Come On, The Mini-men

COME ON, THE MINI-MEN "Come on, the Mini-Men, move your little legs as fast as you can!" It was the first day of his new job, and Damien was hopeful that he had finally found a position with a decent organisation that would lead to a fulfilling career. He was met at reception by his new boss, Ruth Aitken. She was friendly enough, but rather imposing, with a prim suit, short cropped hair and stern features. Damien made a mental note to try and keep out of her way in the future. She led him up to the third floor, where he would be working and introduced him to one of his new colleagues, who would show him around. She was too busy at the moment, she explained, but would brief him fully on his role and responsibilities as soon as she had some time. Damien was pretty relieved. She had left him with a small rodent-like man, but that was preferable to spending any more time with her. She seemed like a bit of a dragon. "Sorry mate, what's your name again?" he asked the ratfaced man, who said he was "Eric". The guy had a bit of a shifty look about him, a bit shy maybe. That made Damien feel better as he didn't think anyone would be more nervous than him. "So what's your position?" If Eric was going to be above him in the ranks, he didn't want to put his foot in it. "I'm in class 1B- that's general dogsbody to you and me" answered Eric. "You'll be in the same class, to begin with at least". Eric said this with an insidious smirk. He was creeping Damien out a bit. "This'll be your desk, next to mine" he continued, motioning to one of the desks beside

the filing cabinets. It looked like the last occupant's belongings had yet to be cleared from it. "So Eric, what am I letting myself in for?" He was testing the little rat to see if he would come out with some diplomatic bullshit or something at least approaching the truth. Eric took his time to answer, still smirking in that interminable fashion. He had a face that Damien would never tire of punching. "It's alright…. except for …" he began, glancing around him as if about to reveal classified information. He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Except if you don't like the P.E." Damien couldn't help but laugh; obviously P.E. must be an abbreviation for something else in this company's terminology, but he knew it as Physical Education; his most hated subject at school. "What does it stand for, Eric?" "You know, P.E. Football and running and that. Like at school." Damien was annoyed now. This little bastard was obviously trying to wind him up. "Right Eric. Sure. Do you always try and take the piss out of new starts? Easy target for you, huh?" But Eric had stopped grinning now; his expression was deadly serious. Damien actually felt a chill run down the small of his back. "Are you good at all the sports?" asked Eric. "No, not really." Said Damien, playing down his utter incompetence at every form of organised physical exercise. Eric shook his head and then his creepy smile reappeared. "Oh dear" he muttered, then went scurrying off and disappeared behind the filing cabinets. Dave was beginning to get a negative vibe about this new job.

"Don't mind wee Eric" said a voice. Damien hadn't noticed anyone else, but there was a bloke working at the desk opposite his. His head appeared from behind the computer terminal. "He's a little prick. I'm Jeremy by the way." They shook hands through the gap in the partition between the desks. "At last somebody normal!" joked Damien. "Yeah, there's not many of us." Damien sat down in his new chair and at last began to feel more relaxed. "Don't slouch, Damien." Ruth Aitken had appeared behind him. Startled, he turned round. "Follow me to my office." She had already turned on her heel and was on her way out into the corridor. Damien hurried behind her and could see that little rodent Eric smirking at him from behind a file he was pretending to read. "Sit down." His boss gestured at a chair, closing her office door behind them. Damien felt that her manner was unnecessarily abrupt. "This is your time-table" she pointed at one of several laminated charts blue-tacked to the office wall. Each day of the working week was separated into 45 minute periods, and specific tasks were assigned to each period. It reminded him of the time-table he'd had at school. The chart that Aitken was pointing at was titled 'Class 1B'. This rigid structure was unlike anything Damien had come across at his previous jobs, and was very disconcerting. He read through the different tasks; some were self-explanatory like filing and mail duties. The others he imagined he would pick up as he went along. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, all seemed manageable. Then he reached Thursday morning. Damien stopped breathing for several seconds; he couldn't believe his eyes. The first two periods on Thursday morning were assigned to P.E. Possibly noticing the horror in his face, Aitken confirmed his worst fears. "You'll see that we

