Alex: Senior Poop Picker-Upper

In my hoity-toity neighbourhood, everyone picks up their dog’s poop whilst on their evening stroll. Albeit, with a cotton-gloved hand and a bio-compostable, tangerine-scented bag. There is a level of unspoken trust and pride in the air, which is justified by the price of the townhouses, that one ‘leaves it as one finds it’. The most common dog breed is poodle, or something-‘oodle’, whose poop only needs one delicate, pinky-lifted pinch to scoop up. After the sun has winked and tip-toed off to bed, and dusk has sauntered into the crisp suburbs, it is time for the ‘Oodles’ to own the pavement. But no matter how dark it gets, nor how easy it would be to hide the crime, everyone, EVERYONE, picks up their dog’s poop. 

As the morning sun blossoms through my cream linen curtains, at a calculated 55 degrees, a slight breeze stirs me awake. I smile broadly, today is THE day. Three seconds later my alarm pings. Perfect timing. My suit is hung in front of my cupboard door, a kiss of lime in the colour of the shirt brings a tang to my mouth. Biggest interview of my life. Biggest interview of anyone’s life ever. I am so ready for this. I jump out of bed so hard my curls brush the ceiling. Woah, Alex, steady on. I let the grin chassé across my face. The shower is four minutes warm, 30 seconds hot, 2 minutes deep cold, and a full refresh BAM! Alexis plays the morning soundtrack cued for 6:37am, giving me exactly 2 minutes and 15 seconds to brush my teeth, before I complete a standing visualisation meditation. 

There’s a spot on the mirror, I take a pained moment to squeak it off.

Then I close my eyes and manifest myself as the world’s most successful senior partner. Nay, the universe. Namaste to you too Alexis. 

Cue a shuffling at my feet…. Ah - there she is. Bertie is wagging her tail at me, she knows I look amazing. The sparkles in my eyes meet hers, I barely even need to ask, my mouth makes the shape of a “w” and she sprints down the hall to her leash. Morning walkies. Her moment of the day. Goodness, even my dog's morning is a pristine mechanism of timing, I just love her. 

I strut my Darling Bertie down the avenue, confidence level at its peak. We know this routine morning and night. Left. Eyes skyward and singing my speech to the sun. Sharp right, wave to Agatha in her garden. I know the words back-to-front, and inside-out. I’ve been ready for this interview for 6 months and it’s here. Pause for Bertie to sniff Mr Anderson’s pansies. Goodness me, did I just skip? Maybe I did, but I would be surprised. Quick right at the fountain, which absolutely needs a deep clean, I’ll send an email. A pigeon coos to me, and I twinkle my fingers back at her. The next time she sees me I’ll be the newest partner for the biggest, best, most epic finance firm in the galaxy. Short right, wait 28 seconds for Bertie’s Business, glance away, quick scoop. I do need to calm down, all of this energy may just throw me off. I take an unprecedented pause which receives a filthy look from my precious Darling and step off of the path into the soft grass.

Breathe, Alex. 

Uprighted and back on track I resume Bertie’s journey. The pavement turns to a red runway and she twirls along it all the way back home. There is a clink of the trashcan as I close the lid on Bertie’s bagged artwork, and I settle her back inside. Now it’s my moment. 

The drive to the city is smooth. T-Swift is charting on Spotify, her voice floats around my bubble, swirling with the Paco Rabanne glistening on my neck. I sit at two notches below the speed limit, bringing me to each intersection just as the light hits green. Minimal breaking, maximum satisfaction. A refined parallel park. A two-minute walk. A soy flat white, with no line to wait in. Oooh, what a morning. I arrive at the office 15 minutes early, but I take a moment to ooze over the glossy black letters that make up the sign I’ve been looking at my whole life. I gaze up, up, up, at all of those office floors, with a desk that will soon be mine, overlooking a skyline that sits above the rest of the city. Through the layers of chocolate and marshmallow hints of caffeine, I can taste it. I lick my lips. 

Four years of undergraduate study, two years of a master's degree, and an internship slog that would make your eyes water, all with unwavering distinctions. I’ve had this plan since I was 15 years old. Most people have a yearly diary, day-to-a-page. I have an hour to a page. An overcompensation for the fact that I was brought up in a family with no sense of time management. I was always late for everything, always left last at school pick-up, no clean uniform, and lunch was always a mash-up of the night before. Then, on a school trip, I walked past this building, this very one, and I saw a man in a suit walking in, a watch glinting on his wrist. I was hooked. He just looked so… put together. He moved as a whole, not an atom of him left behind. Even the way he turned on his heel, a 90-degree click that sailed him through glass doors, my jaw was on the ground. I went home that night and turned my bedroom wall into the world’s biggest whiteboard to brainstorm. Every decision, every sacrifice, has led me right here. 

