an oversized hooded top. Black boots. Like a Boohoo ad.
What’s going on, Tristan asks, but I’m the only one who hears him because they let out a roar again and Niallo steps back from the arcade, his head in his hands. It’s Pac-Man. You’d think it was something like Street Fighter but no, all this testosterone and drama for Pac-Man.
They finally break up and look up at Tristan and I expect them to give a shit that their boss has walked in on them like this, but they don’t. I can’t tell if he’s annoyed he wasn’t a part of the game or because they’re not working. They don’t seem to care either way and excitedly fill him in on who scored what and who is next to play.
The phone rings in the hallway at Jazz’s desk. She doesn’t move. She eyes me warily.
Jazz, the phone, he says gently. His tone is notable.
Come on, he says to me, I’ll show you the rest.
If you’re going that way, you can answer it, Jazz says breezily.
He answers the phone. I sigh. Wuss. I walk away from him, down the corridor. Steps lead downstairs. I take them. I’ll give myself the tour. The basement level is broken up into cubicles. I look in the rooms and see computers with seats, headsets. The walls are soundproofed and are decorated in photographs, cuddly toys, postcards, funny beer mats, personal items. Like each isolation unit has been personalised.
Game pods, he says suddenly behind me. This is where we test the games and film for YouTube.
I then notice the cameras inside, attached to the computers. More pets wander around the halls. The cat from before and another dog. Each room is empty. No work being done in this building at all. We head upstairs, back to ground level and up again. The pug tries to catch up with us and races through my legs. There are only two offices upstairs.
This is Uncle Tony’s office. I want you to meet him, he says, knocking and entering. There’s no one inside. A large office that takes up the front of the building, with a stunning view. Over the tennis club. The sea. The one that reminds me of home. I can see my bench at the corner. I can see a lot of my beat. You could watch me move around the town like a mouse in a maze from here.
He should be back soon, he says, leading us to his own office. It’s not as impressive. It’s at the back, overlooking rooftops and chimneys, the uglier parts of the village, the working parts. The backs of kitchens and salons and shops. Staff parking, alleyways, skips. It’s not an awful view at all. I can see the hair salon. The marina, the estuary. A van with hazards on double yellow lines.
Look at you, Tristan says laughing, you’re like a predator sniffing out blood.
I sit on the leather couch and look around at all his things. It’s not as neat and tidy as the rest of the building. His is a working desk, a working office. I don’t know him well but it feels like him all right. Avenger figures. Merchandise. Gaming phrases framed on the walls such as I’m a gamer, I don’t die, I respawn. Piles of paperwork on his desk. A lot of computers; a large Mac, two laptops, a large flat-screen on the wall, computer console, PlayStation, Nintendo, a Wii, Xbox, a driving seat with a wheel before an enormous flat screen, and some other consoles I don’t recognise. He has old ones piled on open cluttered shelves, a Nintendo and Nintendo Game Boy from the Nineties, everything updated and replaced over time but kept. Honoured, even. The walls have framed posters of Mario Brothers, Sonic the Hedgehog, Call of Duty, Grand Theft Auto, Pac-Man, Tetris. All his pin-ups. His shelves are lined with how-to business books; The Essays of Warren Buffet, 7 Habits of Highly Effective People, Shoe Dog, The Greatest Salesman in the World, The Lean Startup, all of which go to explaining his Jim Rohn regurgitation. Behind his desk is a large canvas of an old computer with rudimentary graphics.