It had been raining for most of the day, and thanks to yesterdays rain, my jacket was at home attempting to dry. So I went upstairs an hour into my shift, to Christine in the offices. Christine had one of those faces of permanent distaste. Like she'd eaten something rotten ten years ago and never managed to get rid of the taste. She had long, curly brown hair and a slouching, tired walk. Probably why I wasn't looking forward to asking her for a new coat, or talking to her at all.
'Christine?' I asked over her shoulder.
She was looking down at her papers with a pen pressed down on it, like a child learning how to read. She let out a noise resembling a word. I guessed it was 'What?'
'Can you order me a new coat, please?'
'Haven't you got one?' Still looking down.
'I've been using my own, but it's at home drying. I wondered if I could order a yellow one. You know, like the ones Steve and Darren have?'
I know what you're thinking. A yellow one? But if it keeps me warm I don't care what colour it is. If it was pink with spots on I'd wear it, and happily be called Mr Blobby. Christine let out a big sigh, dropped her paper and got up.
'Follow me.' She said with another sigh.
How had she managed to get out of bed and dress herself this morning? If standing up is such a big task? I followed her out of the offices, along the walkway overlooking the store and to the stock room door. She sighed at least four more times before she unlocked the door and bumbled her way in. The room was packed to the brim with all sorts. Boxes of shoes all over the floor, brand new shirts wrapped with cellophane stacked upon the racking up the walls and packs of leaflets and brochures. Christine turned around and thrust something in my face. At first I thought it was an old beach towel, but after closer inspection it was a large, navy blue bomber jacket. It smelled like cigarette smoke and the sleeves were so worn through they were almost white. There were several stains and marks all over it, like thirty years of bodily fluid from an old, hairy trucker.
My face scrunched up, resembling Christine's distasteful face looking back at me. I didn't want to seem like I was mocking her, or ungrateful for the dirty truckers jacket, so I quickly spoke.
'Haven't you got anything else?'
'You're an XL aren't you?' She spat at me.
'Yes, XL is fine. But have you got another coat. Perhaps something....less...like that?'
'No.' Bluntly.
'Are you sure?' I tried. 'What about those two at the back?' Pointing at two pristine yellow coats hung up.
'They're taken.'
'Are you sure?'
'Yes!' She said after sighing.
That was it.
'Look! Have you got somewhere you need to be or do you mind helping me out a bit more!' I barked. Every consonant sharp and biting. She stared at me, her eyes trembling. Her face looked more distasteful than ever. Five minutes later I was in Sharon's office.
'So, you're here because apparently, you were rude to Christine.'
'You can call it rude but I was in the right.'
'You called her a cow.'
'Yes, yes I did.'
She looked at me, waiting for an explanation. So I gave her one.
'Because she is a cow. Do you know how many times she sighed whilst she was 'helping' me? Seven. Seven times. Does that sound like someone willing to help me?'
'She did help you.'
'Do I have to show you the coat again?'
'No, no. Keep that outside my office like I told you.' She said with a shudder.
'See?'
'She won't help you next time.'
'I'd be better off!'
'Again, back talk. You think you know everything, don't you. You students. Get back to work.'
So, my 'back talk' and rudeness towards Christine earned me a verbal warning. And when I got outside, I got verbal abuse.
'Look at that!' Steve yelled, holding his stomach.
'Jesus, Dylan!' Darren laughed. 'You look like a bouncer at a tramps party.'
Good one. I did look like a bouncer at a tramps party. Duncan had a more simple simile.
'You look like a tit, mate.'
Again, good one. The lads laughed a bit more. If I asked them to leave it, they kept going.
'Dylan, you could just borrow my other one.' Steve said.
'Really?'
'Yeah, it's in my car.'
'Really? You have another?'
'No, you tit!' Steve said laughing.
Of course, I was a tit. A tramp-bouncer-tit. Steve then asked me to go and clean out the trolley bay at the far end of the car park. Either the bay was clean or the smell of my coat was getting to him. I made my way over, getting a few odd looks from customers along the way. I raised my arms in a 'what can you do?' sort of way. Four or five empty bottles were in the corner of the trolley bay. It was festival season, so people buy their alcohol at the supermarket, then pour them into plastic water bottles. Good trick. I picked up a few bottles and mumbled a few curse words. Then turned around to put them into a trolley to see two young children staring at me, their mouths open. I stood, frozen, then watched as their mother come up behind them and shoo them away.
'Come on, come on children!'
The mother looked disgusted as she glared at me. Then I looked at myself, in a dirty, smelly bomber jacket, hidden inside a trolley bay, holding two empty vodka bottles, mumbling to myself.
'No, no...' I tried. But they'd rushed away.
It was time to go.
Tuesday, 31 August 2010
Sunday, 29 August 2010
Break, Rattle and Roll (Part Two)
When I looked up and saw Jenny walking back into the store, half of me wanted her to turn around and see me. Then, naturally, she would know I overheard her on the phone, be racked with guilt and confess everything to Sharon. Then it would be over. Jenny would get fired and the case would be over. Then again, as she did walk past me, maybe she did know I'd overheard the conversation. I imagine she'd trap me and offer things to me to keep my mouth shut. I could bribe her for things. Expensive things. Or I could take half of what she stole and run off to Reno or somewhere, building a strong yet fiery relationship which ultimately ends in us living together. But that was nonsense, or a Hollywood B-Movie, one of the two. Of course, she had Darren. And Jenny and Darren were in love, so it seemed, it could be the only excuse for singing James Blunt songs. That and just bad taste.
I finished my break and walked into the store, along the walkway overlooking the supermarket and past Sharon's office. I could hear her on the phone, shouting in her thick Scottish accent, which made it even thicker. I stopped for a moment to try and get a word of what she was shouting. Two cases of eavesdropping. I was scaring myself. Invading peoples lives like that. I had to take off my imaginary cape and deer stalker cap before I got myself into trouble. I had no business listening to either case, but the first one was kind of important, wasn't it? Sharon had said 'If you hear anything, let me know.' Her Scottish tones were echoing in my ear. Should I go in and tell her? Then it would be over. I could ask her to anonymous, of course. But then Jenny would know because she possibly saw me eavesdropping on her. Oh, this was interminable!
I couldn't win either way. I decided to leave it. Sit on it, as they say, and wondered downstairs and past the checkouts. Jenny was back working, bleeping food through silently. She looked a bit guilty. But not a hundred percent. She didn't look at me. But then again, she didn't seem to notice me. This was exhausting! I'd only been going five minutes and I was shattered. I was no crime solver, it's too stressful. And to make things worse, I bumped into someone walking in the other direction. I was too busy staring at Jenny I wasn't paying attention. It was Duncan, who'd just started his shift.
'Look where you're going, you tit!'
'Oh sorry, Duncan. Just a bit pre-occupied.' I nodded over to Jenny.
'Oh...ooohhh.' Noticing her. 'It's like that is it?!'
'No, no...'
'You'd better keep it quiet though. You know she's shagging Daz?'
Oh God. He used the word 'Shagging'. I didn't know we were in a 90's Sit-com. You know the ones, were everyone is 'shagging around' and deciding what they're doing with their tedious, 20 something lives. I hate those sit-coms.
'I know. I know. He's with her. That's not my point.'
'You better watch out, he'll have you!'
'No, no..'
He walked past me as I tried to explain. This was great, eavesdropping on crimes and accused of 'shagging' my mate's girlfriend. Not much of a Crime Investigator. You wouldn't catch Frost shagging about. He had bigger fish to fry.
Darren was outside, pushing the odd trolley up the store, whistling something. I tried to detect a hint of Blunt but it was pretty tuneless. One of those tuneless, happy whistles people do.
'All right, Daz.'
'Hey, how did the interview go?'
The interview. That seemed ages ago. I thought a moment about what to say. I already knew who the culprit was. Do people say 'culprit' any more? Anyway, I already knew who broke into the safe, I'd forgotten what happened in my interview.
'Erm, yeah, all right.'
'Cool. Mine went OK, too.'
We walked around for the last hour of my shift. I was a little distracted with the Jenny situation. It struck me that this was probably the first time more than one person was thinking about this girl, for different reasons. Jenny struck me as one of those girls who didn't like her parents, and vice-versa. Like she'd get home from work every day, lock herself in her room and play dance songs all night. I tried to get a bit of truth out of her, through Darren. I felt like I should have had a pad and pen in my hands, but I had to tell myself, again, that I wasn't a crime investigator.
'So, how's Jenny?'
Smooth.
'Yeah, she's cracking!'
'Getting on all right?'
'Yeah.'
'What she up to tonight?'
'Erm, I think she's going to her mates house.'
Yeah, to count her money.
'Oh, right. Have you noticed anything strange about her recently?'
'Erm, no. How'd you mean?'
'Just, you know, anything strange?'
Before Darren could think about my question, Duncan walked at us to start his 5pm – 10pm shift.
'All right, guys.'
'All right Duncan.' Darren said.
'Has that Scottish hag spoken to you, too?' Duncan asked.
'Yeah, both of us.' Darren said. 'Why would she be acting strange, Dylan?'
'Who's acting strange?' Duncan asked.
'Dylan's asking about Jenny.'
'Ohhh, Dylan. Bloody hell, mate. First you're staring at her when she works, now your trying to get at the boyfriend!'
'What?' Darren shifted his weight away from me.
'No, no. Duncan, shut up. I was just saying...'
'You stare at her?'
'No, no.'
'He does.'
'Shut up, Duncan.'
'She's seeing me, Dylan...'
'I know.'
'Looks like you don't know.'
'Shut. Up. Duncan.'
And the conversation went on like that for a good fifteen minutes. I couldn't explain to either of them my point because I didn't want to tell either of them the truth. I walked back into store with Duncan whooping and Darren threatening me. This never happened to Morse.
After my shift I picked up a few things from the store. Milk and tea bags that my mum had texted me to get. All in capital letters, like mothers do. 'PICK UP SOME MILK N T BAGS.' She thinks she's cool, you see. Last week she said a funny joke on TV was 'classic.' Too far, mother. I spotted Jenny at her till, coolly walked over and dropped the stuff on her belt. Playing it cool, it turns out, is quite difficult. I wanted to portray that she was the one hiding something. But as I spoke it seemed that I was the one hiding what I'd overheard.
'Hiya, Dylan. Hows Darren doing outside?'
'Oh, yeah. Fine.'
I had an idea.
'He's a bit worried about you, though.' I said coolly.
'He is? Why?'
'Oh, I don't know.' Getting the money from my wallet. 'He said you've been acting strange. A bit quiet.'
'I don't think so. I'll have a word with him.'
'No, no.' Dropping my wallet. That wasn't cool. 'That'll only worry him.'
'I suppose so. I bet Darren is worried about you, actually.'
'Me? Why?'
'Duncan says you've been looking at me.'
'No, no.'
I screamed 'Shut up, Duncan' in my mind as she smiled. She was loving this. She was the one who should be feeling guilty. I've never seen that in Columbo, half way through revealing who the perpetrator is and the guy jumps up and shouts 'You love me, Colly! You love me!' The anger rose inside of me as I marched up to Sharon's office. Unbelievable. Surely she should tell Sharon herself, but no! I have to do the right thing before Darren batters me for trying to get with the girl who should be fired by now!
Sharon's office door was ajar. I peeped inside to see her pacing up and down with a cigarette between her fingers.
'Knock knock' I said, knocking twice with my head through the door.
'What is it, Dylan?'
'Erm, can I sit down?'
'Yes.' With a sigh. 'Go ahead.' She sat down opposite me and stubbed out her cigarette.
'You allowed to smoke in here?'
'In my office?' She said bluntly, answering the question for me. 'What is it?'
'I have something to tell you. You know how you said that if I hear anything, I should come to you?'
'Yes.' Sitting up in her seat.
'Well...'
She was glaring at me, which made me nervous. I shifted my eyes away from her, out of the window to the car park outside. There were children running around at the front of the store, a taxi driver waiting impatiently beside his car and Darren, doing a litter pick. He looked so happy. No-one has ever been happy whilst picking up litter. He was still singing, throwing his head back, his eyes gleaming.
I couldn't do it.
'...well, I've put some feelers out, and if I get any information, you'll be the first to know.'
'You've put some....feelers out?'
'Yes. To feel...things.' My hands reaching out.
'Right. Is that all, Dylan?'
'Yes.' Getting out of my seat.
Sharon lit another cigarette. I got to the door and looked back.
'One more thing, though.'
'What?' Taking the unlit cigarette out of her lips.
'Duncan called you a 'Scottish hag.' I didn't know what that meant, you might want to ask him.'
Her eyes turned as red as her hair.
'I will. I'll speak to him. Send him up.'
You can't solve them all, can you?
I finished my break and walked into the store, along the walkway overlooking the supermarket and past Sharon's office. I could hear her on the phone, shouting in her thick Scottish accent, which made it even thicker. I stopped for a moment to try and get a word of what she was shouting. Two cases of eavesdropping. I was scaring myself. Invading peoples lives like that. I had to take off my imaginary cape and deer stalker cap before I got myself into trouble. I had no business listening to either case, but the first one was kind of important, wasn't it? Sharon had said 'If you hear anything, let me know.' Her Scottish tones were echoing in my ear. Should I go in and tell her? Then it would be over. I could ask her to anonymous, of course. But then Jenny would know because she possibly saw me eavesdropping on her. Oh, this was interminable!
I couldn't win either way. I decided to leave it. Sit on it, as they say, and wondered downstairs and past the checkouts. Jenny was back working, bleeping food through silently. She looked a bit guilty. But not a hundred percent. She didn't look at me. But then again, she didn't seem to notice me. This was exhausting! I'd only been going five minutes and I was shattered. I was no crime solver, it's too stressful. And to make things worse, I bumped into someone walking in the other direction. I was too busy staring at Jenny I wasn't paying attention. It was Duncan, who'd just started his shift.
'Look where you're going, you tit!'
'Oh sorry, Duncan. Just a bit pre-occupied.' I nodded over to Jenny.
'Oh...ooohhh.' Noticing her. 'It's like that is it?!'
'No, no...'
'You'd better keep it quiet though. You know she's shagging Daz?'
Oh God. He used the word 'Shagging'. I didn't know we were in a 90's Sit-com. You know the ones, were everyone is 'shagging around' and deciding what they're doing with their tedious, 20 something lives. I hate those sit-coms.
'I know. I know. He's with her. That's not my point.'
'You better watch out, he'll have you!'
'No, no..'
He walked past me as I tried to explain. This was great, eavesdropping on crimes and accused of 'shagging' my mate's girlfriend. Not much of a Crime Investigator. You wouldn't catch Frost shagging about. He had bigger fish to fry.
Darren was outside, pushing the odd trolley up the store, whistling something. I tried to detect a hint of Blunt but it was pretty tuneless. One of those tuneless, happy whistles people do.
'All right, Daz.'
'Hey, how did the interview go?'
The interview. That seemed ages ago. I thought a moment about what to say. I already knew who the culprit was. Do people say 'culprit' any more? Anyway, I already knew who broke into the safe, I'd forgotten what happened in my interview.
'Erm, yeah, all right.'
'Cool. Mine went OK, too.'
We walked around for the last hour of my shift. I was a little distracted with the Jenny situation. It struck me that this was probably the first time more than one person was thinking about this girl, for different reasons. Jenny struck me as one of those girls who didn't like her parents, and vice-versa. Like she'd get home from work every day, lock herself in her room and play dance songs all night. I tried to get a bit of truth out of her, through Darren. I felt like I should have had a pad and pen in my hands, but I had to tell myself, again, that I wasn't a crime investigator.
'So, how's Jenny?'
Smooth.
'Yeah, she's cracking!'
'Getting on all right?'
'Yeah.'
'What she up to tonight?'
'Erm, I think she's going to her mates house.'
Yeah, to count her money.
'Oh, right. Have you noticed anything strange about her recently?'
'Erm, no. How'd you mean?'
'Just, you know, anything strange?'
Before Darren could think about my question, Duncan walked at us to start his 5pm – 10pm shift.
'All right, guys.'
'All right Duncan.' Darren said.
'Has that Scottish hag spoken to you, too?' Duncan asked.
'Yeah, both of us.' Darren said. 'Why would she be acting strange, Dylan?'
'Who's acting strange?' Duncan asked.
'Dylan's asking about Jenny.'
'Ohhh, Dylan. Bloody hell, mate. First you're staring at her when she works, now your trying to get at the boyfriend!'
'What?' Darren shifted his weight away from me.
'No, no. Duncan, shut up. I was just saying...'
'You stare at her?'
'No, no.'
'He does.'
'Shut up, Duncan.'
'She's seeing me, Dylan...'
'I know.'
'Looks like you don't know.'
'Shut. Up. Duncan.'
And the conversation went on like that for a good fifteen minutes. I couldn't explain to either of them my point because I didn't want to tell either of them the truth. I walked back into store with Duncan whooping and Darren threatening me. This never happened to Morse.
After my shift I picked up a few things from the store. Milk and tea bags that my mum had texted me to get. All in capital letters, like mothers do. 'PICK UP SOME MILK N T BAGS.' She thinks she's cool, you see. Last week she said a funny joke on TV was 'classic.' Too far, mother. I spotted Jenny at her till, coolly walked over and dropped the stuff on her belt. Playing it cool, it turns out, is quite difficult. I wanted to portray that she was the one hiding something. But as I spoke it seemed that I was the one hiding what I'd overheard.