have P.E. every Thursday morning." There had to be some mistake, thought Damien. "Yes…er, it's not actually P.E. is it?" "Yes, Damien, P.E; Physical Education. Just like when you were a little boy at school." Damien's right eye winked involuntarily. It was a facial tick that he had sometimes; usually under severe stress. This couldn't be for real. Perhaps it was a bizarre initiation ceremony- to see if new employees had a sense of humour or not. "I don't have to do it, do I?" he asked reasonably. "Only it's always been my least favourite subject". He even managed a smile; after all they were both adults. "I'm afraid you do, Damien." Ruth Aitken replied coldly. "It is a compulsory requirement of your position. I realise it is an unusual approach, but we find, as a company, that it is beneficial in separating the wheat from the chaff, so to speak." "The wheat from the chaff?" whimpered Damien, afraid of what she meant by it. "Don't worry, Damien, as long as you do your best, you'll be fine. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a lot of work to do." David left her office in a dejected mood. He started to have grave doubts as to whether he had made the right decision in taking the job. He had hated his previous one, of course, but it seemed like a walk in the park in comparison to this new regime. He had desperately wanted a career change, and had already started spending more now that he was going to be getting more money. But no money could be worth the nightmare of having to re-live the horrors of P.E. He was abysmal at every sport he had attempted. He was of average height now, but was a late developer, and had always been one of the smaller boys. The other lads in his year always

towered above him, until he shot up around the age of 16. But even then, he was only about 5'9. But at least, to those with no knowledge of his past, he no longer had the stigma of being small. It was a stigma that had a massive effect on his social standing within the school. No girl of any quality would even speak to him let alone regard him as a prospective boyfriend, not when his classmates were practically men and he was still very much a boy. It was his height, coupled with an overwhelming disinterest in all things energetic, that rendered him useless at everything that P.E. involved. It was a stroke of luck that Tiny Dave, the boy with one leg shorter than the other had been in his class, because at least he was only second last at everything. Although even then it was sometimes a close run thing. He had to use every ounce of stamina to ensure he beat Tiny Dave, as the humiliation of losing to a cripple was too much to even consider. Over the next couple of days Damien was shown his basic duties, and settled in a bit better. He managed to ignore Eric as much as possible, as he could chat to Jeremy instead. Before he knew it, it was Wednesday, and the next day's double period of P.E. loomed. Just before the end of the day, the big bloke from the second floor Mr. Griffiths had come up and reminded them in his booming voice not to forget their 'kit'. So Damien had a flash of inspiration; if he didn't bring any sports clothing, he wouldn't be able to do P.E. That would give him another week to come up with a way to get out of it altogether. After all, he hadn't worn shorts since 1986, and his trainers were strictly for comfort/fashion purposes; he'd never actually ran in them.

When he arrived at work on Thursday morning, everyone else was gathered outside in the car park at the front of the building in shorts and T-shirts. Mr. Griffiths was wearing a pink and blue tracksuit, and had a whistle strung round his neck. He was taking a roll call, reading the names from a clipboard. Damien approached them as his name was called. "Damien Clarke." Damien almost said "here, sir" but then realised how ridiculous it was, so he just said "yes." The big bloke looked at him. "You haven't changed your clothes, Clarke." "No, I just started this week, and I forgot to bring my kit…" Some of the others sniggered. "I see. Well you know what that means, don't you?" "That I can't do P.E?" suggested Damien hopefully. "Oh no, Clarke. Far be it from me to deprive you of the joys of exercise and fresh air. You'll have to do it in your vest and pants" There was more sniggering. Damien felt bile rise in his throat, and his nervous tick went into overdrive. "I'd rather not." Mr. Griffiths came towards Damien. He prodded him in the chest with his pointy finger. "You don't have a choice, Clarke." Damien looked at everyone else. They weren't making eye contact, just staring at the ground. Except for Eric, who was looking right at him and smirking. Damien noticed that he was the only other person who wasn't wearing sports gear. "What about him?" he asked Griffiths. "He has severe asthma. He doesn't have to do P.E." That little bastard. No wonder he had that infuriating grin all the time. "Come on, Clarke, strip off" Griffiths ordered. Damien started to take off his shirt, feeling like he was in a very bad dream.

"Right everyone, today we're doing a two-mile run. Get on the bus." They all did what Griffiths said, and walked rather despondently towards the coach that was always parked in front of the building. Damien was overcome with shame, his skinny frame barely covered by his Bart Simpson T-shirt and grey BHS boxer shorts. The opening at the front of them was only kept closed by two pathetic little buttons and he was paranoid that his penis would pop its bulbous little head out at any moment. God forbid he would get a hard-on, but that was unlikely given the stress he was under. He couldn't bare to look any of his colleagues in the eye. He would never live this down. He sat on his own at the front of the coach. During the journey Jeremy came up and said "Don't worry mate, it’s happened to all of us" which, whether it was true or not, made Damien feel a lot better. The coach stopped in a deserted country lane surrounded by fields, with no other traffic to be seen. Damien did not have a clue where they were. "Right everyone, get off" said Griffiths. They all clambered out. It was a chilly autumn morning, and the wind had no difficulty in penetrating Damien's clothing. He felt very vulnerable. Griffiths was still barking out orders. "Right, when I say, you all start running in that direction, and don't stop until you get back to the office." There was no way that was only 2 miles, thought Damien. The bus journey was at least half an hour long. They were out in the middle of fucking nowhere. He looked around at the miserable faces of the others, but nobody looked as shocked or angry as he felt. "And no cheating, mind." Griffiths warned them. "Me and Eric will be following behind you later in the coach, and I've had a word

