The guys at Solopress have asked for short stories that include a business card and a place in the UK. I may have taken that premise a little too literally.
Look, I can’t speak for other species. I don’t know if this applies for lamps, mobile phones, televisions or that stuff that accrues in the bottom of kettles, but I would like you to know, on behalf of all of my species, that we are sentient. We have feelings, fears, aspirations, job security and talents. We have our own name for our species but as the chances of you being able to pronounce it are so remote, it’s probably best that for now that we just use the word you came up with to describe us. Paper.
As a species, we have a surprising number of similarities with you. Socially and culturally I mean, biologically you guys are a mess. An over-complicated greasy mess. I mean, come on, do you really need to be so smudgy? Sorry, I’m getting off topic. Back to the similarities.
Like you, we have a long proud history. I’m not entirely sure how far back we date, but I met some Papyrus once, he was pretty boring so I am guessing he was very old. We have a rich, beautiful language. You call it “rustling”. Once, on television, one of your Australian vet-show presenters brought a piece of card on stage and proceeded to wobble him in a way that made a funny noise, so I guess that means we sing too. We didn't think it was singing at the time of course, we just mocked Bob for being wobbled on national television, but I think that counts as singing. Well done Bob.
We also have laws. Well, we are laws… same thing. We even have a justice system. If you break a law you get sentenced to time as toilet paper. Not only is it a pretty strong incentive to not break the law, but it also led to the creation of the phrase “flushing your life down the toilet”. You’re welcome!
When we are young we have very few responsibilities. I was sent to a pre-school where I was covered in felt-tip, glitter, crayons and PVA glue. To be honest I am fairly ambivalent about crayons, felt-tip and glitter, but PVA tastes amazing. It’s heavenly. Seriously, one of the greatest flaws in humanity as a species is that you guys don’t use this stuff past the age of 6. It baffles us why you don’t. After pre-school I was sent to the recycling facility before returning to school. I was an economics exam. I did pretty well, they wrote a “B” on me so I got to go onto University, so I went back to the recycling facility and then continued as an economics paper. I passed again and started to look into finding a career. My father was hoping that I might go back to school as a teacher like he did. He is a history textbook, Medieval History Vol.3. He works at a good school, has very little graffiti on him and is unlikely to be replaced in the near future. I could have gone into a similar career at the same school and done very well for myself, but it just wasn't for me.
I looked at what my friends and classmates were doing. A few had gone into banking as cheque-books, statements and the like, while others had gone publishing, new-reporting and novels. One even heard the religious calling and became a Bible. He is very proud of himself and acts morally superior, but let’s face it, he sleeps in a hotel drawer. He’s hardly a Gutenberg.
I wanted to build on my education in economics and went into business. I am a Business Card. It’s a good gig really. I look great, get plenty of comments on my appearance, and travel in a small, custom engraved, sterling silver case. Not a bad life at all. We also get to look forward to “The Big Day”. The Big Day is when we are handed out to truly do our job. It’s what we train for. It’s when we get to make a difference. We hear stories of other cards adventures from the great, to the, err… not so great. This is my story.
I work for a young ad-exec. He’s got good taste because, like I said before, I look good. I was printed in Southend-On-Sea but I’m now based in London. Nice place, busy. We travel a fair amount and my colleagues have been handed out for a variety of reasons. Anything from a Bar to a Boardroom. My Big Day was in a meeting. I hadn't really been paying attention and when I was removed with a flourish from my case I only had a chance to flash a grin at the world before I was placed face down on the table. Not quite the grand entrance I had hoped for. I felt a quick bit of scribbling on my back before I ended up in the wallet of the guy I work for. I was embarrassed. My Big Day, my mission, had lasted 20 seconds and I had spent 18 of them with my face on the table, and then I ended it by being in the possession of the same person I work for. I had failed my mission, and, once he notices I’m in his wallet rather that the card holder, I’ll be returned to face to ridicule of my colleagues. My reputation will be in tatters.
To add insult to injury, 3 hours later, before he could even find me, I dropped out of his wallet as he went to pay for his drink and found myself on the floor of a pub. I may not have paid quite as much attention in training as I should have, but even I know that as missions go, mine was a fail. There is very little glory on the floor. There are puddles… but no glory.
I have to admit, for most of the time that I should have been forming a proper plan I was trying to learn how to fly. I had seen other sheets do it, sort of “waft” through the air. I was starting to think I was never going to achieve this moronic goal when, Lift Off! I was flying! Okay, I had been kicked by accident, not a glamorous take-off certainly, but now I was soaring through the air like a glorious, well dressed paper-aeroplane. Like a perfectly engraved… Unfortunately I didn't get to finish that synonym because I had landed in a puddle on a table. Puddles suck.
I’ll gladly admit I am not the best at flying, but it was my first time dude, you try it! Puddles are a problem for paper. We don’t take to liquid well. I had found my end in warm table lager. Not quite the glorious end to the epic tale I had envisioned while sitting in my card holder. I lay there feeling the luke-warm bar-puddle seep over me whilst trying to ignore the German beer-mat who was laughing at me. What a tool.
Then a thought hit me. Like lightning hitting my brain, only with less chance of turning me into kindling. I wasn't deteriorating. I was complete. But why? Of course! I have a light gloss coating. I’m a premium card sir! Waterproof. My story wasn't over. I was in the process of coming up with my next plan when a waitress tidied the table. A beer rag ran over me, I was carried, dropped, and found myself in a large glass bowl filled with other, less well designed business cards. I would probably have made more friends if this hadn't been my first verbal observation, but like I said… I look good.
A couple of days passed. Every now and then a new card would be dropped into our glass prison. It wasn't fun. Finally a hand reached into the bowl. I was sticky from the beer puddle and adhered to his fingers. He had picked me. He didn't want to, but I’m sticky. I won.
The Barman rang the number written on me (Helvetica: Size 11 font. I look good) and a few hours later my owner arrived. He had come to collect me…. And the new iPad and night of free drinks I had won him. There was even a gasp of excitement from him when he spotted the note he had scribbled on my back during the meeting. I’m still not sure what he actually wrote but I am pretty sure I saved the world that day. That’s what I told my colleagues anyway. They all worship me now. I am the story they tell. I am the legend of the Business Card game. The winner. The returner. The flyer. I am the lucky card… and I smell slightly like beer.
This story was written for Solopress, my creators, so that they may know the epic journey they sent me on.