'Hiya, Dylan. Hows Darren doing outside?'
'Oh, yeah. Fine.'
I had an idea.
'He's a bit worried about you, though.' I said coolly.
'He is? Why?'
'Oh, I don't know.' Getting the money from my wallet. 'He said you've been acting strange. A bit quiet.'
'I don't think so. I'll have a word with him.'
'No, no.' Dropping my wallet. That wasn't cool. 'That'll only worry him.'
'I suppose so. I bet Darren is worried about you, actually.'
'Me? Why?'
'Duncan says you've been looking at me.'
'No, no.'
I screamed 'Shut up, Duncan' in my mind as she smiled. She was loving this. She was the one who should be feeling guilty. I've never seen that in Columbo, half way through revealing who the perpetrator is and the guy jumps up and shouts 'You love me, Colly! You love me!' The anger rose inside of me as I marched up to Sharon's office. Unbelievable. Surely she should tell Sharon herself, but no! I have to do the right thing before Darren batters me for trying to get with the girl who should be fired by now!
Sharon's office door was ajar. I peeped inside to see her pacing up and down with a cigarette between her fingers.
'Knock knock' I said, knocking twice with my head through the door.
'What is it, Dylan?'
'Erm, can I sit down?'
'Yes.' With a sigh. 'Go ahead.' She sat down opposite me and stubbed out her cigarette.
'You allowed to smoke in here?'
'In my office?' She said bluntly, answering the question for me. 'What is it?'
'I have something to tell you. You know how you said that if I hear anything, I should come to you?'
'Yes.' Sitting up in her seat.
'Well...'
She was glaring at me, which made me nervous. I shifted my eyes away from her, out of the window to the car park outside. There were children running around at the front of the store, a taxi driver waiting impatiently beside his car and Darren, doing a litter pick. He looked so happy. No-one has ever been happy whilst picking up litter. He was still singing, throwing his head back, his eyes gleaming.
I couldn't do it.
'...well, I've put some feelers out, and if I get any information, you'll be the first to know.'
'You've put some....feelers out?'
'Yes. To feel...things.' My hands reaching out.
'Right. Is that all, Dylan?'
'Yes.' Getting out of my seat.
Sharon lit another cigarette. I got to the door and looked back.
'One more thing, though.'
'What?' Taking the unlit cigarette out of her lips.
'Duncan called you a 'Scottish hag.' I didn't know what that meant, you might want to ask him.'
Her eyes turned as red as her hair.
'I will. I'll speak to him. Send him up.'
You can't solve them all, can you?
Friday, 27 August 2010
Break, Rattle and Roll (Part One)
Darren and Jenny had been seeing each other for around six months. The day he posted the valentines card in her locker, she rushed over to him on the car park and gave him a huge hug. Apparently she thought it was romantic, if a little bit creepy. Just the right amount of romanticism to overcast the creepiness, since then they've been in a relationship. Darren has promised her to tone down his creepiness. Especially after he confessed he watches her when she sleeps. Sometimes naked. Don't ask me how I know that.
It's really annoying working with someone who is in love. With Steve, the only thing he loves is limited edition Def Leppard vinyl. And his garage, or 'the den' as he calls it. I can't even begin to imagine what he's got it there. Every time I do I get this mental image of him sat in his boxer shorts on a recliner with a beer, just staring at dusty memorabilia on the walls. That's if his mum lets him have things on the walls. The twins don't really seem to possess a love for everything. Alex can't love that car he's got, surely. I can't speak for Duncan and his collection of dead bees though. It's amazing what you can find at a car boot sale. But working with a loved up Darren is awful. If he's not singing that James Blunt song he's sending text messages of the lyrics to her. I swear If I hear that song again I'm going to find James Blunt and drown the bastard. Still, nice to see Darren happy.
'I'm so happy.' Darren said, in the middle of a different conversation.
'Glad to hear it, mate.'
'Were there any birds at college?'
'University. We weren't allowed wildlife.'
'You know what I mean, smart arse.'
'There were. But they were all unavailable.'
'That's what they told you.'
'They did actually.'
'And what's wrong with calling them birds? Jenny let's me call her a bird.'
And that tells you all you need to know about Jenny. That and she dropped out of her Hairdressing course at college because it was 'too stressful.' Hmmm.
'It's a little bit disrespectful, isn't it?'
'Disrespectful? Disrespectful would be to tie her up, call her a bitch...'
'Yes, all right, Darren!'
'Smack her...'
'OK, OK I get the point!'
'See? That's disrespectful. Me? I'm a gentleman.'
A young lady walked past us with a trolley of shopping. Darren watched her stroll past.
'Wow, look at the tits on that.' Darren said, a bit louder that a whisper.
Yeah, a real gentleman.
It was a Monday and I'd taken my break early to get away from Darren's singing. He'd moved on to that Bryan Adams song by two o'clock and I couldn't stay for the whole four minutes. Plus he managed to fit the word 'Jenny' into every line.
'You can't tell me, Jenny, it's not worth fighting for! You know it's true, everything i do, Jenny, i do it for you!'
Darren's no singer, but he insisted on screeching it an octave higher, scrunching his face up in the process. I just couldn't take it. God knows what it looked like from the offices upstairs. Two lads walking around the car park together, one of the them singing to the other, his face looking like he's half way through an orgasm. I sat outside on a bench, aimlessly pressing buttons on my phone. I looked across to a huddle of checkout girls under the colleague entrance, all smoking and in loud conversation. Every smokers conversation looks twice as interesting that the non-smokers. I'm always faintly envious that I can't go over there, coolly say 'lend us a fag, will ya?' light up and join in a fascinating debate about last nights telly. It's always a great trait to have at party's too. If I'm sat at a table of people I don't really know or want to know, smoking is a great excuse to leave the room. Non-smokers can't do that. Well, they can, but it would come out like 'Excuse me, I'm just going to....stand outside for a bit...on my own.' You won't get invited to another party.
Sharon was outside talking to Darren when I finished my break. Sharon hardly ever came outside, apart from that time Steve knocked over that child with the electric trolley pushing machine. He protested it was an accident, but we all heard the kid call his ponytail 'gay'. He only looked about nine. Sharon finished talking to Darren and spotted me, her next target.
'And you, Dylan. I'll see you at quarter past four.'
'Right. What for?'
'My office.'
'Yes, what for?'
'So, I'll see you at quarter past four.' Walking past me.
'OK, but wha...'
'I'll tell you at quarter past four!' She barked, walking back to the store.
I'm not a genius or anything, but her lack of information made me think it was pretty important. I'd never been in Sharon's office. I just imagined it to be a starkly painted room, no artwork on the walls, just a tidy desk with an A4 pad on it.
'What's this all about, Daz?'
'She want to see you, too?'
'Yeah.'
'Yeah, I don't know. I have to be in her office at four o'clock. When I asked her why she just kept saying...'
'Four o'clock?'
'Yeah.'
'Yeah, she wants me in at quarter past.'
We wondered around the car park. There weren't many trolleys out today. After the lunch time rush we always have to wait until about half four, when all the mum's turn up to do their big shop. Neither of us could figure out why Sharon wanted to see us.
'Maybe you're getting fired.' Darren said, eyes widening.
'Why?'
'I don't know. You tell me...'
'Can't think of anything. And besides, why would she want to see you too?'
'Maybe she wants a me to do the firing.'
'She's the manager, Daz. And you've never had any responsibility here. Since you used the forklift truck in the warehouse. How did Eddies operation go, anyway?'
'Fine! He said I could use it. It's not my fault he got in the way!'
'Sure.'
We couldn't think of anything. We retraced our days to find any hint of action that would cause Sharon to want to see us. I know we don't work very hard but she knew that, didn't she? Surely it can't be that. When Darren came out he couldn't tell me what it was about. Which made me more nervous. I don't cope well in meetings and interviews. My brain seizes up and I can't speak. During my interview to get into University I kept nodding and saying the same thing over and over. I swear the interviewer thought I was Rain Man by the end of it.
I sat down in Sharon's starkly coloured, artlessness room. At her desk, an A4 pad of paper with a desk lamp angled over it. Had I entered the set of The Bill? Was she going to shine the lamp in my eyes and call awful names to get the truth out of me? I began to sweat, I could feel the stutters and repetitions coming. But this was silly, I hadn't done anything, that I could think of anyway. So I decided to play it cool.
'What's going on, Shazza?'
She glared at me. Wrong decision. I cleared my throat and looked down at the pad of paper. She'd taken notes. Quite a lot of notes actually. Darren must have said a lot.
'Right, Dylan. I've interviewed the rest of the porters and you're the last one.'
Oh God. What had I done? What had we done? This was bad.
'Last week, the safe that we have in our reception was broken into. Do you know anything?'
Was that it? 'Do I know anything?' No light in the eyes or pinning to the wall or awful names? Not even a nipple twist? I looked around the room, nervously. Then quickly realised I had no idea what she was talking about.
'Erm...no.' I said.
Oh shit. That's exactly what someone who did know something would say.
'Are you sure?' Fixing her stare at me.
'Yes, I'm sure. The safe was broken into? Can't you just look at the CCTV footage?'
'Done that. But we didn't move it back in position after Raheem moved it, to catch Deirdre doing that dance she does.'
'Ah, the caterpillar.'
'Yes. The caterpillar.' She said distastefully.
A new hip, two divorces and she's 65 years old. Good on you Deirdre. She's running the marathon next week.
'I'm sorry, Sharon, I don't know anything. I wouldn't know how to get into a safe. Plus, you know, I wouldn't want to to...' She narrowed her eyes at me. 'Because it's illegal and that.'
'Yes, well. Thank you anyway, Dylan.'
'No problem. Good luck with the manhunt.'
'Man?'
'Or woman...'
'Yes, well, i'm not alone. I've got Anne helping me out.'
'That old woman in the canteen?'
'Yes. She's got every series of Jonathon Creek on DVD.'
'Oh, well she's bound to crack the case, Sharon.'
'That is all, Dylan. Remember if you hear anything, let me know.'
Sharon didn't do humour. You know how people say 'I don't do early mornings' or 'I don't do rainy days'? Well, Sharon didn't do humour. I walked out with the heavy door clanging behind me. I went through the interview, if you can call it that, in my head. If Raheem moved the camera, maybe it was him. Maybe he knew he was going to break into the safe days before and moved it in a cunning scheme. I bet he felt so smug after everyone forgot about the camera out of position. The crafty little schemer. I don't like schemers. Then again, Deirdre does a cracking caterpillar dance, I can see why he would want it on film. That's probably why he arranged a meeting the next day for everyone to watch the footage in the interview room. Sharon was furious. She had to re-arrange all her interviews for that day.
I walked outside. Decided I needed another break. I figured Sharon had more on her plate than to worry about my overuse of breaks. I leaned against the wall by the bin. It hadn't been changed today, with about thirty odd cigarette butts screwed on top of it. The smell was disgusting so I moved along the wall a bit. As I did I could hear a muffled voice. It was coming from the nook in the wall where some smokers stand. It was a perfect little hiding place for skivers. I'm surprised more people don't use it. Then again, it was covered in fag ends and empty packets of crisps. The voice was of a young girl's and the conversation I was hearing was only one sided. I put together quite quickly that she was on her phone. God, I was good. I should join Sharon and Anne's little investigation team. Sharon, Anne and Dylan. S.A.D...No, that sounds bad. D.A.S Crime Investigation!
'Well, I can't tell anyone.' I overheard. She was speaking very softly, almost whispering. 'It's was only a few hundred quid....No, of course not. If i hand it back in they'll fire me.'
Oh, god. It was someone talking about breaking into the safe! It was a colleague! A colleague had broken into the safe! Suddenly I became very self aware. I was stood about two feet away and pictured myself with a deer stalker on, and a cape, complete with a magnifying glass pointing in her direction. I'd look good in a cape, but that's for another time. She finished her conversation abruptly. I put together that this girl had broken into the Supermarkets safe, gotten away with a few hundred quid and the person on the end of the phone was trying to persuade her to give it back. I sum up quite well, don't I? I don't need Sharon and Anne anymore.
When she bleeped her phone I heard her move out of the little nook in the wall. I swiftly moved away from her, sliding against the bricks, which tore at my back, making a scratching noise. I ignored the pain and looked to the floor, watching the shadow of the girl walk past me. When she got to the door I looked up at her. It was Jenny.
End of part one.
It's really annoying working with someone who is in love. With Steve, the only thing he loves is limited edition Def Leppard vinyl. And his garage, or 'the den' as he calls it. I can't even begin to imagine what he's got it there. Every time I do I get this mental image of him sat in his boxer shorts on a recliner with a beer, just staring at dusty memorabilia on the walls. That's if his mum lets him have things on the walls. The twins don't really seem to possess a love for everything. Alex can't love that car he's got, surely. I can't speak for Duncan and his collection of dead bees though. It's amazing what you can find at a car boot sale. But working with a loved up Darren is awful. If he's not singing that James Blunt song he's sending text messages of the lyrics to her. I swear If I hear that song again I'm going to find James Blunt and drown the bastard. Still, nice to see Darren happy.
'I'm so happy.' Darren said, in the middle of a different conversation.
'Glad to hear it, mate.'
'Were there any birds at college?'
'University. We weren't allowed wildlife.'
'You know what I mean, smart arse.'
'There were. But they were all unavailable.'
'That's what they told you.'
'They did actually.'
'And what's wrong with calling them birds? Jenny let's me call her a bird.'
And that tells you all you need to know about Jenny. That and she dropped out of her Hairdressing course at college because it was 'too stressful.' Hmmm.
'It's a little bit disrespectful, isn't it?'
'Disrespectful? Disrespectful would be to tie her up, call her a bitch...'
'Yes, all right, Darren!'
'Smack her...'
'OK, OK I get the point!'
'See? That's disrespectful. Me? I'm a gentleman.'
A young lady walked past us with a trolley of shopping. Darren watched her stroll past.
'Wow, look at the tits on that.' Darren said, a bit louder that a whisper.
Yeah, a real gentleman.
It was a Monday and I'd taken my break early to get away from Darren's singing. He'd moved on to that Bryan Adams song by two o'clock and I couldn't stay for the whole four minutes. Plus he managed to fit the word 'Jenny' into every line.
'You can't tell me, Jenny, it's not worth fighting for! You know it's true, everything i do, Jenny, i do it for you!'
Darren's no singer, but he insisted on screeching it an octave higher, scrunching his face up in the process. I just couldn't take it. God knows what it looked like from the offices upstairs. Two lads walking around the car park together, one of the them singing to the other, his face looking like he's half way through an orgasm. I sat outside on a bench, aimlessly pressing buttons on my phone. I looked across to a huddle of checkout girls under the colleague entrance, all smoking and in loud conversation. Every smokers conversation looks twice as interesting that the non-smokers. I'm always faintly envious that I can't go over there, coolly say 'lend us a fag, will ya?' light up and join in a fascinating debate about last nights telly. It's always a great trait to have at party's too. If I'm sat at a table of people I don't really know or want to know, smoking is a great excuse to leave the room. Non-smokers can't do that. Well, they can, but it would come out like 'Excuse me, I'm just going to....stand outside for a bit...on my own.' You won't get invited to another party.
Sharon was outside talking to Darren when I finished my break. Sharon hardly ever came outside, apart from that time Steve knocked over that child with the electric trolley pushing machine. He protested it was an accident, but we all heard the kid call his ponytail 'gay'. He only looked about nine. Sharon finished talking to Darren and spotted me, her next target.
'And you, Dylan. I'll see you at quarter past four.'
'Right. What for?'
'My office.'
'Yes, what for?'
'So, I'll see you at quarter past four.' Walking past me.
'OK, but wha...'
'I'll tell you at quarter past four!' She barked, walking back to the store.
I'm not a genius or anything, but her lack of information made me think it was pretty important. I'd never been in Sharon's office. I just imagined it to be a starkly painted room, no artwork on the walls, just a tidy desk with an A4 pad on it.
'What's this all about, Daz?'
'She want to see you, too?'
'Yeah.'
'Yeah, I don't know. I have to be in her office at four o'clock. When I asked her why she just kept saying...'
'Four o'clock?'
'Yeah.'
'Yeah, she wants me in at quarter past.'
We wondered around the car park. There weren't many trolleys out today. After the lunch time rush we always have to wait until about half four, when all the mum's turn up to do their big shop. Neither of us could figure out why Sharon wanted to see us.
'Maybe you're getting fired.' Darren said, eyes widening.
'Why?'
'I don't know. You tell me...'
'Can't think of anything. And besides, why would she want to see you too?'
'Maybe she wants a me to do the firing.'
'She's the manager, Daz. And you've never had any responsibility here. Since you used the forklift truck in the warehouse. How did Eddies operation go, anyway?'
'Fine! He said I could use it. It's not my fault he got in the way!'
'Sure.'
We couldn't think of anything. We retraced our days to find any hint of action that would cause Sharon to want to see us. I know we don't work very hard but she knew that, didn't she? Surely it can't be that. When Darren came out he couldn't tell me what it was about. Which made me more nervous. I don't cope well in meetings and interviews. My brain seizes up and I can't speak. During my interview to get into University I kept nodding and saying the same thing over and over. I swear the interviewer thought I was Rain Man by the end of it.
