Page 62 of The Second Chance Bus Stop
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The manager of Rent-a-Safe is excited about his handover. For a whole morning he gets to tell a young person how things are
done! Being well aware this may be his last organised and dedicated opportunity to do so makes it sweeter. From now on, he
may have to make do with telling strangers they’re using the bus card upside down or that the shelves should be stacked differently
in Ica. But this? This is to be treasured. The manager arrived half an hour early (not to work, no, but to have a coffee and
be able to make it look like the young person was late. By 8.50 he has had two coffees and does not want a third one. Unless
there is an opportunity to ask the young person to make him one. Then he would have a third coffee.).
The man arriving at the doors of the small back office at a minute to nine is not quite as young as he’d hoped, but it will
have to do. In the desert every cactus is a flower, as his single colleague says when he’s hitting the fifty-plus nightclub
on a Saturday night.
The young person stands expectantly after the manager has said hello. Always good to keep them waiting. Always want everything right away these new generations. App this, app that. But there’s no app to help him now.
‘What is this?’ the young one asks. Oh, yes. There’s an empty desk with a single key. It would blend in if there were even
just one other item next to it, but alone it stands out, demands attention.
‘It’s a numbered key to a safe. You should have encountered plenty of them if your CV isn’t fraudulent.’
‘Yes. Well... What am I supposed to do with it?’
The manager sighs. Soon this key will not be his responsibility, his desk will be clean. But for another seven and a half
hours it is his responsibility.
‘The contents of the safe need to be collected, but we can’t get through to the owners. The initial payment only covered the
first five years of storage. They have been in default for a year now.’
The manager finds he almost knows the phone number by heart now. It ends with five-nine. The age his father lived to. Memory
is a funny thing. He dials it—one last time, he tells himself.
No one wants this safe. The manager knows what people want. He’s watched enough reactions when people discover long-forgotten
treasures hidden away in storage. Feels like the man on that Antiques Roadshow programme he does, watching all the faces smile and say, ‘That’s not what I expected,’ when really they’re contemplating
if it was worth the petrol spent to drive here. Yes, the manager knows what people want; good at reading people, he is.
He tips his mug to the side and scrunches his face up, realising it’s empty. Hoping the young one may nod and mouth ‘Shall
I get you another one?’ He doesn’t. He’s busy studying the file and Excel sheets the manager gave him.
The manager is just about to hang up, like he always does, when he stalls. There’s a rustle at the other end of the line. He clears his throat. The man (Young! Why is everyone these days sounding so darn young when he himself is sounding so darn old?) on the other end speaks.
‘Hi, this is Edith’s phone.’
The manager’s English is not great. Not very often that Englishmen rent safes in Sweden, which would give him a chance to
practice. It’s not even English that he speaks now but Swenglish.
‘This is the Rent-a-Safe person. Well, erm, manager. I direct the Rent-a-Safe office.’ He stops and hums to himself. That’s
how it should be—he should be directing things. Yet it seems no one wants his directions any longer. Not when he’s driving, because now there’s satnav,
and not when at the workplace because now there’s taking initiative and working with minimal supervision. He recommences his vocal delivery. ‘I have a safe that belongs to this number. We are about to dispose of its contents since
it’s unclaimed and payment overdue. Unless you’d like to sort it out.’
‘A safe? In Sweden?’
The manager very much wishes the young person wasn’t here for this once-in-a-decade phone call he has to conduct in Swenglish,
but there you have it. He senses that this will not be the teaching opportunity he had hoped and that at four o’clock he will
rub his hands together and say, ‘Shall we call that a day?’
‘Do you have a name? Whose name is the safe in?’ the young man asks. There is bleeping in the background, sounds like a kid’s
toy low on battery. Oh . Hospital sounds, he realises.
‘Yes.’ The manager doesn’t have to look at his paper. He’s known the name for almost a decade now. His wife suggested he search
for the name on the Facebook, but he has some principles doesn’t he? One doesn’t exploit one’s clients.
‘It belongs to a Sven Haneman.’
There’s a long pause. ‘Thank you,’ the young man says finally. But he’s not sure whether the thank you is for him or someone
else. It’s a sort of—he hates to say it— general thank you, without clear aim or target. Then the young man’s voice can be heard again.
‘How did you get this number?’
‘The safe was rented by Sven Haneman but the name to contact about it was given as Edith.’ He pronounces the first name ‘Ed-it.’
‘So will you be sorting it out, then? Or should we throw it all away?’
There is silence, then a rustling and a croak.
‘Thank you. Yes, I do believe I’ll be coming to sort it out.’
‘Excellent news, excellent. Well, good day, then,’ the manager says and hangs up to write his last note as the Rent-A-Safe
manager—about the collection of the safe’s contents and payment within a fortnight. Then, he can begin his retirement. With
an empty desk.
Even without the satisfaction of having lectured a young person on his final day, the manager leaves the facility, happy to
be headed home. His wife is cooking beef Wallenbergare.