'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.
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