I sat down in Sharon's starkly coloured, artlessness room. At her desk, an A4 pad of paper with a desk lamp angled over it. Had I entered the set of The Bill? Was she going to shine the lamp in my eyes and call awful names to get the truth out of me? I began to sweat, I could feel the stutters and repetitions coming. But this was silly, I hadn't done anything, that I could think of anyway. So I decided to play it cool.
'What's going on, Shazza?'
She glared at me. Wrong decision. I cleared my throat and looked down at the pad of paper. She'd taken notes. Quite a lot of notes actually. Darren must have said a lot.
'Right, Dylan. I've interviewed the rest of the porters and you're the last one.'
Oh God. What had I done? What had we done? This was bad.
'Last week, the safe that we have in our reception was broken into. Do you know anything?'
Was that it? 'Do I know anything?' No light in the eyes or pinning to the wall or awful names? Not even a nipple twist? I looked around the room, nervously. Then quickly realised I had no idea what she was talking about.
'Erm...no.' I said.
Oh shit. That's exactly what someone who did know something would say.
'Are you sure?' Fixing her stare at me.
'Yes, I'm sure. The safe was broken into? Can't you just look at the CCTV footage?'
'Done that. But we didn't move it back in position after Raheem moved it, to catch Deirdre doing that dance she does.'
'Ah, the caterpillar.'
'Yes. The caterpillar.' She said distastefully.
A new hip, two divorces and she's 65 years old. Good on you Deirdre. She's running the marathon next week.
'I'm sorry, Sharon, I don't know anything. I wouldn't know how to get into a safe. Plus, you know, I wouldn't want to to...' She narrowed her eyes at me. 'Because it's illegal and that.'
'Yes, well. Thank you anyway, Dylan.'
'No problem. Good luck with the manhunt.'
'Man?'
'Or woman...'
'Yes, well, i'm not alone. I've got Anne helping me out.'
'That old woman in the canteen?'
'Yes. She's got every series of Jonathon Creek on DVD.'
'Oh, well she's bound to crack the case, Sharon.'
'That is all, Dylan. Remember if you hear anything, let me know.'
Sharon didn't do humour. You know how people say 'I don't do early mornings' or 'I don't do rainy days'? Well, Sharon didn't do humour. I walked out with the heavy door clanging behind me. I went through the interview, if you can call it that, in my head. If Raheem moved the camera, maybe it was him. Maybe he knew he was going to break into the safe days before and moved it in a cunning scheme. I bet he felt so smug after everyone forgot about the camera out of position. The crafty little schemer. I don't like schemers. Then again, Deirdre does a cracking caterpillar dance, I can see why he would want it on film. That's probably why he arranged a meeting the next day for everyone to watch the footage in the interview room. Sharon was furious. She had to re-arrange all her interviews for that day.
I walked outside. Decided I needed another break. I figured Sharon had more on her plate than to worry about my overuse of breaks. I leaned against the wall by the bin. It hadn't been changed today, with about thirty odd cigarette butts screwed on top of it. The smell was disgusting so I moved along the wall a bit. As I did I could hear a muffled voice. It was coming from the nook in the wall where some smokers stand. It was a perfect little hiding place for skivers. I'm surprised more people don't use it. Then again, it was covered in fag ends and empty packets of crisps. The voice was of a young girl's and the conversation I was hearing was only one sided. I put together quite quickly that she was on her phone. God, I was good. I should join Sharon and Anne's little investigation team. Sharon, Anne and Dylan. S.A.D...No, that sounds bad. D.A.S Crime Investigation!
'Well, I can't tell anyone.' I overheard. She was speaking very softly, almost whispering. 'It's was only a few hundred quid....No, of course not. If i hand it back in they'll fire me.'
Oh, god. It was someone talking about breaking into the safe! It was a colleague! A colleague had broken into the safe! Suddenly I became very self aware. I was stood about two feet away and pictured myself with a deer stalker on, and a cape, complete with a magnifying glass pointing in her direction. I'd look good in a cape, but that's for another time. She finished her conversation abruptly. I put together that this girl had broken into the Supermarkets safe, gotten away with a few hundred quid and the person on the end of the phone was trying to persuade her to give it back. I sum up quite well, don't I? I don't need Sharon and Anne anymore.
When she bleeped her phone I heard her move out of the little nook in the wall. I swiftly moved away from her, sliding against the bricks, which tore at my back, making a scratching noise. I ignored the pain and looked to the floor, watching the shadow of the girl walk past me. When she got to the door I looked up at her. It was Jenny.
End of part one.
Monday, 23 August 2010
Lee-sy Rider
'You'll go from here, down to the post office on Hester Street, over the bridge and through the park. You'll come out at Grater Road, where the temporary traffic lights are. Go round the edges of the town centre and through...'
Sharon kept going even though she knew nearly all of us weren't really listening any more. Darren was picking his teeth, Steve was busy humming a tune he couldn't remember the title of and the twins were playing paper, rock, scissors for money. I was listening though, I didn't want to get lost. Sharon didn't mind, she wasn't coming on this bike ride so she didn't care where we were going, she just had to read the directions out for health and safety.
'...and then you'll end up back here. Remember, it's for charity. So get your sponsors. The checkout girls are already collecting for you.'
'Why aren't they doing this bike ride?' Steve asked.
'Because, Steven, Sundays are our busiest day. Could you imagine going in to do your weeks shopping and finding twenty odd empty checkouts?'
'So, you're OK having empty trolley bays?'
'We'll send Steptoe out.'
Steptoe was Gareth, who works on the cigarettes counter. He doesn't know he's got that nickname, but everyone calls him that. Simply because he's got an odd limp, so when he walks, he's absolutely in-sync with the Steptoe & Son theme tune. Go on, sing it to yourself and think about how you would walk to it, that's Gareth's walk.
'So, there will be the five of you and Lee.'
'Oh, no, not Lee' Steve moaned.
'Who's Lee?' I asked.
'The new lad, taken Jim's hours out here. Started yesterday. Like getting blood out a stone.'
'Regardless, he's coming with you. Meet up here, tomorrow morning at ten.' Sharon said bluntly and marched away.
Saturday is the only day all the trolley pushers are on, besides this Lee lad. We spent the rest of the day talking about the next, our charity bike ride around town. I didn't mind signing up for it, I work Sundays anyway, so to get my old bicycle out for a days work was a no brainer. It seemed funny that I could have just given my days wage to charity rather than go on a bike ride, but, hey, I don't make the rules! It's odd how charity has evolved. Giving a few pence at your local church is sniffed at nowadays. Now, if you're not sat in a bath full of baked beans with a funny hat on, you're selfish.
Steve spent the whole day moaning about Lee. Steve was a good moaner. He was probably a better moaner than he was a bullshitter. Apparently this Lee wasn't much of a talker, he just did his job and went home. Or in Steve's words, 'a boring bastard.' I had no idea what him and Steve talked about yesterday, but according to Steve, Lee had no idea what Iron Maiden was, had been to no festivals or gigs and had no knowledge of Led Zeppelin's back catalogue. Steve was furious.
'I'm glad I'm only working one day with him, I just couldn't take it.'
I bet this Lee was thinking the same thing.
Sunday morning came around, I biked it up to the store on the first thing I could pull out of my shed. There were several bikes in there. If you can get past the lawn mower and the broken kitchen tiles, you'll find the old black one of my dads, a BMX of my brothers that he had before he left home, and my old one. A rusty bit of scaffolding with wheels on the end of it. We all met up around quarter to ten, Steve, Darren and the twins were already waiting, their bikes stacked up beside the trolleys. They'd all had to borrow the stores bikes, straight off the shop floor with the price labels ripped off.
'Morning Dylan' Darren said, holding a half eaten bacon sandwich.
'Morning.'
'Those look new.' Looking down at the bikes.
'They're from in there.' Nodding back into store.
'You not got a bike of your own?'
I knew the answer already. Of course he hadn't got one of his own. Steve was wearing tight light blue jeans, a black t-shirt with a dragon on it and a Motorhead cap. Not really biking attire, or fund raising attire for that matter. I can't see old ladies stopping us in the street giving us their loose change, when the guy at the front looks like a Metallica roadie.
'We all here then?' I asked, changing the subject.
'Aye, Lee's over there.'
Steve pointed towards the side of the store. There stood Lee, smoking a cigarette and doing various stretches. He looked about my age, but more rough cut. Like he'd had a bad paper round as a kid and never really got over it. Formally from down south, he'd come up here to live with his grandparents.
'He looks up for it.'
'Not said a word all morning. Boring bastard.' Steve shook his head.
'We've only been here ten minutes.' Darren said.
'Yeah, so?'
'I bet he's still pondering over what his favourite Zeppelin song is.' I smiled.
'Shut it, student.' That was my new nickname. I'd complain, but he calls other people worse.
We set off, there was a light breeze and the sky looked like the sky you see in The Simpsons. Bright and blue with a few fluffy white clouds scattered around it. A perfect day for a bike ride. We rode down to the post office at a leisurely pace, over the bridge and through the park, just like Sharon said. Then we split into two's, the twins at the front, then Steve and Darren, riding side by side chatting about the latest Saw film, leaving me and Lee at the back. He hadn't spoke a word. With one hand on the wheel, another hand nursing a roll up. When he wasn't smoking he was chewing violently, all in black with a chunky gold chain around his neck. I did that thing you do during awkward silences, whistling a tuneless tune and making odd noises with my lips.
'So, you like it at work, then?' I tried.
'S'all right.' He shrugged.
I nodded. Quite a lot, actually. Too much, thinking about it. A few seconds into the nod he glared at me. I was nodding like he'd just told me something interesting, and he knew it wasn't interesting. I knew it wasn't interesting. It's pretty safe to say that this lad had never been interesting. I watched his eyebrows fall, then he raced off towards the others. Unbelievable, he looks like the one who's been on Crime Watch reconstructions, and I look like the weird one. I shouldn't have felt like that during charity work. I should have been smiling in photo's with one of those oversized cheques.
Half way through the ride we passed a pub, so we stopped and went in. This was great, drinking in a pub on a Sunday afternoon. I felt just like my Dad. Even though I'd only had a half pint of coke it felt good. It was only when ordering our second round we realised we were one man missing.
'Where's Lee?' Duncan slurred. He'd only had one pint.
'Boring bastard.' Steve said automatically, before taking a shot of his and Darren's game of pool.
'I don't know. He didn't come in with us.' Alex said.
'You were with him, Dylan. He was your responsibility!' Steve said.
'He's not eight!' I proclaimed.
'He is the new lad. He was our responsibility.'
'He rode off after I tried to speak to him.'
'Boring bastard.'
'Steve, shut up.'
'Well where can he be?'
'Probably gone back to the store.'
'You reckon?'
'Naa, he's probably gone home, the boring b...'
'Steve, if you say that again one more time!'
During the next ten minutes our panic grew. We all came to the conclusion that Lee was new to this area and probably lost. And it was all our fault. This is what happens when you try and do something good for charity. It's no wonder people do the obvious stuff like wear funny hats. There's no danger in funny hats. Now we where in the middle of the town, one man down. We can't go back to the store one man down, can we? Maybe Sharon won't realise. Steve said he was boring. If we all got rid of all the boring people in our lives, life would be great. Think of that, raising money for charity and getting rid of boring people. We could get a medal, or at least our name in the paper. During our second round we calmed down and all agreed Lee had probably gone back to the store. If not, we all agreed to say the same thing.
'Remember' Steve said. 'He rode off when we were in the park.'
We all nodded in agreement and trotted outside, the sky was still blue and Simpsons-like. It was 2.30pm and after a few drinks we all felt relaxed. We wondered around the corner of the pub whilst chit chatting, I felt I'd grown a little closer to the lads so far today. We felt happy in each others company. The sun was shining and the thought that we were getting paid for this day was a pleasant one. After all, we were doing something for a good cause, together, in the sun. That happiness was cut short when we looked at the bike rack. Five bike locks cut into several pieces, and no bikes in sight.
Lee.
'Oh, shit. Shitty shit shitter!' Duncan shouted.
'What the hells gone on here?' Steve said, taking off is Motorhead cap.
'What does it look like, Steve? Are you thick?'
'All right, calm down.'
'Shit. Shitting shitter!!'
We caught the bus back to the store and walked in sheepishly. We explained what happened to Sharon and spent the last hour cleaning up the car park with Steptoe. Lee never came back to work, of course. That moment he rode off in the park was the last time I saw him. Maybe he went back down south. The next day a large flyer was stuck up in the canteen, which read.
DEAR COLLEAGUES,
DUE TO OUR RECENT INNCIDENT INVOLVING OUR PORTERS AND THE CHARITY BIKE RIDE, ALL THE MONEY RAISED BY SEVERAL MEMBERS OF OUR CHECKOUT TEAM WILL GO TO PURCHASING NEW BICYCLES AND NOT OUR SELECTED CHARITY.
SHARON
Next year I'm sticking to wearing a funny hat.
Sharon kept going even though she knew nearly all of us weren't really listening any more. Darren was picking his teeth, Steve was busy humming a tune he couldn't remember the title of and the twins were playing paper, rock, scissors for money. I was listening though, I didn't want to get lost. Sharon didn't mind, she wasn't coming on this bike ride so she didn't care where we were going, she just had to read the directions out for health and safety.
'...and then you'll end up back here. Remember, it's for charity. So get your sponsors. The checkout girls are already collecting for you.'
'Why aren't they doing this bike ride?' Steve asked.
'Because, Steven, Sundays are our busiest day. Could you imagine going in to do your weeks shopping and finding twenty odd empty checkouts?'
'So, you're OK having empty trolley bays?'
'We'll send Steptoe out.'
Steptoe was Gareth, who works on the cigarettes counter. He doesn't know he's got that nickname, but everyone calls him that. Simply because he's got an odd limp, so when he walks, he's absolutely in-sync with the Steptoe & Son theme tune. Go on, sing it to yourself and think about how you would walk to it, that's Gareth's walk.
'So, there will be the five of you and Lee.'
'Oh, no, not Lee' Steve moaned.
'Who's Lee?' I asked.
'The new lad, taken Jim's hours out here. Started yesterday. Like getting blood out a stone.'
'Regardless, he's coming with you. Meet up here, tomorrow morning at ten.' Sharon said bluntly and marched away.
Saturday is the only day all the trolley pushers are on, besides this Lee lad. We spent the rest of the day talking about the next, our charity bike ride around town. I didn't mind signing up for it, I work Sundays anyway, so to get my old bicycle out for a days work was a no brainer. It seemed funny that I could have just given my days wage to charity rather than go on a bike ride, but, hey, I don't make the rules! It's odd how charity has evolved. Giving a few pence at your local church is sniffed at nowadays. Now, if you're not sat in a bath full of baked beans with a funny hat on, you're selfish.
Steve spent the whole day moaning about Lee. Steve was a good moaner. He was probably a better moaner than he was a bullshitter. Apparently this Lee wasn't much of a talker, he just did his job and went home. Or in Steve's words, 'a boring bastard.' I had no idea what him and Steve talked about yesterday, but according to Steve, Lee had no idea what Iron Maiden was, had been to no festivals or gigs and had no knowledge of Led Zeppelin's back catalogue. Steve was furious.
'I'm glad I'm only working one day with him, I just couldn't take it.'
I bet this Lee was thinking the same thing.
Sunday morning came around, I biked it up to the store on the first thing I could pull out of my shed. There were several bikes in there. If you can get past the lawn mower and the broken kitchen tiles, you'll find the old black one of my dads, a BMX of my brothers that he had before he left home, and my old one. A rusty bit of scaffolding with wheels on the end of it. We all met up around quarter to ten, Steve, Darren and the twins were already waiting, their bikes stacked up beside the trolleys. They'd all had to borrow the stores bikes, straight off the shop floor with the price labels ripped off.
'Morning Dylan' Darren said, holding a half eaten bacon sandwich.
'Morning.'
'Those look new.' Looking down at the bikes.
'They're from in there.' Nodding back into store.
'You not got a bike of your own?'
I knew the answer already. Of course he hadn't got one of his own. Steve was wearing tight light blue jeans, a black t-shirt with a dragon on it and a Motorhead cap. Not really biking attire, or fund raising attire for that matter. I can't see old ladies stopping us in the street giving us their loose change, when the guy at the front looks like a Metallica roadie.
'We all here then?' I asked, changing the subject.
'Aye, Lee's over there.'
Steve pointed towards the side of the store. There stood Lee, smoking a cigarette and doing various stretches. He looked about my age, but more rough cut. Like he'd had a bad paper round as a kid and never really got over it. Formally from down south, he'd come up here to live with his grandparents.
'He looks up for it.'
'Not said a word all morning. Boring bastard.' Steve shook his head.
'We've only been here ten minutes.' Darren said.
'Yeah, so?'
'I bet he's still pondering over what his favourite Zeppelin song is.' I smiled.
'Shut it, student.' That was my new nickname. I'd complain, but he calls other people worse.
We set off, there was a light breeze and the sky looked like the sky you see in The Simpsons. Bright and blue with a few fluffy white clouds scattered around it. A perfect day for a bike ride. We rode down to the post office at a leisurely pace, over the bridge and through the park, just like Sharon said. Then we split into two's, the twins at the front, then Steve and Darren, riding side by side chatting about the latest Saw film, leaving me and Lee at the back. He hadn't spoke a word. With one hand on the wheel, another hand nursing a roll up. When he wasn't smoking he was chewing violently, all in black with a chunky gold chain around his neck. I did that thing you do during awkward silences, whistling a tuneless tune and making odd noises with my lips.