with the taxi firms in the surrounding area. They know not to pick up anyone in shorts and T-shirts. Or vest and pants for that matter!" Now the big cunt was having a dig at him, thought Damien. He was building up a strong hatred of Griffiths. "Now GO!" Everyone else was already running. Damien could barely summon the energy to begin. He started into a jog, but the rest of them, including Jeremy, were already way ahead. He tried to go a bit faster, but knew that he would get tired even quicker if he used too much energy at the start. He was in his own personal hell. He felt such a strong degree of self-pity that he wanted to cry. After ten minutes, he wasn't jogging so much as dragging his legs along in a lurching motion barely faster than the average walking speed. He could no longer see most of the others; there were just two other small blokes who were slightly in front of him, who also seemed to be struggling. One of them glanced back and noticed him, and gestured for him to catch up with them. Some company might make this trauma more bearable, thought Damien, and forced himself to go a bit faster. It took all his effort as the road was uphill. He eventually caught up with them. They introduced themselves with nods, conserving as much breath as possible for their arduous task. A minute later, at the top of the hill, Damien got a stitch in his side and stopped. "Fuck this!" he proclaimed, in between large, rasping breaths. The other two stopped. "I've had enough" Damien told them. "I'm fucking dying and we're nowhere near town yet. It looks like this road goes on for another five miles."

"Yeah, but you don't know what its like if you're last to get back" said one guy. "They'll make your life hell" said the other. "It couldn't be any worse than this" replied Damien. They all stood there in silence in the middle of the road as they caught their breath. Suddenly, the bus loomed over the crest of the hill, and appeared behind them. The door was open and Griffiths was leaning out of it with a loudhailer, shouting "Come on, the Mini-Men!" The three of them started running, with the coach rolling slowly behind them, almost touching their heels. "Faster, Mini-Men!" Griffiths was yelling. "Why is he calling us that?" rasped Damien. "That's what they call us" answered one of the other blokes. "Because we're smaller than average and shit at sports" explained the other one. "You're not quite as small as us, but you're as shit as us, so you'll be a MiniMan as well". Griffiths began chanting gleefully; "Come on, the MiniMen, move your little legs as fast as you can!" Eric was also on the coach, grinning from the side window. Damien felt light-headed. He had no strength left, and had only continued that far due to adrenaline. His vision became cloudy and suddenly his legs gave way under him and he collapsed in the road, unconscious. The driver of the coach managed to stop without running him over and Griffiths picked him up and put him on the coach, muttering "What a little fag" to himself. Damien awoke to find himself lying on the large table in the conference room. The palms of his hands and his knees stung, and had tiny cuts all over them from the gravel. The entire workforce were gathered around him, and Ruth Aitken, who had her back to him, was facing them. She was

pointing at his crotch area. He looked down and realised with horror that his boxer shorts had been pulled down around his ankles and his dick and balls were revealed for everyone to see. "He's a Mini-Man in more ways than one!" said Ruth Aitken and everybody laughed. He grasped at his boxers to pull them up, and Aitken turned round to look at him. "Ah, you're awake". She didn't seem in the slightest bit embarrassed that he had heard her. He leapt from the desk and yelled "fuck you!". "Tut tut, aren't the Mini-Men aggressive" she said to her assembled employees. Damien didn't have a clue what to do. "Fuck your job" he said to her, and ran out of the room. Ruth Aitken followed him out, and so did Mr. Griffiths, Eric and everyone else. Griffiths led them in the chant "Come on the Mini-Men, move your little legs as fast as you can". They repeated it over and over again, staring at him like a group of zombies. Damien saw his clothes in a pile outside the door, so he grabbed them and tried to put them on as quickly as he could as he went down the stairs, before running out of the building and out into the street. All the staff had gathered outside the building, still chanting. Even when Damien got several blocks away, their words were still ringing in his ears. "I'm not a Mini-Man" he said to himself, but deep down he knew he was.