I click my heels together for good measure, it doesn’t make a satisfying sound the way I thought it would, but I don’t let it break my stride. This is my day. 

Through the glass doors and the familiar scent of jasmine and eucalyptus curls up the back of my skull as I inhale, as well as something underlying, which I presume is a healthy dose of nerves setting in. One last slurp of flat white, lid in plastics container, cup in recycling. I sit in the third chair closest to the door of my dreams and place my MacBook over my crossed knees. I think I’ve stopped breathing. Clarence, my one competitor, sits opposite me and squints his eyes as they dart over the room. He’s searching for something, probably his marbles, ha! Even the genius that is Clarence cannot get in my way today. He looks down at his shoes.

A door latch clicks and my heart pumps out of my chest. All other senses are dead in the water, I only hear my name being called. I walk over to shake hands with my soon-to-be partner and follow in his footsteps towards the meeting room. I cross the threshold and reassert confidence through my spine as I begin to set up for the presentation section of the interview. The Keynote pages are already loaded, of course, so it only takes 14 seconds to be ready, as rehearsed. 

Usually, my mind is trained to keep track of time but I’m barely able to tell whether it has been a year or 5 minutes as I talk him through my proposal. Smooth as peanut butter, it’s going even better than I expected. I have him wrapped around my finger. My closing paragraph seems to lose him a little as he frowns and looks under his desk, I risk a power play move and pointedly cough. Got him. My last sentence ends with a rather dramatic flourish that I’m quite proud of. My citrus shirt brings out the cool blue of my eyes and I know I’m on fire. He lets a rare smile play about his cheeks and signals for me to sit down. My adrenals fizzle out and I come back down to earth, all systems regulate as he congratulates me on an immaculate presentation. I let myself sink into the chair ever so slightly. He begins his spiel about company history, a story I know well, and the qualities he looks for in a partner. 

1) A pristine portfolio and exemplary client history.

  Check.

2) Strategically minded, with well-structured analytical skills.

Check. 

3) A well-rounded awareness of the company, leadership skills, and perfect visual presentation.

Check.

As I wait to hear the words; “I see all of that in you, Alex”, my nose picks up a scent that pulls my focus. An image of dirt flashes across my mind as I search to place the smell. 

“So, what do think?”, Grant is staring at me awaiting a response. I pause a second too long.

“I said, do you think you have what it takes to match all of these standards?”. He graces me a second chance. My mouth opens and I take in a big breath to land a resounding ‘yes’, but I catch my chest. 

I know exactly what that smell is. 

From up in the clouds my head comes crashing down, and I instantly sweat. 

“I - …uh, I”. My eyes flick down to the ends of my crossed legs, to the rims of my Chelsea boots, polished so hard they glimmer. And there, on the hand-stitched soles, is the mother of all poop. An Oodle poop. A poop that has the unmistakable dryness of being left out in the elements all night long. 

My eyes glance back up at Grant and he, too, looks distracted. 

“Is that…?”, he pulls back slightly.

“Wha?”, I say, too fast, with a shake of my head. He takes in a half sniff to confirm the worst. I sink deeper into the chair and disappear forever. 

………………………………………………..

My desk sits facing a wall, the chips in the paint make my eyes twitch. A fake plant does its best to mimic real life, but everything on this bottom-floor office building has had the life sapped out of it. 

I was so close. I had everything planned, down to the way I would line up my pencil as a client would walk into my office, the watch I would buy after my 11th pay check, and the smile on Bertie’s face when I would open the door every evening after a successful day. 

But I don’t have my name in shiny black letters on the 37th floor.

I don’t have an assistant that brings me soy flat whites at 7am sharp. 

I don’t click my heels as I turn to walk into the most beautiful building in this city, up the most stunning staircase, to look over the heads of all the people. 

It doesn’t matter that I laid out this perfect plan when I was 15 years old and completely ruined an entire wall in my Mother’s house. It doesn't matter that my bedroom wall is now covered in plans to find and destroy the culprit of the poop.

Because I am, in fact, the only person who picks up their dog’s poop in the nighttime.