By Jonathan Rivett
BENIGN TO FIVE
He rings me late on a Tuesday night. At first I think something's wrong.
It's awful to see friends trapped in their jobs.Credit:
"I'm getting out," he says. I don't know whether it's a scratchy connection or that's the way his voice is now. "Friday evening." The line goes dead.
Three days later, at dusk, I'm waiting out the front of the looming edifice. I feel like Elwood from the Blues Brothers without the old police car.
He steps out through an entrance that gapes as if astounded by its own monolithic size. A man in a neat uniform sends him away with a solemn pat on the back.
He blinks in the waning light, reacquainting himself with freedom. He looks pale even in the warming twilight glow.
He sees me leaning against the car, nods almost imperceptibly and heads over. We shake hands. I don't think "congratulations" is quite the right thing to say, so I stay silent.
That silence lasts for 10 minutes as we drive. Then I ask the obvious question: "What was it like?" "OK in the end," he replies, looking out the window.
"OK? You were their prisoner." "I was free to come and go as I chose." "You told me they were evil people." "I was wrong. They weren't evil. They were … just …" he searches for the right words.
This is Professional Stockholm Syndrome. Two years ago he told me this was the worst job he'd ever had and he had no way out. Now …
" … they were just … protecting their brand." I shake my head. "Where are we going?" I ask.
He's looking in the side mirror back at where we've just come from.
Jonathan Rivett logs thoughts on the web at haught.com.au. He wields a freelance pen at theinkbureau.com.au.