It's Tip To Be Square

Another Wednesday. Another Bullshit Wednesday. Whoopty fucking doo.

Most Wednesday's I have to wait a few minutes for the bullshit to start, but Steve was on fine form today. It was lovely and sunny and the blue sky had beautiful cirrus clouds and plane tracks criss crossed all over it. I clocked on, walked down to the trolley bay to find Steve rooting around the boot of his car. As you probably already know, Steve thinks he's a rocker, obsessed with Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin, but I'm not sure Jimmy Page drives a light green Skoda.


He shut the boot and scuttled over to me, pressing at his throat.

'Might be leaving a bit earlier today, mate.' He grumbled with a scratchy voice.
'Oh, right. OK.'
'About half ten.'
'What? But it's ten past ten now.'
'Yeah, not feeling to good. Throats killing me.'

You see what I mean? Bullshit. And not very good bullshit either. A sore throat? That's one of the most piss weak aliments in history. It's right up there next to Mild Asthma and Athlete's Foot. You wouldn't catch Freddie Murcury cancelling a U.S tour with a bit of a tickley throat.


I accepted the bullshit and collected a few trolleys. The far bay was full, but I spotted a trolley at the back with a handbag hooked onto it. It happens a few times a month. People leave umbrellas, coats, even their child in one case, but I think they meant to do that, he was ginger. I took the handbag into customer services desk. Steve and the others would probably take it home and keep it. But when I'm working I consider it the only thing to do is to hand it in. Plus, I'd look a bit odd going home on the bus with a hand bag over my shoulder...again.


Hilary was on the phone at the desk. She was a lovely woman. Bubbly but not in a Lonely Hearts column sort of way. Quite a large lady with a permanent smile and red cheeks. Her smile wasn't showing when I walked up to her, she was on the phone to quite an annoyed customer.


'OK, OK, we can offer a refund if you bring in the receipt and the pizza....yeah...yeah, you have to have the receipt with you, yeah. I understand, sir...I know, I know, I don't know why we wouldn't put a topping on it....yeah...yeah...OK, sir If you bring it in, with your...'

Hilary's face turned from a tolerant frown to an amused smile.

'That's good. OK...bye bye.'

She put the phone down and shook her head.

'What can I help you with, Dylan?'
'What was that about?'
'A customer said he bought a pizza today from here. When he opened it the pizza had no topping...'
'Right...'
'He just realised he had it upside down.'

We both laughed. It was maybe the first genuine laugh since I started working there.

'I've found this.' Putting the bag on the counter.
'Suits you.'
'Cheers. Maybe it's got a contact number in or something.'
'OK, thanks Dylan. You know it's times like that that makes you laugh at working here.' Pointing at the phone.


Hilary was right. Working here wasn't as bad as I sometimes thought. Until I went back outside to Steve. He was really notching up the bullshit now, still pressing his throat and gargling water. According to him, he'd been at a karaoke bar in town last night. He did all the classics, Since You Been Gone, Fat Bottomed Girls and Whole Lotta Love Seemingly, Steve only sings to songs that would feature on a Father's Day Jeremy Clarkson Driving CD. But he had to cut his 'set' after four songs after the barman said he was 'ruining it for the amateurs.'


Bullshit.


It was a quiet day. The sun was shining so we assumed people had lives and had gone to the beach or something. We walked down to the bottom of the car park, along the side of a row of stores. A massive one that sold carpets, an electrical store and a music shop. Grace was walking towards us, a girl who works in the music shop and gets on brilliantly with Steve. Sometimes they stand together and talk for half an hour, about nothing really. Steve really likes her, I can tell. But he would never admit that. Grace got to us and Steve pushed his trolleys at me, which banged into mine, trapping my fingers in the steel. I let out a yelp but Steve wasn't listening, he was deep in conversation already.


'How you doing, love? You all right?' Steve grinned.