'So, you like it at work, then?' I tried.
'S'all right.' He shrugged.
I nodded. Quite a lot, actually. Too much, thinking about it. A few seconds into the nod he glared at me. I was nodding like he'd just told me something interesting, and he knew it wasn't interesting. I knew it wasn't interesting. It's pretty safe to say that this lad had never been interesting. I watched his eyebrows fall, then he raced off towards the others. Unbelievable, he looks like the one who's been on Crime Watch reconstructions, and I look like the weird one. I shouldn't have felt like that during charity work. I should have been smiling in photo's with one of those oversized cheques.
Half way through the ride we passed a pub, so we stopped and went in. This was great, drinking in a pub on a Sunday afternoon. I felt just like my Dad. Even though I'd only had a half pint of coke it felt good. It was only when ordering our second round we realised we were one man missing.
'Where's Lee?' Duncan slurred. He'd only had one pint.
'Boring bastard.' Steve said automatically, before taking a shot of his and Darren's game of pool.
'I don't know. He didn't come in with us.' Alex said.
'You were with him, Dylan. He was your responsibility!' Steve said.
'He's not eight!' I proclaimed.
'He is the new lad. He was our responsibility.'
'He rode off after I tried to speak to him.'
'Boring bastard.'
'Steve, shut up.'
'Well where can he be?'
'Probably gone back to the store.'
'You reckon?'
'Naa, he's probably gone home, the boring b...'
'Steve, if you say that again one more time!'
During the next ten minutes our panic grew. We all came to the conclusion that Lee was new to this area and probably lost. And it was all our fault. This is what happens when you try and do something good for charity. It's no wonder people do the obvious stuff like wear funny hats. There's no danger in funny hats. Now we where in the middle of the town, one man down. We can't go back to the store one man down, can we? Maybe Sharon won't realise. Steve said he was boring. If we all got rid of all the boring people in our lives, life would be great. Think of that, raising money for charity and getting rid of boring people. We could get a medal, or at least our name in the paper. During our second round we calmed down and all agreed Lee had probably gone back to the store. If not, we all agreed to say the same thing.
'Remember' Steve said. 'He rode off when we were in the park.'
We all nodded in agreement and trotted outside, the sky was still blue and Simpsons-like. It was 2.30pm and after a few drinks we all felt relaxed. We wondered around the corner of the pub whilst chit chatting, I felt I'd grown a little closer to the lads so far today. We felt happy in each others company. The sun was shining and the thought that we were getting paid for this day was a pleasant one. After all, we were doing something for a good cause, together, in the sun. That happiness was cut short when we looked at the bike rack. Five bike locks cut into several pieces, and no bikes in sight.
Lee.
'Oh, shit. Shitty shit shitter!' Duncan shouted.
'What the hells gone on here?' Steve said, taking off is Motorhead cap.
'What does it look like, Steve? Are you thick?'
'All right, calm down.'
'Shit. Shitting shitter!!'
We caught the bus back to the store and walked in sheepishly. We explained what happened to Sharon and spent the last hour cleaning up the car park with Steptoe. Lee never came back to work, of course. That moment he rode off in the park was the last time I saw him. Maybe he went back down south. The next day a large flyer was stuck up in the canteen, which read.
DEAR COLLEAGUES,
DUE TO OUR RECENT INNCIDENT INVOLVING OUR PORTERS AND THE CHARITY BIKE RIDE, ALL THE MONEY RAISED BY SEVERAL MEMBERS OF OUR CHECKOUT TEAM WILL GO TO PURCHASING NEW BICYCLES AND NOT OUR SELECTED CHARITY.
SHARON
Next year I'm sticking to wearing a funny hat.
The Phone Ranger
Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday dear me. Happy birthday to me.
Yes, twenty three years old today, and what a way to celebrate by pushing trolleys on a cold Tuesday in the rain. Happy birthday to me.
We all reach that age in life when your Mum is far more excited about you turning another year older than you are. For most it's 19 or so. Others, (mentioning no names, Steve) it's in their late forties. For my 21st I had a party with family and friends. My Uni friend Jason booked a stripper, much to the displeasure of my Grandparents, who got covered in baby oil during the strip. On hindsight I wish he'd have booked a female one instead. Apparently, Mr Love Truncheon was cheaper than Miss Handcuffs.
For my 22nd me and my Mum went on a trip to Germany. Which involved three days of haggling with old German shopkeepers for bars of chocolate. I don't speak German and they knew I was a tourist. Pasty white legs and a camera around my neck were the obvious signs. I'd hold out a handful of Euros and they'd take anything they wanted. I only found out when I got back I'd paid £6.40 for a walnut whip. But on my 23rd birthday I was woken by my Mum with a cup of tea and a card. She already bought me driving lessons so I wasn't expecting anything. She even put sugar in my tea.
The only present I got was when I clocked in for my shift that day. I looked up at the notice board on the wall, which I never pay attention to normally. It's full of numbers and figures about sales and things that don't concern the trolley pushers. But at the top I noticed my name in capital letters, under the words 'HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO:' I was made up, the whole store knew it was my birthday, and, according to the board, a woman from the canteen called Janice. Happy birthday Janice! Maybe we'll sit down together and they'll bring out a big cake. With party hats and jelly. I jumped up and down a bit, staring up at my name. In capital letters. Everyone loves their name in capital letters. It makes you feel important. If you saw a tramp's name in capitals you'd think they'd at least own their own shoes. I got my phone out of my pocket and angled it up to my name to take a picture. I wanted proof that I was important, held in my phone forever. As I clicked the capture button I heard a voice behind me.
'Not got a signal, Dylan?'
It was Sharon, in a blue pinstripe suit and hair more scraped back than usual, as if it was stretching her face from either side.
'Oh, no. My name, up there.' Pointing at the board.
'Can I remind you, Dylan...' Keeping her eyes on me. 'that mobile phones are prohibited from the shop-floor whilst clocked in.'
'I don't work on shop-floor though do I, Sharon. I work on the car park.' I smiled at her but didn't get one back. Tough crowd. 'No, it's my birthday today. So I thought I'd...you know...take a picture of my name.' Still pointing at the board.
'Phones are prohibited, Dylan. Keep it in your locker.' She said bluntly, still looking at me. Did she know the board was there? I know It was a boring board but she's a manager. Managers love notice boards.
'All the rest of the porter have them in their pockets.'
Thirty seconds later we were all outside the store, huddled around Sharon who was holding an empty plastic bag.
'Phones are prohibited. In the bag, gentlemen.'
We all threw our phones in, apart from Steve. He wasn't going down without a fight.
'But Sharon, I need mine on me at all times. I need to be available. My mum has arthritis, she could fall over at any time.'
'Then she wouldn't be able to get to the phone.' Sharon replied without blinking.
'Sorry?'
'If she fell over. She wouldn't be able to get to the phone.'
Steve suddenly looked terrified.
'I'll just give her a quick call.' He squawked and rushed away.
'Thanks a lot, Dylan!' Darren barked at me.
'I've got more important things to deal with today without keeping an eye on you outside playing on your phones. We all know it's a big day.'
Darren and I stared at her, blankly.
'Don't you read the notice board?'
No, I'm the weirdo who just takes pictures of it.
'We have a Celebrity visit today.' Knotting the plastic bag. 'So I want the outside area cleaned up and looking smart.'
'Who's the celebrity?'
'It's a Special Mystery Celebrity visit, Dylan.'
'You don't know who it is, do you?'
'....No. But I've been told that he...or she, is a big star and is bound to get people into the store. I'll get Steve to clear up. You two are on balloon duty.'
'Why don't you know who it is?' Darren asked.
'You know that manager, Ryan, who we let go last year for being...over familiar with our checkout girls?'
'Oh yeah, he kept pinching their arses, didn't he?'
'Not just theirs.' Sharon said under her breath, looking away. 'Well, he always booked the guests. He didn't tell anyone who it is and now that he's gone, we don't know who's coming. We don't even have a contact number for them. All we know is that they're coming today at three.'
So there we were, out of the rain, blowing up balloons in preparation for our 'Special Mystery Celebrity Visit.' We wondered aloud who it was that would turn up to a supermarket, virtually unannounced, on a rainy Tuesday afternoon.
'Gut Bucket?' Suggested Darren. Putting together two words I would never have thought of putting together in my entire life.
'What? Who?'
'Gut Bucket. They're a Thrash Metal band.'
'Oh, of course. Gut Bucket.' I said sarcastically. 'Think I saw them on Top of the Pops a few years ago.
'Steve knows the drummer.'
'Obviously...'
'Or Beyonce.'
'What?'
'Beyonce Kn...'
'Yes, I know who she is. But why would she come here?'
'I don't know. Shopping?'
'Oh, yeah. She loves our 3 for 2 deals doesn't she?! Yeah, she comes in all the time. Can't get enough of us.'
'All right, all right...' Taking another blow into the balloon.
After 40 minutes of blowing into balloons I was light headed, and somewhat confused about who was coming into our store. Their had been no announcements. Sharon hadn't told us to put up a banner advertising anyone. Was anyone going to turn up? There was no cue of die-hard fans snaking outside of the building, clutching autograph books and magic markers. But sure enough at 3pm a black car pulled up at the pick up point. It stayed parked for about 10 minutes while Sharon rushed around the foyer making last minute changes, moving the 'Welcome' banner I'd put up and sticking up balloons I'd carefully placed on the floor. We only managed to blow up 3 between us. The canteen ladies were all stood together holding disposable cameras, a few lads off security were gathered in the corner, next to one or two confused looking customers.
A door of the black car opened. They was an audible gasp as a few people got out. Then the audible gasp turned into held breathes, then mumbles of confusion. Then questions like 'Who's that?' We were all stood still, looking through the doors at four men walking at us, all in denim and long greasy hair.
'Oh my god!' Said Darren.
Ten minutes later the corner of the foyer had microphones set up, a drum kit and a few guitars. The tallest of the four men tapped on the microphone, causing immediate screeching feedback.
'We're Gut Bucket. Thank you all for coming!'
'You all' was five people. Me, Darren, an excited looking Steve, an angry looking Sharon and an old Chinese lady.
'Before we start, I'd like to dedicate this song to a very special lad in the audience' Said the lanky guitarist, looking over at Steve who was sticking his thumbs up at him. 'This song is for Dylan, who got all the other trolley pushers phones confiscated. It's called 'The Idiot Song.'
Brilliant. A year ago I was in the lovely country of Germany, seeing the sights and sounds of Berlin, soaking up the culture. Now I was stood in the foyer of a supermarket, being called an idiot by a Yorkshire based thrash metal band, my manager and an elderly Chinese woman.
Happy birthday me.
Yes, twenty three years old today, and what a way to celebrate by pushing trolleys on a cold Tuesday in the rain. Happy birthday to me.
We all reach that age in life when your Mum is far more excited about you turning another year older than you are. For most it's 19 or so. Others, (mentioning no names, Steve) it's in their late forties. For my 21st I had a party with family and friends. My Uni friend Jason booked a stripper, much to the displeasure of my Grandparents, who got covered in baby oil during the strip. On hindsight I wish he'd have booked a female one instead. Apparently, Mr Love Truncheon was cheaper than Miss Handcuffs.
For my 22nd me and my Mum went on a trip to Germany. Which involved three days of haggling with old German shopkeepers for bars of chocolate. I don't speak German and they knew I was a tourist. Pasty white legs and a camera around my neck were the obvious signs. I'd hold out a handful of Euros and they'd take anything they wanted. I only found out when I got back I'd paid £6.40 for a walnut whip. But on my 23rd birthday I was woken by my Mum with a cup of tea and a card. She already bought me driving lessons so I wasn't expecting anything. She even put sugar in my tea.
The only present I got was when I clocked in for my shift that day. I looked up at the notice board on the wall, which I never pay attention to normally. It's full of numbers and figures about sales and things that don't concern the trolley pushers. But at the top I noticed my name in capital letters, under the words 'HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO:' I was made up, the whole store knew it was my birthday, and, according to the board, a woman from the canteen called Janice. Happy birthday Janice! Maybe we'll sit down together and they'll bring out a big cake. With party hats and jelly. I jumped up and down a bit, staring up at my name. In capital letters. Everyone loves their name in capital letters. It makes you feel important. If you saw a tramp's name in capitals you'd think they'd at least own their own shoes. I got my phone out of my pocket and angled it up to my name to take a picture. I wanted proof that I was important, held in my phone forever. As I clicked the capture button I heard a voice behind me.
'Not got a signal, Dylan?'
It was Sharon, in a blue pinstripe suit and hair more scraped back than usual, as if it was stretching her face from either side.
'Oh, no. My name, up there.' Pointing at the board.
'Can I remind you, Dylan...' Keeping her eyes on me. 'that mobile phones are prohibited from the shop-floor whilst clocked in.'
'I don't work on shop-floor though do I, Sharon. I work on the car park.' I smiled at her but didn't get one back. Tough crowd. 'No, it's my birthday today. So I thought I'd...you know...take a picture of my name.' Still pointing at the board.
'Phones are prohibited, Dylan. Keep it in your locker.' She said bluntly, still looking at me. Did she know the board was there? I know It was a boring board but she's a manager. Managers love notice boards.
'All the rest of the porter have them in their pockets.'
Thirty seconds later we were all outside the store, huddled around Sharon who was holding an empty plastic bag.
'Phones are prohibited. In the bag, gentlemen.'
We all threw our phones in, apart from Steve. He wasn't going down without a fight.
'But Sharon, I need mine on me at all times. I need to be available. My mum has arthritis, she could fall over at any time.'
'Then she wouldn't be able to get to the phone.' Sharon replied without blinking.
'Sorry?'
'If she fell over. She wouldn't be able to get to the phone.'
Steve suddenly looked terrified.
'I'll just give her a quick call.' He squawked and rushed away.
'Thanks a lot, Dylan!' Darren barked at me.
'I've got more important things to deal with today without keeping an eye on you outside playing on your phones. We all know it's a big day.'
Darren and I stared at her, blankly.
'Don't you read the notice board?'
No, I'm the weirdo who just takes pictures of it.
'We have a Celebrity visit today.' Knotting the plastic bag. 'So I want the outside area cleaned up and looking smart.'
'Who's the celebrity?'
'It's a Special Mystery Celebrity visit, Dylan.'
'You don't know who it is, do you?'
'....No. But I've been told that he...or she, is a big star and is bound to get people into the store. I'll get Steve to clear up. You two are on balloon duty.'
'Why don't you know who it is?' Darren asked.
'You know that manager, Ryan, who we let go last year for being...over familiar with our checkout girls?'
'Oh yeah, he kept pinching their arses, didn't he?'
'Not just theirs.' Sharon said under her breath, looking away. 'Well, he always booked the guests. He didn't tell anyone who it is and now that he's gone, we don't know who's coming. We don't even have a contact number for them. All we know is that they're coming today at three.'
So there we were, out of the rain, blowing up balloons in preparation for our 'Special Mystery Celebrity Visit.' We wondered aloud who it was that would turn up to a supermarket, virtually unannounced, on a rainy Tuesday afternoon.
'Gut Bucket?' Suggested Darren. Putting together two words I would never have thought of putting together in my entire life.
'What? Who?'
'Gut Bucket. They're a Thrash Metal band.'
'Oh, of course. Gut Bucket.' I said sarcastically. 'Think I saw them on Top of the Pops a few years ago.
'Steve knows the drummer.'
'Obviously...'
'Or Beyonce.'
'What?'
'Beyonce Kn...'
'Yes, I know who she is. But why would she come here?'
'I don't know. Shopping?'
'Oh, yeah. She loves our 3 for 2 deals doesn't she?! Yeah, she comes in all the time. Can't get enough of us.'
'All right, all right...' Taking another blow into the balloon.
After 40 minutes of blowing into balloons I was light headed, and somewhat confused about who was coming into our store. Their had been no announcements. Sharon hadn't told us to put up a banner advertising anyone. Was anyone going to turn up? There was no cue of die-hard fans snaking outside of the building, clutching autograph books and magic markers. But sure enough at 3pm a black car pulled up at the pick up point. It stayed parked for about 10 minutes while Sharon rushed around the foyer making last minute changes, moving the 'Welcome' banner I'd put up and sticking up balloons I'd carefully placed on the floor. We only managed to blow up 3 between us. The canteen ladies were all stood together holding disposable cameras, a few lads off security were gathered in the corner, next to one or two confused looking customers.
A door of the black car opened. They was an audible gasp as a few people got out. Then the audible gasp turned into held breathes, then mumbles of confusion. Then questions like 'Who's that?' We were all stood still, looking through the doors at four men walking at us, all in denim and long greasy hair.
'Oh my god!' Said Darren.
Ten minutes later the corner of the foyer had microphones set up, a drum kit and a few guitars. The tallest of the four men tapped on the microphone, causing immediate screeching feedback.
'We're Gut Bucket. Thank you all for coming!'
'You all' was five people. Me, Darren, an excited looking Steve, an angry looking Sharon and an old Chinese lady.
