The Boy At Reception

He had dusty brown coloured skin and for the duration of the conversation he did not stop fidgeting. It was interesting that I had noticed him when he walked in. This was a recruitment agency, I sat behind the reception desk everyday and met with a lot of people so for me to notice one person out of the myriad of bodies that came in, was strange.

There was just something about him.

He stood with his left shoulder facing me, his eyes ahead and started speaking. He spoke very quickly, barely stringing together the sentences and occasionally mumbling. I leaned in, to try and pick up on what he was saying but what came out was incorrigible. Then I realised, it wasn't because he was not speaking English, no, this was English, but his words slurred one into the other but also still managed to sound distinct with the phonetics between the first and the last letters of the words being distinct. I stared at the side of his face, praying he would stop talking at a point where I had understood the last sentence. I feared having to ask him to repeat what he had said. His eyes shifted around the room, I knew this because I watched the corner of his eyes and how the pupil would disappear, then return and disappear again, leaving the white.

He would not look me in the eyes, which made me feel uneasy.

Suddenly I started noticing the space around me, how not secure it truly was. There was so much glass, which meant he could see that we were alone at reception, so if I screamed no one could hear me. Everyone was located on the floor above us, did he know that?

I started thinking about the security guard, the one I spent fond moments chatting to about the cost of housing in the township. The one I had considered giving money to so he could fix the soles of his son's school shoes. Now I felt he was utterly useless. Him and his black batton with ribbed rubber handles and the walkie talkie that never left his desk. Where was he anyway? Was he not meant to be monitoring the screens at all times? I had never thought about it before but now his lunch breaks were too long, and his smoking habit too convenient.

The boy, the man...the young man shifted his small hat and without announcement retreating to the door. I had not said anything at this point, perhaps I had not feigned understanding enough, had he seen my confusion, my fear? He was not leaving, he was simply walking away to stand at a new position to not look at me some more. The dysrhythmic talking started again, I caught the words "cyber attack." then he stopped, he was waiting for an answer. He glanced at me, briefly, then I saw he had translucent brown eyes which, ordered me to respond.

"What, I don't understand. What do you mean cyber attack?"

He looked annoyed, clasped his hands together as he shook them ever so slightly and continued to respond "Sometimes, when I email. It gets attacked. People who receive my emails are attacked - it disappears, deleted - how do you protect yourself against that?"

I opened my mouth to answer but realised I did not know what I would respond. Maybe he was a genius, a servante and no one could understand him? Maybe I should get my supervisor, and tell her what? I stuck to what I know, "Would you like to make a booking to come and use our computers to apply for a job, our next available date is Tuesday?"

He then turned to me and looked me in the eyes, this time I quickly looked down, then at my screen and pretended to be looking at something. Something about him was just so unsettling but I could not allow myself to feel that as I was not sure where that sense of discomfort was stemming from. Was I being prejudicial? Was it his dressing? No, he looked decently dressed enough, in a plain white t-shirt and torn jeans. We had people from all walks of life enter this establishment. Maybe it was the hat. It was one of those hats, it looked like a bucket hat that was to small for his head. The image that stood before me was the stereotype of the neighbourhood, township thief. The one media portrayed as the villain. I felt sick for feeling this way, like I was one of the caucasian women that clutched their purses when my black darling of a boyfriend took walks in a hoodie.

I realised I had been numbly smiling at him and he was yet to answer my question.

"I will be back on Tuesday. What time?"

"We open at 9am sir".

He walked away. Stopped. He turned around and looked at the Time Magazine from November 2017 that was lying on the reception counter.

"Can I take this?"

"No, that is for everyone to read while they wait."

He did not acknowledge my response and turned to walk out as a group opened the door to walk in. He did not wait for them to fully enter and bumped his shoulder roughly and painfully against the wood before vanishing out into the street. I took a deep breath in but before I could reconcile my emotions, the next group was calling for my attention.