He looked at me, in a way that wanted me to walk on, leaving them to chat. But I didn't. I also noticed his voice had heeled itself within seconds. A miracle. Grace and Steve chatted away about all sorts. Her mother, the weather and the latest AC/DC album. Her hair was short with a blonde streak in it, and her face had an array of piercings which made her look a lot younger than her early thirties. Fifteen minutes into it I wandered off. It was quite fascinating watching them. Usually when two people meet up and speak together, at least one of them is not really interested, looking away into the foreground and thinking about other things. But Steve and Grace were right into it, looking deep into each other's eyes and smiling. It was a pity she was engaged to someone else.

'Yeah...' Steve said, as we walked away. 'Seeing a bank manager. The suit. Listens to Stereophonics. He's an idiot.'
'Sounds like it.'
'Yeah.'

Steve looked shy. As if his description of the fiancée was all I needed to know. But I kept going.

'So how long have you been having these little chats?'
'Little chats? We're just mates. Relax, dude.' He said, scrunching up his shoulders.
'I'm just asking.'
'I know you are.'

There was a silence as we walked back down to the store. Steve was breathing heavily, as if he was trying to answer questions in his head that I hadn't asked yet.

'She's just a friend, calm down!'
'I didn't say anything!'
'You want to though, don't you?! Eh!'

I shrugged and smiled. If he was trying to hide his love for Grace, he was doing a shit job.


We went to put the trolleys we had collected into the bay when old lady stepped in front of us. Steve cursed her under his breath for being in the way.

'Excuse me, gentleman.'
'Yes?' I said.
'Which one of you handed in my handbag?'

She pointed at her arm, with the same handbag I handed in hooked around it.

'That would be me, madam.' I said.
'Why thank you. The lady at the desk said it was one of you too. Thank you very much. Here...'

The old lady held out her hand as if to shake mine. I looked at it and raised my hand. A handshake? It was a bit formal, wasn't it? She smiled as our hands touched and thanked me again. Looking down I realised she'd give me a rolled up twenty pound note.

'No, no. It's OK, I don't want...'
'No, I insist. I've got all sorts in here. I'd hate to have lost it for good.'

I protested a bit more but it didn't work. She got back into her car and her husband drove off.

'A twenty pound note?!' Steve yelled.
'I know. Good isn't it.'
'We're going to have to split that.'
'I'm sorry? Why? I found the handbag.'
'No, as your superior you're under my responsibility, so technically...'
'Shouldn't you be at home now?'
'Eh?'
'Your tickly throat? You said you have to go early.'
'Oh, oh...' Clutching his throat. 'Still a bit scratchy.'
'I bet it is. After speaking to Grace.' I grinned.
'Shove off! Student!'


You'd think getting a tip off a lovely old lady would make you smile for the rest of the day. But oh no, Steve told almost everybody. Darren was the first.

'Why are you getting cash for doing your job, Dylan?'

Then Duncan.

'What this I hear about you getting twenty quid off grannies?'

Then Sandra off the checkouts.

'Twenty quid, eh, Dylan? What did she get for that?'
'Why would Steve tell you? What interest is that to you?'
'Well, you start getting handouts off old ladies and people start talking.'
'I handed in her handbag.'
'I bet you did.'

She said that as if I'd said something rude and could be construed into some awful sex act with an innocent pensioner. She was disgusting. Sandra, not the pensioner. Bloody hell, for a guy with a sore throat Steve's doing pretty well and talking.

'Why are you telling people about the tip?'
'Is that what you're calling it?' Steve grinned.
'Shut up with that! Sandra did that!'
'I bet she did.'
'Oh fuck off, Steve!'


God, you do one nice thing and it blows back into your face....oh, don't you start! The nice thing blows back into my face, nothing rude. Next thing you know and Sharon will get hold of it.


'Sit down, Dylan.' Sharon told me, two minutes after getting hold of it.
'This isn't a big deal, Sharon.'
'I beg to differ. Taking money off people in the car park is against the rules.'
'It was a 'thank you.' For helping her out. For handing in her handbag.'
'You should have refused to take it.'
'I tried!'
'What if you comes back tomorrow and says someone had stolen her money. It's her word against yours. You've got twenty quid in your pocket. You're the thief!'
'Thief?'
'It was hypothetical.'
'Listen, Sharon. It was a tip for helping her out. She forced it on me.'
'I bet she did.'

I got a written warning for almost telling her to fuck off. One more strike and I'm out.

Here's hoping.