'Before we start, I'd like to dedicate this song to a very special lad in the audience' Said the lanky guitarist, looking over at Steve who was sticking his thumbs up at him. 'This song is for Dylan, who got all the other trolley pushers phones confiscated. It's called 'The Idiot Song.'
Brilliant. A year ago I was in the lovely country of Germany, seeing the sights and sounds of Berlin, soaking up the culture. Now I was stood in the foyer of a supermarket, being called an idiot by a Yorkshire based thrash metal band, my manager and an elderly Chinese woman.
Happy birthday me.
Thursday, 19 August 2010
Car Wars: The Empire Strikes Back
'She's called The Bitch, you like it?'
You know that face you pull when you're asked a question you know, but don't want to tell the truth? I was lost for words. I pulled my neck back, raised my eyebrows and nodded a bit, searching for anything to say.
'Erm, yeah it's...it's good isn't it...'
I was looking at Alex, his eyes bulging out of his head, sat in the drivers seat of a bright purple Citroen Saxo. It was, in no way, a subtle, violet-y purple. It was a kind of purple that screams at you. It was bright purple. Bright purple, and the main reason why I couldn't find anything positive to say. But I did try.
'Yeah, it's.... Did you, err, choose the colour?'
'Naa, my Dad did. Thought it was blue. Colour blind you see. Wanted to be an electrician and everything. Still good, though eh?'
'Well, it's not blue, is it.' Avoiding the question. 'It's purple. It's really purple.'
'I know' Alex moaned, rubbing the steering wheel nervously.
'Still, it's a nice little run around for you.'
'She's called The Bitch!'
Why do people refer to cars as if they're girls? It's like those people in that documentary who make love to their cars. They weren't even Ferrari's or anything. Not that I would make love to a car, but if I had to, had to, it definitely would be an expensive one. You'd feel odd shagging a shitty little metro, wouldn't you? Get your money's worth, that's what I say.
Duncan, Alex's twin, had been standing next to me since I first set eyes upon 'the bitch' and was still laughing. Alex had even gave him a lift to work and it was now hurting.
'Aye, she's a bitch all right!' Duncan blurted in between shrieks of pain-based laughter.
'It got you here, didn't it?'
'Yeah, just.
'All right then, smart arse, where's your car?'
'Where's yours, Alex? All I can see is a cardboard box you're sat in!'
Duncan spent the first ten minutes of his shift doing three things. Laughing, taking pictures of the car and sending them to all his friends. Who says brotherly love is dead? Then Darren turned up.
'All right, guys. Hey, Alex, nice car.
'Thanks' Alex gleamed.
'Nice little run around, that. My grandma's got the same one.'
Alex's head dropped and mumbled something about it being called 'the bitch.' I don't think even he believed it any more. Darren had been on all morning. It was a rainy, dull Friday and they usually involve me and Darren walking around the car park together, playing the A-Z game whilst the twins play 'dead arm.' A game I'd stop playing in primary school but the twins love it.
'Lithuania.'
'Morocco.'
'Netherlands.'
'Oh, bollocks, not again!'
'Is that a Country?' I said to my A-Z competitor, pushing a few trolleys beside him.
Darren had spotted a silver car park up in the Parent And Child section. A bloke stepped out, bleeped the car to lock it and trotted up to the store, with no child in sight. An act that is not illegal on this car park but it really winds Darren up. He says it's kind of an unwritten rule, like tipping in café's and not yawning when someone's boring you in conversation. Or that really annoying one about not taking home the alcohol you didn't drink at peoples house parties. You bought it, take it home with you!
'Right, that's it.' Darren barked and stomped up to the store.
At first I thought he was going straight after him. That would have been a sight to see. This guy was a big bloke, tattoo's on both forearms and a football shirt over his beer belly. Darren looked more of a bleeder than a fighter. Shaggy black hair and glasses. You can't fight with glasses on. The bloke would just have to whip them off and he'd be done for. Darren would be scrabbling around trying to find them on the floor. Blokey Bloke vs Specky Lad. I know who I'd bet on.
'Bloke' is a good word, don't you think? If someone called me 'a bloke' I'd be made up. I'm always referred to as a 'lad' or a 'boy' due to my boyish features. A 'bloke' sounds like he goes to the pub and says 'the usual, please chief.' If I tried that the barman would just glare at me and say 'sorry, mate. You been here before?' Still, at least he would call me 'mate'.
Darren stormed over to me looking down at a bit of paper he was scribbling on.
'A that...will teach you...not...to park here...again.' Darren barked, threading the note in-between the window and wipers. Then added 'Idiot!' for dramatic effect.
'Hang on, Daz. Is that the right car?'
Darren turned around, to see exactly the same five-door, silver Vauxhall Vectra parked next to us. He did a double take, then looked back at the car he'd just labelled 'Please Don't Park Here. Parent and Child ONLY.' The obvious thing to do would be to check both for child-based clues. A child seat in the back, perhaps, or chocolate all over the windows. The blokey bloke won't have such things on his, naturally. He likes to keep his car clean for when he goes out illegal mini-cabbing or something. But Darren didn't check anything. He simply dipped into his pocket, pulled out anther bit of paper and put that on the other silver Vectra. Finishing the sequence with 'Better safe than sorry.'
'Oi, what d'you think you're doing?' A voice bellowed from behind us.
We turned to see a woman bouncing over to us. Pram in her hands and a young lad at her side. She looked like she'd just woken up. Dark patches under her eyes and cheap peach-coloured leggings on. Like one of those women you see on day-time makeover shows, or with that gay woman on Channel 4 whose name sounds like something you'd order from a Chinese restaurant.
'I've got kids, can't you see? Get that off!'
'Oh, sorry' Darren slurred.
'You bloody should be too. Can't you see the baby seat?'
Or the windows covered in Milky Way?
Darren ripped the note off, screwed it up and shoved it into his pocket. His glasses nearly slipping off his face from the sweat. We watched the woman struggle to get the younger child into her car angrily. I was actually worried for the child, she looked like she was close to bursting into flames. Then Darren got a tap on the shoulder. It was the blokey bloke. This time, complete with a toddler by his side.
'Oi, what d'you think you're playing at?' In exactly the same tone as the makeover woman. He ripped the note off his car, balled it up and threw it at Darren's face. Darren flinched, which knocked his glasses off. He didn't even have to touch him.
'I've just picked him up from his Mum, you pillock!'
Both cars screeched off, Alex and Duncan (still laughing) stood and stared. I looked to the soggy ground.
'I just thought...' Darren tried, but went no further. We all knew what he thought. What he tried to do and where he went wrong. He didn't need to explain anything. He picked up his broken, wet glasses and walked away. Sometimes unwritten rules need to stay that way.
You know that face you pull when you're asked a question you know, but don't want to tell the truth? I was lost for words. I pulled my neck back, raised my eyebrows and nodded a bit, searching for anything to say.
'Erm, yeah it's...it's good isn't it...'
I was looking at Alex, his eyes bulging out of his head, sat in the drivers seat of a bright purple Citroen Saxo. It was, in no way, a subtle, violet-y purple. It was a kind of purple that screams at you. It was bright purple. Bright purple, and the main reason why I couldn't find anything positive to say. But I did try.
'Yeah, it's.... Did you, err, choose the colour?'
'Naa, my Dad did. Thought it was blue. Colour blind you see. Wanted to be an electrician and everything. Still good, though eh?'
'Well, it's not blue, is it.' Avoiding the question. 'It's purple. It's really purple.'
'I know' Alex moaned, rubbing the steering wheel nervously.
'Still, it's a nice little run around for you.'
'She's called The Bitch!'
Why do people refer to cars as if they're girls? It's like those people in that documentary who make love to their cars. They weren't even Ferrari's or anything. Not that I would make love to a car, but if I had to, had to, it definitely would be an expensive one. You'd feel odd shagging a shitty little metro, wouldn't you? Get your money's worth, that's what I say.
Duncan, Alex's twin, had been standing next to me since I first set eyes upon 'the bitch' and was still laughing. Alex had even gave him a lift to work and it was now hurting.
'Aye, she's a bitch all right!' Duncan blurted in between shrieks of pain-based laughter.
'It got you here, didn't it?'
'Yeah, just.
'All right then, smart arse, where's your car?'
'Where's yours, Alex? All I can see is a cardboard box you're sat in!'
Duncan spent the first ten minutes of his shift doing three things. Laughing, taking pictures of the car and sending them to all his friends. Who says brotherly love is dead? Then Darren turned up.
'All right, guys. Hey, Alex, nice car.
'Thanks' Alex gleamed.
'Nice little run around, that. My grandma's got the same one.'
Alex's head dropped and mumbled something about it being called 'the bitch.' I don't think even he believed it any more. Darren had been on all morning. It was a rainy, dull Friday and they usually involve me and Darren walking around the car park together, playing the A-Z game whilst the twins play 'dead arm.' A game I'd stop playing in primary school but the twins love it.
'Lithuania.'
'Morocco.'
'Netherlands.'
'Oh, bollocks, not again!'
'Is that a Country?' I said to my A-Z competitor, pushing a few trolleys beside him.
Darren had spotted a silver car park up in the Parent And Child section. A bloke stepped out, bleeped the car to lock it and trotted up to the store, with no child in sight. An act that is not illegal on this car park but it really winds Darren up. He says it's kind of an unwritten rule, like tipping in café's and not yawning when someone's boring you in conversation. Or that really annoying one about not taking home the alcohol you didn't drink at peoples house parties. You bought it, take it home with you!
'Right, that's it.' Darren barked and stomped up to the store.
At first I thought he was going straight after him. That would have been a sight to see. This guy was a big bloke, tattoo's on both forearms and a football shirt over his beer belly. Darren looked more of a bleeder than a fighter. Shaggy black hair and glasses. You can't fight with glasses on. The bloke would just have to whip them off and he'd be done for. Darren would be scrabbling around trying to find them on the floor. Blokey Bloke vs Specky Lad. I know who I'd bet on.
'Bloke' is a good word, don't you think? If someone called me 'a bloke' I'd be made up. I'm always referred to as a 'lad' or a 'boy' due to my boyish features. A 'bloke' sounds like he goes to the pub and says 'the usual, please chief.' If I tried that the barman would just glare at me and say 'sorry, mate. You been here before?' Still, at least he would call me 'mate'.
Darren stormed over to me looking down at a bit of paper he was scribbling on.
'A that...will teach you...not...to park here...again.' Darren barked, threading the note in-between the window and wipers. Then added 'Idiot!' for dramatic effect.
'Hang on, Daz. Is that the right car?'
Darren turned around, to see exactly the same five-door, silver Vauxhall Vectra parked next to us. He did a double take, then looked back at the car he'd just labelled 'Please Don't Park Here. Parent and Child ONLY.' The obvious thing to do would be to check both for child-based clues. A child seat in the back, perhaps, or chocolate all over the windows. The blokey bloke won't have such things on his, naturally. He likes to keep his car clean for when he goes out illegal mini-cabbing or something. But Darren didn't check anything. He simply dipped into his pocket, pulled out anther bit of paper and put that on the other silver Vectra. Finishing the sequence with 'Better safe than sorry.'
'Oi, what d'you think you're doing?' A voice bellowed from behind us.
We turned to see a woman bouncing over to us. Pram in her hands and a young lad at her side. She looked like she'd just woken up. Dark patches under her eyes and cheap peach-coloured leggings on. Like one of those women you see on day-time makeover shows, or with that gay woman on Channel 4 whose name sounds like something you'd order from a Chinese restaurant.
'I've got kids, can't you see? Get that off!'
'Oh, sorry' Darren slurred.
'You bloody should be too. Can't you see the baby seat?'
Or the windows covered in Milky Way?
Darren ripped the note off, screwed it up and shoved it into his pocket. His glasses nearly slipping off his face from the sweat. We watched the woman struggle to get the younger child into her car angrily. I was actually worried for the child, she looked like she was close to bursting into flames. Then Darren got a tap on the shoulder. It was the blokey bloke. This time, complete with a toddler by his side.
'Oi, what d'you think you're playing at?' In exactly the same tone as the makeover woman. He ripped the note off his car, balled it up and threw it at Darren's face. Darren flinched, which knocked his glasses off. He didn't even have to touch him.
'I've just picked him up from his Mum, you pillock!'
Both cars screeched off, Alex and Duncan (still laughing) stood and stared. I looked to the soggy ground.
'I just thought...' Darren tried, but went no further. We all knew what he thought. What he tried to do and where he went wrong. He didn't need to explain anything. He picked up his broken, wet glasses and walked away. Sometimes unwritten rules need to stay that way.
Tuesday, 17 August 2010
Aiders Of The Lost Ark
You know that hilarious thing Dads do in car parks, wait until their daughter gets inches away from the car door, then move away? Then as the girl moves closer he moves away a bit more? And so on and so on until you loose the will the live? Well that happened last week. Only instead of driving forward a bit and stopping, the Dad managed run over the girls foot. Breaking it in the process.
None of us knew what to do. I get a bit queasy in situations like that. The idea of blood or broken bones. I remember when I broke my brother's finger playing rugby in the garden. As I saw his bent little digit I panicked and ran away. He ran after me shouting 'Pop it back in! Pop it back in!' Then I was sick all over him. Steve and Darren did nothing either. Steve is apparently first aid trained, but all he managed to do was get a manager, who then called for an ambulance. If that's first aid trained, we all fucking are!
Sharon arranged a First Aid course and made all the porters attend. Steve went mental, as Sharon arranged it on the one day Steve has off.
'This course is primerily for you, Steven.' Sharon said, in her thick, spiky Scottish voice. 'You are supposed to be the first aid rep outside and you didn'ae do anything.' She said, looking down at her papers. Sharon rarely looked at people, there was always other important things going on.
'What was I supposed to do with a broken foot?' Steve squealed. 'The hospital just put on a cast, I don't have casts lying about the place!'
Sharon looked at him, as if he should have casts lying about the place. Steve rolled his eyes and led Darren, Alex and Duncan and I into the Training Room. The chairs were all laid out facing the front of the narrow, pastel coloured room. The five of us sat down towards the back, which Sharon changed immediatly, making us all sit side by side at the front.
Simon was the first aid trainer. A slight blonde Welsh lad. He looked too young to train us anything, to be honest. He looked about eighteen.
'Hiya guys!'
There are many sayings and phrases that people use to refer to gay people. 'Bats for the other team' being a popular one, and the one about bread being buttered. But on seeing our First Aid trainer today, Steve came up with the quite confusing term 'a Coldplay listener.'
He didn't say it to his face, obviously. He whispered it to me, hoping i'd understand. I thought he'd met him at a concert or something. We know someone like that. Someone who's so into his own music that he shuts out anything else. You'd think that if they're so into music they open up a little bit. I guess we're all guilty of that. But Steve seems to shut out anything that was made after he left High School.
'Me at a Coldplay concert?'
'No? All right, then. Fine.'
'Naa, me.' Sitting up from his seat. 'I'm into the Zep, Crue, Topp and Queen. Stuff like that.'
It annoyed me, for some reason, that he shortened all the names. As if he'd memorised them all just to reel them off to anyone vaugely interested. Also, he didn't believe me when I told him Freddie Murcury was gay. So much irony lost, I thought. I wonder if Freddie listened to Coldplay if he was alive today?
'So, we all know why we're here.' Simon said in all his bouncy Welshness. These people always say 'we' don't they? There's no 'we' There's 'you' and 'us'.
'OK, let me introd...'
'Shouldn't you have your gear with you?' Steve interrupted.
'My what, sorry?'
'Your gear. Your kit. For the show, like.'
Steve managed to describe every job as if it was showing to a sold out o2 Arena. When we moved some tables in the canteen last week he called it a 'gig'.
'Oh, no. Funny story, actually.' Simon said, sitting down on the table. 'I'm a training Virgin, you see. You're my first job.'
Steve winced in his seat.
'And i'm in my little cinquecento at the moment so I couldn't get all my stuff in there this morning. Should have thought about that, really. Ha!'
'Hang on a minute.' Darren piped up. 'You're here to teach us first aid and you've no stuff to teach it to us with? No dummy? Not a powerpoint thing? Not even a flipchart?'
'Well...no!' Simon arched his shoulders up and wrinkled his nose. As if we're all going to give him a hug and say 'You silly sausage! What are you like!!' Steve stood up and headed for the door.
'Hang on a sec, big fella!'
Steve looked him up and down.
'Just because i've not stuff with me doesn't me we can't go through What It Means To Be First Aid Trained.'
Steve sighed and sat down. I'm sure if this was on a day he was clocked in he'd be loving this. A chance to do nothing for money. He'd have his feet up tucking into the Bourbon Creams. An hour or so later we'd covered quite a lot of stuff. He kicked it off with the broken foot scenario. Steve proclamined about his lack of casts and the moron twins sat in silience. I'm not entirily sure they knew what First Aid meant.
'Now, things happen out there on the car park that you need to be alert to.'
'Oh, Darren will help you there, mate!' Steve chuckled.
'Oh, leave it, Steve.' Darren said.
'What's this all about?'
'You're alert to all sorts, aren't you Daz? Like that fat girl last year!'
'For the last time, Steve. I thought she was pregnant!'
Apparently, one day last year Darren saw a woman hyperventilating in her car. He rushed over, ripped open the door and tried to take her pants off. He'd helped his sister deliever her baby a while ago in a bowling alley, so he thought he knew what he was doing. Turns out her Snickers had gone down the wrong way and she was choking.
'Well, lets forget about that, then shall we. And move onto something else. Let's see, oo, Mouth-to-Mouth Resuscitation'
We all looked at eachother, then around the room, then down to our feet.
'You've not brought your dummy. You dummy.'
Darren seemed pleased with the insult, but Simon egnored it.
'So? We've got eachother! Who wants to volunteer?!'
A few of us laughed. Steve swore at him. Alex offered to volunteer. Steve called him a 'Coldplay listener.'
I don't think we took any of the lesson in. Steve didn't look. Duncan filmed it on his phone and I thought 'what would someone think if someone walked into this room now? Four lads sat watching two blokes kissing on the floor. With no evidence of Training equipment around.' I was thinking all this when Sharon walked in.
'What The Hell Is Going On!' She bellowed.
Simon and Alex stopped. Simon wiped his mouth, which didn't help his case.
'Kiss of Life.'
'I bet it was.'
'No, Mouth to Mouth Resuscitation, Sharon.'
'Oh...' The she looked around the room. 'But shouldn't you have a Dummy or something? And where's your flipcharts? And you've not used the overhead projector I set up for you.'
'Exactly' Darren said smugly.
'I'm sorry, Simon, but where is all your equipment?'
'I'm in the cinquecento' Simon squeaked, as if she'd understand.
'Ciqui-what? Get out, this is an utter shambles.'
'I never meant to cause you trouble...'
Ohh, I never meant to do you wrong! I like that Coldplay song now. Simon was soon out the door and into his cinquewhatever. Sharon arranged another training day and we got ushered back down onto the car park. And Alex smiled for the rest of the day.
None of us knew what to do. I get a bit queasy in situations like that. The idea of blood or broken bones. I remember when I broke my brother's finger playing rugby in the garden. As I saw his bent little digit I panicked and ran away. He ran after me shouting 'Pop it back in! Pop it back in!' Then I was sick all over him. Steve and Darren did nothing either. Steve is apparently first aid trained, but all he managed to do was get a manager, who then called for an ambulance. If that's first aid trained, we all fucking are!
Sharon arranged a First Aid course and made all the porters attend. Steve went mental, as Sharon arranged it on the one day Steve has off.
'This course is primerily for you, Steven.' Sharon said, in her thick, spiky Scottish voice. 'You are supposed to be the first aid rep outside and you didn'ae do anything.' She said, looking down at her papers. Sharon rarely looked at people, there was always other important things going on.
'What was I supposed to do with a broken foot?' Steve squealed. 'The hospital just put on a cast, I don't have casts lying about the place!'
Sharon looked at him, as if he should have casts lying about the place. Steve rolled his eyes and led Darren, Alex and Duncan and I into the Training Room. The chairs were all laid out facing the front of the narrow, pastel coloured room. The five of us sat down towards the back, which Sharon changed immediatly, making us all sit side by side at the front.
Simon was the first aid trainer. A slight blonde Welsh lad. He looked too young to train us anything, to be honest. He looked about eighteen.
'Hiya guys!'
There are many sayings and phrases that people use to refer to gay people. 'Bats for the other team' being a popular one, and the one about bread being buttered. But on seeing our First Aid trainer today, Steve came up with the quite confusing term 'a Coldplay listener.'
He didn't say it to his face, obviously. He whispered it to me, hoping i'd understand. I thought he'd met him at a concert or something. We know someone like that. Someone who's so into his own music that he shuts out anything else. You'd think that if they're so into music they open up a little bit. I guess we're all guilty of that. But Steve seems to shut out anything that was made after he left High School.
'Me at a Coldplay concert?'
'No? All right, then. Fine.'
'Naa, me.' Sitting up from his seat. 'I'm into the Zep, Crue, Topp and Queen. Stuff like that.'
It annoyed me, for some reason, that he shortened all the names. As if he'd memorised them all just to reel them off to anyone vaugely interested. Also, he didn't believe me when I told him Freddie Murcury was gay. So much irony lost, I thought. I wonder if Freddie listened to Coldplay if he was alive today?
'So, we all know why we're here.' Simon said in all his bouncy Welshness. These people always say 'we' don't they? There's no 'we' There's 'you' and 'us'.
'OK, let me introd...'
'Shouldn't you have your gear with you?' Steve interrupted.
'My what, sorry?'
'Your gear. Your kit. For the show, like.'
Steve managed to describe every job as if it was showing to a sold out o2 Arena. When we moved some tables in the canteen last week he called it a 'gig'.
'Oh, no. Funny story, actually.' Simon said, sitting down on the table. 'I'm a training Virgin, you see. You're my first job.'
Steve winced in his seat.
'And i'm in my little cinquecento at the moment so I couldn't get all my stuff in there this morning. Should have thought about that, really. Ha!'
'Hang on a minute.' Darren piped up. 'You're here to teach us first aid and you've no stuff to teach it to us with? No dummy? Not a powerpoint thing? Not even a flipchart?'
'Well...no!' Simon arched his shoulders up and wrinkled his nose. As if we're all going to give him a hug and say 'You silly sausage! What are you like!!' Steve stood up and headed for the door.
'Hang on a sec, big fella!'
Steve looked him up and down.
'Just because i've not stuff with me doesn't me we can't go through What It Means To Be First Aid Trained.'
Steve sighed and sat down. I'm sure if this was on a day he was clocked in he'd be loving this. A chance to do nothing for money. He'd have his feet up tucking into the Bourbon Creams. An hour or so later we'd covered quite a lot of stuff. He kicked it off with the broken foot scenario. Steve proclamined about his lack of casts and the moron twins sat in silience. I'm not entirily sure they knew what First Aid meant.
'Now, things happen out there on the car park that you need to be alert to.'
'Oh, Darren will help you there, mate!' Steve chuckled.
'Oh, leave it, Steve.' Darren said.
'What's this all about?'
'You're alert to all sorts, aren't you Daz? Like that fat girl last year!'
'For the last time, Steve. I thought she was pregnant!'
Apparently, one day last year Darren saw a woman hyperventilating in her car. He rushed over, ripped open the door and tried to take her pants off. He'd helped his sister deliever her baby a while ago in a bowling alley, so he thought he knew what he was doing. Turns out her Snickers had gone down the wrong way and she was choking.
'Well, lets forget about that, then shall we. And move onto something else. Let's see, oo, Mouth-to-Mouth Resuscitation'
We all looked at eachother, then around the room, then down to our feet.
'You've not brought your dummy. You dummy.'
Darren seemed pleased with the insult, but Simon egnored it.
'So? We've got eachother! Who wants to volunteer?!'
A few of us laughed. Steve swore at him. Alex offered to volunteer. Steve called him a 'Coldplay listener.'
I don't think we took any of the lesson in. Steve didn't look. Duncan filmed it on his phone and I thought 'what would someone think if someone walked into this room now? Four lads sat watching two blokes kissing on the floor. With no evidence of Training equipment around.' I was thinking all this when Sharon walked in.
'What The Hell Is Going On!' She bellowed.
Simon and Alex stopped. Simon wiped his mouth, which didn't help his case.
'Kiss of Life.'
'I bet it was.'
'No, Mouth to Mouth Resuscitation, Sharon.'
'Oh...' The she looked around the room. 'But shouldn't you have a Dummy or something? And where's your flipcharts? And you've not used the overhead projector I set up for you.'
'Exactly' Darren said smugly.
'I'm sorry, Simon, but where is all your equipment?'
'I'm in the cinquecento' Simon squeaked, as if she'd understand.
'Ciqui-what? Get out, this is an utter shambles.'
'I never meant to cause you trouble...'
Ohh, I never meant to do you wrong! I like that Coldplay song now. Simon was soon out the door and into his cinquewhatever. Sharon arranged another training day and we got ushered back down onto the car park. And Alex smiled for the rest of the day.
Monday, 16 August 2010
Sack To The Future
We all go through that awful moment when you run into someone you used to go to High School with. It happens maybe once a month. They spot you, eye contact is made, you both stop and then it begins. Minutes and minutes excruciating catch ups and questions. Once a month is OK. I'd take once a month, no problem. Twelve times a year. But I work in a Supermarket.
How many times do you visit a supermarket? Once a week maybe? So If I'd known you during our younger years, there is at least one possible meeting a week. That's a grand total of 48 meetings a year. I don't think I see my own cousin 48 times a year.
So there I was, stood in front of Danny 'Stocky' Stockton. Eye contact was made. We stopped and acknowledged. The Big Three. I was trapped.
'Shitting hell, it's you!'
I remembered, Danny used swear words in place of normal words. As if he was taught the 'shits' and 'fucks' with the 'dogs' and 'cats'. He said them so naturally that you aren't offended. Even during High School. I can't speak for our teachers, though.
'Dylan Smart. Little Dylan. Smarty Farty.'
I'd like to point out that none of these names where my nickname in high school. I'm guessing he said them behind my back, or written them on the back of a bus seat or something.
'So what the fuck are you doing now, you big gay!?' He asked, complete with a nipple twist.
I took a split second to picture what he was seeing. Me, Smarty Farty, in my high visibility vest and name badge, outside a supermarket. I gave him another second for him to put together these clues, but it didn't look like he was. He was too engrossed in an cheese and onion pastie. I could have lied of course, like everyone else does in this situation. I could have said I work for myself, doing something cool like web design. Spending my days eating those expensive biscuits and making pie charts. But I sensed it would have been hard to pull off, stood there holding a litter-pick and a bag full of wet fag ends.
Danny hated me at High School. He hated a lot of lads so I wasn't special. I just kept my head down, got on with it. He wasn't a usual, run-of-the-mill bully, though. He didn't throw chairs or smoke spliffs in class. Not so much violent, but an embarrasser. The worst was in Sex Education class. We all have to go through it and we all know it's a horrible thing. There were giggles, as you'd expect, when the teacher passed round plastic models of male and female reproductive organs. But the room exploded into fits of laughter when my old mate Danny Stockton, Stocky, Stockers, The Big Stock, slapped me across the face with a plastic scrotum. It took half an hour for everyone, including the teacher, to stop laughing.
A lot of students are remembered for being the brainiest, the funny one, or the kid who smelt of piss. I was remembered as Sack Boy.
'So, you work here then? Wow...' Danny said, looking up at the building.
'Yeah, only temporary, like. Just finished Uni. Got a degree in...'
'Do you think you could get us stuff on the cheap?' He interrupted.
'On the che...what kind of stuff?'
'You know, a few DVD's and that. Twixy works at Blockbusters in town. He just says to the new lads on the tills they're for a staff party. Gets them cheap. Sometimes he gives them fake notes he makes himself.'
I don't know who Twixy is, but he sounds like a lovely fellow.
'Na, I don't think so, mate.'
Mate? What was I thinking? He's my mate now? Stocky and Sack Boy are mates?
'Go on. Here's a tenner.' He moved closer, shoving the note into my hand. 'Get three DVD's off the shelf and go to a checkout girl. Make sure she's a new one. I'll be round the corner.'
Then he was off. Boy, he was good. I hadn't seen him for for eight years and two minutes into our reunion I'm his DVD dealer. The fact that he hadn't specified which DVD's didn't seem to matter. I guess it was my choice.
Now, if you're sat there thinking 'why the hell are you doing this?' I should tell you, I had a plan. During our little chat earlier, all I could think about was that fateful day in Sex Education class. Danny's probably forgotten that day now. He probably forgot as soon as he left the classroom. But I hadn't. And a chance to embarrass him the way he did is not to be sniffed at. So, I thought, what's better than getting his embarrassed? Yes, that's right. Getting him arrested.
After alerting members of security staff of his presence I wandered slowly back outside to where Danny was hiding. Now smoking a roll up, he jumped up from the grassy patch at the side of the Supermarket.
'Well, where are they?'
'Even better!' I said, my B in GCSE Drama coming back to me. 'I spoke to Gemma off checkouts and her brother do this scam all the time! Just get as many DVD's as you want and take it to her check out. Say the word 'Elephant' and she'll pretend to bleep it through. You just walk out with them!'
Danny's eyes lit up in front of me. He couldn't believe is luck. But he did have questions. I was ready for them all.
'Why Elephant?'
'It's code.'
'Ah, as many DVD's as I want?'
'As many as you want'. I smiled.
'Brilliant! Which one's Gemma?'
'Dumpy looking girl, glasses. Looks like a pub landlord.'
Then he was off. I just had to stand close to the checkout and watch. I was going to dine out on this.
Danny dropped about eight DVD's onto the moving checkout belt, then fingered the plastic covers, eyeing up his prey. Gemma looked up and gave that generic Supermarket smile, then bleeped the DVD's through. Danny looked up at me. I kept cool. Gemma kept bleeping. Then Danny mouthed at me 'I thought she wasn't going to bleep them!!' in not as many words.
'Elephant.' Danny said, pronouncing every letter with has much gusto as he could muster.
'Eh?'
He looked up at me a again, I waved him on calmly.
'Ele-phant.' He winked at her.
'Are you calling me an elephant! You cheeky...'
Before Gemma got to finish her abuse, Danny scooped up the DVD's and made a run for it, dropping a few along the way, as if he were running out of MGM Grand with a fist full of hundred dollar bills. He dodged past two old ladies on zimmer frames, jumped over a small child and reached the doors. Only to be stopped by two security guards. He spent the next hour in the back room, waiting for the police. They knew him, of course. He was wanted by a few more supermarkets in the area, and a Blockbusters.
That month I was given an 'Above and Beyond the Call of Duty' Award for Outstanding Achievement. Alerting security staff of a possible thief earned me a paid day off. I felt like a super hero. Sack Boy To The Rescue!
How many times do you visit a supermarket? Once a week maybe? So If I'd known you during our younger years, there is at least one possible meeting a week. That's a grand total of 48 meetings a year. I don't think I see my own cousin 48 times a year.
So there I was, stood in front of Danny 'Stocky' Stockton. Eye contact was made. We stopped and acknowledged. The Big Three. I was trapped.
'Shitting hell, it's you!'
I remembered, Danny used swear words in place of normal words. As if he was taught the 'shits' and 'fucks' with the 'dogs' and 'cats'. He said them so naturally that you aren't offended. Even during High School. I can't speak for our teachers, though.
'Dylan Smart. Little Dylan. Smarty Farty.'
I'd like to point out that none of these names where my nickname in high school. I'm guessing he said them behind my back, or written them on the back of a bus seat or something.
'So what the fuck are you doing now, you big gay!?' He asked, complete with a nipple twist.
I took a split second to picture what he was seeing. Me, Smarty Farty, in my high visibility vest and name badge, outside a supermarket. I gave him another second for him to put together these clues, but it didn't look like he was. He was too engrossed in an cheese and onion pastie. I could have lied of course, like everyone else does in this situation. I could have said I work for myself, doing something cool like web design. Spending my days eating those expensive biscuits and making pie charts. But I sensed it would have been hard to pull off, stood there holding a litter-pick and a bag full of wet fag ends.
Danny hated me at High School. He hated a lot of lads so I wasn't special. I just kept my head down, got on with it. He wasn't a usual, run-of-the-mill bully, though. He didn't throw chairs or smoke spliffs in class. Not so much violent, but an embarrasser. The worst was in Sex Education class. We all have to go through it and we all know it's a horrible thing. There were giggles, as you'd expect, when the teacher passed round plastic models of male and female reproductive organs. But the room exploded into fits of laughter when my old mate Danny Stockton, Stocky, Stockers, The Big Stock, slapped me across the face with a plastic scrotum. It took half an hour for everyone, including the teacher, to stop laughing.
A lot of students are remembered for being the brainiest, the funny one, or the kid who smelt of piss. I was remembered as Sack Boy.
'So, you work here then? Wow...' Danny said, looking up at the building.
'Yeah, only temporary, like. Just finished Uni. Got a degree in...'
'Do you think you could get us stuff on the cheap?' He interrupted.
'On the che...what kind of stuff?'
'You know, a few DVD's and that. Twixy works at Blockbusters in town. He just says to the new lads on the tills they're for a staff party. Gets them cheap. Sometimes he gives them fake notes he makes himself.'
I don't know who Twixy is, but he sounds like a lovely fellow.
'Na, I don't think so, mate.'
Mate? What was I thinking? He's my mate now? Stocky and Sack Boy are mates?
'Go on. Here's a tenner.' He moved closer, shoving the note into my hand. 'Get three DVD's off the shelf and go to a checkout girl. Make sure she's a new one. I'll be round the corner.'
Then he was off. Boy, he was good. I hadn't seen him for for eight years and two minutes into our reunion I'm his DVD dealer. The fact that he hadn't specified which DVD's didn't seem to matter. I guess it was my choice.
Now, if you're sat there thinking 'why the hell are you doing this?' I should tell you, I had a plan. During our little chat earlier, all I could think about was that fateful day in Sex Education class. Danny's probably forgotten that day now. He probably forgot as soon as he left the classroom. But I hadn't. And a chance to embarrass him the way he did is not to be sniffed at. So, I thought, what's better than getting his embarrassed? Yes, that's right. Getting him arrested.
After alerting members of security staff of his presence I wandered slowly back outside to where Danny was hiding. Now smoking a roll up, he jumped up from the grassy patch at the side of the Supermarket.
'Well, where are they?'
'Even better!' I said, my B in GCSE Drama coming back to me. 'I spoke to Gemma off checkouts and her brother do this scam all the time! Just get as many DVD's as you want and take it to her check out. Say the word 'Elephant' and she'll pretend to bleep it through. You just walk out with them!'
Danny's eyes lit up in front of me. He couldn't believe is luck. But he did have questions. I was ready for them all.
'Why Elephant?'
'It's code.'
'Ah, as many DVD's as I want?'
'As many as you want'. I smiled.
'Brilliant! Which one's Gemma?'
'Dumpy looking girl, glasses. Looks like a pub landlord.'
Then he was off. I just had to stand close to the checkout and watch. I was going to dine out on this.
Danny dropped about eight DVD's onto the moving checkout belt, then fingered the plastic covers, eyeing up his prey. Gemma looked up and gave that generic Supermarket smile, then bleeped the DVD's through. Danny looked up at me. I kept cool. Gemma kept bleeping. Then Danny mouthed at me 'I thought she wasn't going to bleep them!!' in not as many words.
'Elephant.' Danny said, pronouncing every letter with has much gusto as he could muster.
'Eh?'
He looked up at me a again, I waved him on calmly.
'Ele-phant.' He winked at her.
'Are you calling me an elephant! You cheeky...'
Before Gemma got to finish her abuse, Danny scooped up the DVD's and made a run for it, dropping a few along the way, as if he were running out of MGM Grand with a fist full of hundred dollar bills. He dodged past two old ladies on zimmer frames, jumped over a small child and reached the doors. Only to be stopped by two security guards. He spent the next hour in the back room, waiting for the police. They knew him, of course. He was wanted by a few more supermarkets in the area, and a Blockbusters.
That month I was given an 'Above and Beyond the Call of Duty' Award for Outstanding Achievement. Alerting security staff of a possible thief earned me a paid day off. I felt like a super hero. Sack Boy To The Rescue!
Sunday, 15 August 2010
Bye Hard
Retirement, I often think, is a glorious thing. But different people react to it in different ways. I found this out today.
Some take it with a smile, go home and don't leave the house. Spending the next 20 years sprucing up the garden and finishing off those 'odd jobs' they'd promised their wives they would complete. But others don't take retirement until somebody sits them down and force it upon them. That is how Jim took his.
Two porters retired last year, and took it with open arms. They had been wanting to finish for years, so they told me, and when their last day finally came, the bosses decided not to let them work and to treat them to a nice buffet and a bit of a party. I remember that day vividly, Kenneth sitting down with a smile on his face. And Frank walking out the building. The last thing we heard from him was 'Waste 'a time! I could have stayed at home with the misses if I'm not going to do my shift!' Like I said, people react in different ways.
Jim never wanted to leave. I think he was of that generation were working was all he knew. Since a very young age it gets engrained into you. After that it just becomes habit, I imagine. There's a bloke who works on Secuirty who's nearly 75. Gordon, his name is. He hasn't retired because he doesn't want to. It gets you out the house and meeting people, working in a Supermarket. Good old fashioned work. Yet I doubt he'd go chasing young lads who are nicking packets of Jaffa Cakes out the door like the rest of the Security staff. But he works. And works hard, with a bit of pride and sweat on your brow. I believe Jim worked harder than the rest of us out on the car park. It's a sad thing, a sixty odd year old man working harder than 20 and 30 year olds. An irony lost on Darren, Steve and the moron twins. But his knees had packed up. It hurt to walk. But he still wanted to get up in the morning and work. Steve told us he may still do that.
'Sharon told me he's got a part-time job in Iceland.'
'Iceland?' asked Alex. Moron twin A.
'Yeah, only a few hours a week, like.'
'Hows he going to get there?'
'Bike it, i think. Like he does here. Or like he did.'
'...Iceland?'
We could see the cogs twisting in his head. Steve's words clanging around in there, trying to find logic but failing completely. His brother, open mouthed stare stood next to him, we knew was thinking the same thing. Alex didn't speak much, Duncan did it all for him. We all realised, all at the same time, that he was thinking of the country.
'The supermarket, you nonce!' yelled Steve.
'You idiot.' said Darren, walking away.
As soon as Duncan got it, he joined in.
'Yeah, the supermarket! Bloody hell, Alex!'
Alex has done that before, if you can believe. He came out of the store one day convinced we have an aisle dedicated to items from Poland. It took two hours for us to realise he was looking in the Shoe Polish aisle.
It seemed no-one had a leaving present for him, so I bought a leaving card and got all the porters to sign, Sharon spared a couple of seconds to write something and so did Hillary, off Customer Services. It was around this time that Sandra appeared over my shoulder.
'What's all this then!'
Sandra was loud. You know those people who are just naturally loud? They seem to bellow everything they say. And when you're trying to keep something quiet, it's annoying. She was stick thin, middle aged and wore enough perfume to take out an elephant.
'Writing a leaving card for Jim.'
It wasn't a big card, so I was going round to all the people to sign it who Jim knew. Sandra wanted in on the action.
'Oh, give us the pen, love.'
'You don't know him, do you?'
'Course I do! Bald fella, glasses.'
'No, that's Frank. He left last year.'
'What's everyone else put.' Leaning in at the card I was guarding.
'Just, you know, good luck and all that.'
'Come on, David. Give us the pen.'
'But you don't know him. I'm saving space for the people who do.'
'Oh don't be so silly. You should have got a bigger card, bloody student!'
She nudged me out of the way, not that I was outmuscled, her perfume was starting to affect my sight. She scanned all of the names and messages on the card, angled the pen towards it and asked,
'What's his name again?'
She didn't sign it. All she got was a papercut from me ripping the card out of her perfume soaked hands.
We stood by a trolley bay and watched Jim walk past the store and out of sight. If we were in a cartoon he would by carrying a stick over his shoulder, with a knotted up hanky on the end of it.
'Well there he goes, a free man.' said Darren.
'You make it seem like it's a prison.' I said.
'Na, the meals are better.'
'In prison?'
'Yeah, my Uncle got a fry-up every day inside. And got to watch the football.'
'Sounds like my Sundays.' Alex added.
Jim was as Northern as they come. So much so that every other word he said was 'yonder' and he looked and sounded like he'd come straight out of an Alan Bennett play. It was fun to hear him talk and I always smiled when I saw him working as hard as he did.
'All right lads, that old fart gone yet?' Duncan bounced over.
'Just.' His brother added.
'Bit of a wanker, wasn't he.'
Duncan was expecting us all to agree. Especially his brother. But even he held his stare into the middle distance, staying silent. It took me a while to tell the difference between the two of them at first, but you could always hear Duncan. Alex had slightly thicker powder blue framed glasses and the beginnings of a wispy bum-fluff moustache. After a few more seconds of silence Duncan parped up again.
'I'm off for a cig.'
'You've just come back from having one.'
'Yeah, so! It's not busy, is it?!
We all watched him trounce off. Knowing that if he had it in him, Jim could do Duncan's shifts twice over.
Some take it with a smile, go home and don't leave the house. Spending the next 20 years sprucing up the garden and finishing off those 'odd jobs' they'd promised their wives they would complete. But others don't take retirement until somebody sits them down and force it upon them. That is how Jim took his.
Two porters retired last year, and took it with open arms. They had been wanting to finish for years, so they told me, and when their last day finally came, the bosses decided not to let them work and to treat them to a nice buffet and a bit of a party. I remember that day vividly, Kenneth sitting down with a smile on his face. And Frank walking out the building. The last thing we heard from him was 'Waste 'a time! I could have stayed at home with the misses if I'm not going to do my shift!' Like I said, people react in different ways.
Jim never wanted to leave. I think he was of that generation were working was all he knew. Since a very young age it gets engrained into you. After that it just becomes habit, I imagine. There's a bloke who works on Secuirty who's nearly 75. Gordon, his name is. He hasn't retired because he doesn't want to. It gets you out the house and meeting people, working in a Supermarket. Good old fashioned work. Yet I doubt he'd go chasing young lads who are nicking packets of Jaffa Cakes out the door like the rest of the Security staff. But he works. And works hard, with a bit of pride and sweat on your brow. I believe Jim worked harder than the rest of us out on the car park. It's a sad thing, a sixty odd year old man working harder than 20 and 30 year olds. An irony lost on Darren, Steve and the moron twins. But his knees had packed up. It hurt to walk. But he still wanted to get up in the morning and work. Steve told us he may still do that.
'Sharon told me he's got a part-time job in Iceland.'
'Iceland?' asked Alex. Moron twin A.
'Yeah, only a few hours a week, like.'
'Hows he going to get there?'
'Bike it, i think. Like he does here. Or like he did.'
'...Iceland?'
We could see the cogs twisting in his head. Steve's words clanging around in there, trying to find logic but failing completely. His brother, open mouthed stare stood next to him, we knew was thinking the same thing. Alex didn't speak much, Duncan did it all for him. We all realised, all at the same time, that he was thinking of the country.
'The supermarket, you nonce!' yelled Steve.
'You idiot.' said Darren, walking away.
As soon as Duncan got it, he joined in.
'Yeah, the supermarket! Bloody hell, Alex!'
Alex has done that before, if you can believe. He came out of the store one day convinced we have an aisle dedicated to items from Poland. It took two hours for us to realise he was looking in the Shoe Polish aisle.
It seemed no-one had a leaving present for him, so I bought a leaving card and got all the porters to sign, Sharon spared a couple of seconds to write something and so did Hillary, off Customer Services. It was around this time that Sandra appeared over my shoulder.
'What's all this then!'
Sandra was loud. You know those people who are just naturally loud? They seem to bellow everything they say. And when you're trying to keep something quiet, it's annoying. She was stick thin, middle aged and wore enough perfume to take out an elephant.
'Writing a leaving card for Jim.'
It wasn't a big card, so I was going round to all the people to sign it who Jim knew. Sandra wanted in on the action.
'Oh, give us the pen, love.'
'You don't know him, do you?'
'Course I do! Bald fella, glasses.'
'No, that's Frank. He left last year.'
'What's everyone else put.' Leaning in at the card I was guarding.
'Just, you know, good luck and all that.'
'Come on, David. Give us the pen.'
'But you don't know him. I'm saving space for the people who do.'
'Oh don't be so silly. You should have got a bigger card, bloody student!'
She nudged me out of the way, not that I was outmuscled, her perfume was starting to affect my sight. She scanned all of the names and messages on the card, angled the pen towards it and asked,
'What's his name again?'
She didn't sign it. All she got was a papercut from me ripping the card out of her perfume soaked hands.
We stood by a trolley bay and watched Jim walk past the store and out of sight. If we were in a cartoon he would by carrying a stick over his shoulder, with a knotted up hanky on the end of it.
'Well there he goes, a free man.' said Darren.
'You make it seem like it's a prison.' I said.
'Na, the meals are better.'
'In prison?'
'Yeah, my Uncle got a fry-up every day inside. And got to watch the football.'
'Sounds like my Sundays.' Alex added.
Jim was as Northern as they come. So much so that every other word he said was 'yonder' and he looked and sounded like he'd come straight out of an Alan Bennett play. It was fun to hear him talk and I always smiled when I saw him working as hard as he did.
'All right lads, that old fart gone yet?' Duncan bounced over.
'Just.' His brother added.
'Bit of a wanker, wasn't he.'
Duncan was expecting us all to agree. Especially his brother. But even he held his stare into the middle distance, staying silent. It took me a while to tell the difference between the two of them at first, but you could always hear Duncan. Alex had slightly thicker powder blue framed glasses and the beginnings of a wispy bum-fluff moustache. After a few more seconds of silence Duncan parped up again.
'I'm off for a cig.'
'You've just come back from having one.'
'Yeah, so! It's not busy, is it?!
We all watched him trounce off. Knowing that if he had it in him, Jim could do Duncan's shifts twice over.
Lie Me A River
I have another term for Wednesdays. Bullshit days. 100 percent bullshit.
Eight hours in which bullshit is omitted. Omitted, relieved of and violently thrown out of the mouth of Steve. He is, in no uncertain terms, a bullshitter. You all know a bullshitter. They're either your Uncle, who you only speak to at family parties, your hairdresser, who you only tolerate because they have sharp objects near your head, or in my case, my immediate superior at work.
These last few weeks I've been in a horrible mood. Having to put up with questions from other colleagues, who seem to be really interested in why I, a 22 year old graduate, happen to be still working in a Supermarket. I tell them the short story, 'nothing out there' and 'having a look around' or 'taking a break from biomedical sciences' to be greeted by that condescending little tilt of the head, as if I'm a middle-aged divorcee who has 'just not found that special someone yet.'
'Ohh, hang in there, love. It'll happen for you!' It's funny, isn't it, how the kind of people who condescend and tilt heads are often 30 odd year old women with useless kids and a fat waste-of-space husband. 'Oh' I'll say, 'hang in there!' If I had the guts, that is. So Wednesdays mark half way through the head-tilting, condescending shittyness, and I work through a day's worth of Steve's bullshit. Truth is, we didn't get off to a good start. Our manager Sharon, a Scottish woman with flame-red, scraped back hair, introduced me as 'a student'. It went downhill from there. When I said I study Biomedical Sciences he got confused and said 'What, you're studying three subjects?'
We work together two days a week. Saturdays are busy enough for us to work separately. But Wednesdays are usually quiet, and so he follows me around, attempting to impart wisdom unto 'a young, naive philistine mind'. All because I said I didn't like Motley Crue. They're a novelty band. He blanked me for two weeks for saying that. The fact is, if you're going to be a bullshitter, you have to be a) grandiose in your bullshitting and b) bloody good at it in order to get away with it. Steve isn't either. He, for some reason, bullshits about tiny, little things. Things that don't really matter but somehow make him feel good about himself. The first day I met him he, out of nowhere, said the management told him to cut his ponytail off.
'Naa, I'm not doing that.' He said. 'The suits aren't in charge of me.'
Now, on my first day I was willing to piss about with him. He humoured me. A 40 odd year old rocker who, according to Darren, still lives at home with Mummy.
'Well, they are in charge. Technically...' I tried.
'Technically.' He looked at me and used the quotation-marks-with-his-fingers when he said that, snorted and walked away. I don't think he appreciated words with more that two syllables. Since that day he continues to tell me odd little things. All bullshit, in my humble opinion. But occasionally entertaining. My top three being...
1) His band 'Death Wish' once supported Alice In Chains at Liverpool Academy in 1983.
2) He once picked up a hitch-hiking Jeremy Clarkson whilst truck driving through London.
3) He was a guest at Bono's wedding.
Now all three of these 'facts' are mildly amusing, interesting and somewhat confusing, if you're willing to believe them or not. But honestly, if you were going to bullshit to someone, you'd come up with someone a bit...well...better. Wouldn't you? These things may be true, of course. But when I asked where Bono had his wedding he just said,
'Ireland.'
Just Ireland? Really? No venue, no name of a village, not even a city in Ireland. Bono got married in Ireland. And a forty odd year of trolley pusher was invited. I can see the Wedding Invitation now.
DEAR MR STEVEN GRADY
BONO AND BONO'S FIANCEE ARE CORDIALLY
INVITING YOU TO THEIR BEAUTIFUL WEDDING
PLEASE R.S.P.V
THANK YOU
WEDDING CEREMONY ADDRESS:
IRELAND
He just seems to pluck names, places and events out of the air and creates his own little story. Attached to anything I bring up comes another droplet of bullshit. He's either severely bored and completely insane. I asked Darren about him one day when he clocked in for his 5pm till 10pm shift.
'He's a bullshitter, Dylan. A one hundred percent bullshitter.'
'But, why? Why make up these things?'
'Makes him him, I suppose. You haven't The Wedding Story, have you?'
I could read the capital letters in his words. The Wedding Story. Sounds like a film, doesn't it? Knowing Steve, he's probably written it, directed it, starred in it...all whist on holiday in Marrakesh or somewhere.
'No. Go on...'
'We were invited to a wedding a couple of years ago. A girl off grocery. Blonde. Big tits.'
Probably forgot her name.
'Anyway, I took my mate Colin and Steve went on his own. Was a good do and everything, DJ, bit of food, you know the sort.'
'Yes, I'm familiar with weddings.'
'Anyway, the next day he told Jim he went with his girlfriend. When I know for a fact he went there and left there on his own.'
Since then I've known. He's a bullshitter. He's gone on to tell me she's is called Julie, (although in the past he has referred to her as Julia and Jackie) lives and works in Scotland (convenient) and works as part of 'a big company.' No name. Just 'a big company.' Plus, owns a brand new Peugeot. You see what I mean? Not a Mercedes, not a Ferrari, a Peugeot! Where's he got that from!?
Forgive me but I can't see an early middle aged, slightly overweight trolley pusher with a grey ponytail dating business minded, Scotland based Peugeot driver. Especially not one with three names. But, maybe I'm wrong. I'd love to be wrong. It's like being an Atheiest. If i'm wrong it's great. I'll go to heaven. And if i'm wrong in Steve's case I'll get to enjoy his stories. Yes, I am wrong, actually. Thinking about it. Steve and Julie (or Julia or Jackie) probably met at that Alice In Chains gig, or he picked her up whilst trucking, or even at Bono's wedding in Ireland. We all know Bono loves Peugeot's.
Bullshit.
Eight hours in which bullshit is omitted. Omitted, relieved of and violently thrown out of the mouth of Steve. He is, in no uncertain terms, a bullshitter. You all know a bullshitter. They're either your Uncle, who you only speak to at family parties, your hairdresser, who you only tolerate because they have sharp objects near your head, or in my case, my immediate superior at work.
These last few weeks I've been in a horrible mood. Having to put up with questions from other colleagues, who seem to be really interested in why I, a 22 year old graduate, happen to be still working in a Supermarket. I tell them the short story, 'nothing out there' and 'having a look around' or 'taking a break from biomedical sciences' to be greeted by that condescending little tilt of the head, as if I'm a middle-aged divorcee who has 'just not found that special someone yet.'
'Ohh, hang in there, love. It'll happen for you!' It's funny, isn't it, how the kind of people who condescend and tilt heads are often 30 odd year old women with useless kids and a fat waste-of-space husband. 'Oh' I'll say, 'hang in there!' If I had the guts, that is. So Wednesdays mark half way through the head-tilting, condescending shittyness, and I work through a day's worth of Steve's bullshit. Truth is, we didn't get off to a good start. Our manager Sharon, a Scottish woman with flame-red, scraped back hair, introduced me as 'a student'. It went downhill from there. When I said I study Biomedical Sciences he got confused and said 'What, you're studying three subjects?'
We work together two days a week. Saturdays are busy enough for us to work separately. But Wednesdays are usually quiet, and so he follows me around, attempting to impart wisdom unto 'a young, naive philistine mind'. All because I said I didn't like Motley Crue. They're a novelty band. He blanked me for two weeks for saying that. The fact is, if you're going to be a bullshitter, you have to be a) grandiose in your bullshitting and b) bloody good at it in order to get away with it. Steve isn't either. He, for some reason, bullshits about tiny, little things. Things that don't really matter but somehow make him feel good about himself. The first day I met him he, out of nowhere, said the management told him to cut his ponytail off.
'Naa, I'm not doing that.' He said. 'The suits aren't in charge of me.'
Now, on my first day I was willing to piss about with him. He humoured me. A 40 odd year old rocker who, according to Darren, still lives at home with Mummy.
'Well, they are in charge. Technically...' I tried.
'Technically.' He looked at me and used the quotation-marks-with-his-fingers when he said that, snorted and walked away. I don't think he appreciated words with more that two syllables. Since that day he continues to tell me odd little things. All bullshit, in my humble opinion. But occasionally entertaining. My top three being...
1) His band 'Death Wish' once supported Alice In Chains at Liverpool Academy in 1983.
2) He once picked up a hitch-hiking Jeremy Clarkson whilst truck driving through London.
3) He was a guest at Bono's wedding.
Now all three of these 'facts' are mildly amusing, interesting and somewhat confusing, if you're willing to believe them or not. But honestly, if you were going to bullshit to someone, you'd come up with someone a bit...well...better. Wouldn't you? These things may be true, of course. But when I asked where Bono had his wedding he just said,
'Ireland.'
Just Ireland? Really? No venue, no name of a village, not even a city in Ireland. Bono got married in Ireland. And a forty odd year of trolley pusher was invited. I can see the Wedding Invitation now.
DEAR MR STEVEN GRADY
BONO AND BONO'S FIANCEE ARE CORDIALLY
INVITING YOU TO THEIR BEAUTIFUL WEDDING
PLEASE R.S.P.V
THANK YOU
WEDDING CEREMONY ADDRESS:
IRELAND
He just seems to pluck names, places and events out of the air and creates his own little story. Attached to anything I bring up comes another droplet of bullshit. He's either severely bored and completely insane. I asked Darren about him one day when he clocked in for his 5pm till 10pm shift.
'He's a bullshitter, Dylan. A one hundred percent bullshitter.'
'But, why? Why make up these things?'
'Makes him him, I suppose. You haven't The Wedding Story, have you?'
I could read the capital letters in his words. The Wedding Story. Sounds like a film, doesn't it? Knowing Steve, he's probably written it, directed it, starred in it...all whist on holiday in Marrakesh or somewhere.
'No. Go on...'
'We were invited to a wedding a couple of years ago. A girl off grocery. Blonde. Big tits.'
Probably forgot her name.
'Anyway, I took my mate Colin and Steve went on his own. Was a good do and everything, DJ, bit of food, you know the sort.'
'Yes, I'm familiar with weddings.'
'Anyway, the next day he told Jim he went with his girlfriend. When I know for a fact he went there and left there on his own.'
Since then I've known. He's a bullshitter. He's gone on to tell me she's is called Julie, (although in the past he has referred to her as Julia and Jackie) lives and works in Scotland (convenient) and works as part of 'a big company.' No name. Just 'a big company.' Plus, owns a brand new Peugeot. You see what I mean? Not a Mercedes, not a Ferrari, a Peugeot! Where's he got that from!?
Forgive me but I can't see an early middle aged, slightly overweight trolley pusher with a grey ponytail dating business minded, Scotland based Peugeot driver. Especially not one with three names. But, maybe I'm wrong. I'd love to be wrong. It's like being an Atheiest. If i'm wrong it's great. I'll go to heaven. And if i'm wrong in Steve's case I'll get to enjoy his stories. Yes, I am wrong, actually. Thinking about it. Steve and Julie (or Julia or Jackie) probably met at that Alice In Chains gig, or he picked her up whilst trucking, or even at Bono's wedding in Ireland. We all know Bono loves Peugeot's.
Bullshit.
Friday, 13 August 2010
To Spell With Love
There's an air of electric excitement on Valentine's Day in Supermarkets. If you manage to get past the crowded flower stand, push your way through the greeting cards aisle and to the checkouts, you'll see an alarming sight. Any store worth their retail salt will fill their checkouts with pink laden colleagues. Today, bleeping food through the tills were middle aged woman with pink-fuzzy-love-hearts-on-springs attached to their heads, all with pink lipstick on and, oh yes, shiny pink shirts . A pink day all round. Just because it's the 14th of February it means a box of chocolates should be pink and twice the price.
But I'm no Love-Scrooge, if that's an actual term. I just have no-one to be happy and pink with. The girls at University were either engaged or not interested. A good percentage of those were engaged and not interested. Double the fun. But I didn't mind, ten minutes at work today and the whole idea of relationships made me sick. The colleague canteen was a sea of pink, but I spotted Darren in the corner, hunched over an empty table. A grabbed a sandwich and joined him to a lovely and heart-warming welcome.
'Oh, piss off!'
Turned out he was stewing over a Valentines Card for some 20 minutes. He'd gone over on his lunch break to pen it perfectly. It was for Jenny, a checkout girl a little younger that Darren. Apparently they'd got chatting whilst he was collecting baskets.
'I said piss off!'
I opened my sandwich packet and took a bite. Darren was the first porter I met when I first started. He makes me laugh because of his alarming honesty and dry sense of humour. He gave me my grand tour (A 30 second walk around the car park) on my first day as a Saturday boy. That day the man in charge, Steve, was on holiday, so from what I understood he was second in command and eager to hold the respected fort.
'That Steve's a wanker.' Darren barked. 'Still lives with his mum.'
I didn't find that funny until I found out Steve was 46 years old, heavily into Iron Maiden and had a grey ponytail that reached his arse.
I could see Darren was struggling with the card. He'd written it backwards, so all that was on the card was 'Love Your Secret Admirer' at the bottom. I thought I'd chip in.
'Why don't you do the old 'Roses are red' thing...'
'Roses are red thing?'
'Yeah, 'Roses are red, violets are blue...''
'...yes, and?'
'Well, you come up with the next bit.'
'Next bit?'
How does anyone go through years and years of their lives and not know the 'Roses are red' thing?! Amazing. Even if you don't ever use it, say it or like it, you know it! It's engrained into you during childhood. It's one of those things you know. I realised that Darren wasn't coming down to work any time soon, so I hurried it along a bit.
'It's normally something like 'Roses are red, violets are blue, da da da da, I love you.'
Now the 'da da da da' thing wasn't meant to be taken literally. The 'da da da da' was supposed to be replaced by his own words. Forgive me but I expected a 25 year old man to a) know the roses are red thing and b) write 1/4 of his own Valentines Card.
Nope. He didn't even spell 'Secret' right.
He closed the card and popped it into the envelope before I could bother to correct him.
'So, you just going to leave it on her checkout, then?'
'No, popping it into her locker.' He said with a wink.
'Yeah, I'd love to see you get caught in the girls locker room!' I laughed.
'Didn't get caught the last two times.'
Then he slowly licked the envelope as his eyes glazed over. It made me shudder inside. I became instantly fearful. Not only for Jenny, but for women everywhere.
But I'm no Love-Scrooge, if that's an actual term. I just have no-one to be happy and pink with. The girls at University were either engaged or not interested. A good percentage of those were engaged and not interested. Double the fun. But I didn't mind, ten minutes at work today and the whole idea of relationships made me sick. The colleague canteen was a sea of pink, but I spotted Darren in the corner, hunched over an empty table. A grabbed a sandwich and joined him to a lovely and heart-warming welcome.
'Oh, piss off!'
Turned out he was stewing over a Valentines Card for some 20 minutes. He'd gone over on his lunch break to pen it perfectly. It was for Jenny, a checkout girl a little younger that Darren. Apparently they'd got chatting whilst he was collecting baskets.
'I said piss off!'
I opened my sandwich packet and took a bite. Darren was the first porter I met when I first started. He makes me laugh because of his alarming honesty and dry sense of humour. He gave me my grand tour (A 30 second walk around the car park) on my first day as a Saturday boy. That day the man in charge, Steve, was on holiday, so from what I understood he was second in command and eager to hold the respected fort.
'That Steve's a wanker.' Darren barked. 'Still lives with his mum.'
I didn't find that funny until I found out Steve was 46 years old, heavily into Iron Maiden and had a grey ponytail that reached his arse.
I could see Darren was struggling with the card. He'd written it backwards, so all that was on the card was 'Love Your Secret Admirer' at the bottom. I thought I'd chip in.
'Why don't you do the old 'Roses are red' thing...'
'Roses are red thing?'
'Yeah, 'Roses are red, violets are blue...''
'...yes, and?'
'Well, you come up with the next bit.'
'Next bit?'
How does anyone go through years and years of their lives and not know the 'Roses are red' thing?! Amazing. Even if you don't ever use it, say it or like it, you know it! It's engrained into you during childhood. It's one of those things you know. I realised that Darren wasn't coming down to work any time soon, so I hurried it along a bit.
'It's normally something like 'Roses are red, violets are blue, da da da da, I love you.'
Now the 'da da da da' thing wasn't meant to be taken literally. The 'da da da da' was supposed to be replaced by his own words. Forgive me but I expected a 25 year old man to a) know the roses are red thing and b) write 1/4 of his own Valentines Card.
Nope. He didn't even spell 'Secret' right.
He closed the card and popped it into the envelope before I could bother to correct him.
'So, you just going to leave it on her checkout, then?'
'No, popping it into her locker.' He said with a wink.
'Yeah, I'd love to see you get caught in the girls locker room!' I laughed.
'Didn't get caught the last two times.'
Then he slowly licked the envelope as his eyes glazed over. It made me shudder inside. I became instantly fearful. Not only for Jenny, but for women everywhere.
Wednesday, 11 August 2010
Stop! Banner Time
OK, I realise 'Div Kids' is a strong term, but I didn't come up with it. We were in the pub (studying, obviously) situated quite conveniently next to the University building, when my fellow student James tried to make some kind of conversation that didn't involve Uni work.
'So, you work at a Supermarket, then?
'Yeah, outside.'
'What, trolley pushing?!'
'Yeah.'
'Oh, I thought you were on checkouts or something. I didn't realise you were one of the div kids!'
And so the name stuck for throughout the entire course. Still, I got a 2:1 in the end, James dropped out half way through and enrolled on one of those wishy-washy Media Studies courses. 15 Love.
Of course, I hadn't intended to come back here after graduating. But, as luck would have it, there are no jobs out there for me. I won't bore you with the details of what Biomedical Science is, just Wikipedia it if you're so inclined. I'm not bitter. I'm just frustrated. But i'm here now, a full-time porter. Pushing trolleys until I can find anything better. Still, it could be worse. I could be a cleaner. We all know the hierarchy.
It's an unwritten, unspoken hierarchy, obviously. We wouldn't want to offend with such classification. But, it could written or spoken as most of the latter two don't speak much English.
Mondays start off reasonably slow. For the first ten minutes I watch the newest members of our team, twins Alex and Duncan, put up a banner advertising the new Toy Story film. They're here on a Special School apprenticeship, which would explain why it took them two and a half hours to put up. Both of them skin heads and heavy set, so I didn't have the nerve to tell them they'd nailed it to the wall upside down.
I go around clearing up all the loose trolleys, fishing out all the rubbish. Used baby wipes, empty packets of quavers and old scratch cards. I always check if they're winners. You never know, these people have children to take care of, they may not be paying attention. Either that or they're really messy eating crisps. On my break I flick through the free newspaper: Football journalists think England are the 'Best Team Ever' after a 2-1 friendly win over Uzbekistan. I'd agree, if half the opponents weren't part time window cleaners and mobile phone salesmen. I listen to a voicemail off my Grandad. I fade in and out. Something about cheap microwaves and a holiday in Blackpool. The message is deleted as soon as I reach the 'LoveHearts' page. I go straight for the 'Women Seeking Men' section. Not that I am one, but I love it when women describe themselves as 'Bubbly' or 'Lively' or 'Enjoys eating out.' When are they going to be honest and put 'Fat Lass.'?
An hour left in my shift and I'm not feeling well. The moron twins bore me by following me around, completing their list of '100 Reasons Why We Love Plane Spotting.' Again, they're big lads, so I don't pluck up the nerve to answer 'Because you have never kissed a girl.' In truth I was a little deflated about the job interview I'd had the Friday before. It was for a Labratory Assistant at Crewe University.
'So what are you doing now, now that you've graduated?', asked Mr Watkins with insanly bushy eyebrows.
'Well, I am currently working as part of a small team in a Supermarket. Maintaining the satefy of the customers, cleanliness of the store and with equipment such as trolley carts, disabled scooters and ladders.'
Well remembered. Glad I wrote that down.
'Outside?...With trolleys?'
'Yes, as part of a small team.'
'...With the div kids?'
'So, you work at a Supermarket, then?
'Yeah, outside.'
'What, trolley pushing?!'
'Yeah.'
'Oh, I thought you were on checkouts or something. I didn't realise you were one of the div kids!'
And so the name stuck for throughout the entire course. Still, I got a 2:1 in the end, James dropped out half way through and enrolled on one of those wishy-washy Media Studies courses. 15 Love.
Of course, I hadn't intended to come back here after graduating. But, as luck would have it, there are no jobs out there for me. I won't bore you with the details of what Biomedical Science is, just Wikipedia it if you're so inclined. I'm not bitter. I'm just frustrated. But i'm here now, a full-time porter. Pushing trolleys until I can find anything better. Still, it could be worse. I could be a cleaner. We all know the hierarchy.
GENERAL MANAGER
PEOPLE MANAGER
DEPARTMENT MANAGER
SECTION LEADER
NORMAL COLLEAGUE
PORTER
CLEANER
It's an unwritten, unspoken hierarchy, obviously. We wouldn't want to offend with such classification. But, it could written or spoken as most of the latter two don't speak much English.
Mondays start off reasonably slow. For the first ten minutes I watch the newest members of our team, twins Alex and Duncan, put up a banner advertising the new Toy Story film. They're here on a Special School apprenticeship, which would explain why it took them two and a half hours to put up. Both of them skin heads and heavy set, so I didn't have the nerve to tell them they'd nailed it to the wall upside down.
I go around clearing up all the loose trolleys, fishing out all the rubbish. Used baby wipes, empty packets of quavers and old scratch cards. I always check if they're winners. You never know, these people have children to take care of, they may not be paying attention. Either that or they're really messy eating crisps. On my break I flick through the free newspaper: Football journalists think England are the 'Best Team Ever' after a 2-1 friendly win over Uzbekistan. I'd agree, if half the opponents weren't part time window cleaners and mobile phone salesmen. I listen to a voicemail off my Grandad. I fade in and out. Something about cheap microwaves and a holiday in Blackpool. The message is deleted as soon as I reach the 'LoveHearts' page. I go straight for the 'Women Seeking Men' section. Not that I am one, but I love it when women describe themselves as 'Bubbly' or 'Lively' or 'Enjoys eating out.' When are they going to be honest and put 'Fat Lass.'?
An hour left in my shift and I'm not feeling well. The moron twins bore me by following me around, completing their list of '100 Reasons Why We Love Plane Spotting.' Again, they're big lads, so I don't pluck up the nerve to answer 'Because you have never kissed a girl.' In truth I was a little deflated about the job interview I'd had the Friday before. It was for a Labratory Assistant at Crewe University.
'So what are you doing now, now that you've graduated?', asked Mr Watkins with insanly bushy eyebrows.
'Well, I am currently working as part of a small team in a Supermarket. Maintaining the satefy of the customers, cleanliness of the store and with equipment such as trolley carts, disabled scooters and ladders.'
Well remembered. Glad I wrote that down.
'Outside?...With trolleys?'
'Yes, as part of a small team.'
'...With the div kids?'
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