Bon With The Wind (Part Two)

‘Dylan, you know Bon Jovi?’

‘The band that play music for girls?’

‘Yeah, remind me which songs they do.’ Steve said.

I knew straight away what he wanted to do. He wanted to know Bon Jovi song names so he could get Wayne to like him. But if you remember, Wayne said ‘I like Bon Jovi sometimes.’ But Steve heard ‘I love Bon Jovi and it would be amazing if you love or knew them too. That way we could be mates and you could be the Head Porter.’

OK, maybe he didn’t hear all that, but something to that effect. I was too nervous about what Alex was asking of me today; speak to the whole supermarket over a microphone and ask Fran to marry him. So to get my mind off it, I decided to mess Steve about.

‘OK, Bon Jovi did Gold.’

‘Gold…’ Steve said, as if he had heard of it somewhere.

‘Yeah, you know. Gold, gooold! Al-ways be-lieve in your soooul!’

‘You’ve got the power to know!’ Steve joined in.

‘You’re indestructible!

‘Always believe in! Yeah, I know that one.’

‘Good. They also did True. Which is a good one.’ I informed him.

‘True?’

‘It’s the same kind of melody at Gold.’

‘Oh, yeah I know. Love it.’ He nodded.

He didn’t love it. I knew for a fact Steve hated 80’s pop music. Anything that was around Metallica’s heyday was utter nonsense according to him. I had somehow convinced Steve that the biggest rock band in the world were a synthpop group from Islington. Not bad for a Sunday.

I made my way into the store. In a word, Sundays at a supermarket are mental. Suddenly shopping becomes a lot more serious than any other day. Maybe it’s because it’s Monday the day after, and shopping needs to be done. On Saturdays, people are smiling. Laughing families fill the aisles and clog up the checkouts. Of course, it’s a Saturday! A day off tomorrow, maybe a party tonight! Happy days. But on Sundays there are no smiles. People do their shop with as few family members as possible, to halve the chance of arguments and bickering. Maybe they’re hung over or a little bit tired. Or maybe even depressed that it’s work in the morning. But still, supermarkets are full on a Sunday. Full of angry, tired and possibly hung over customers. A perfect day to announce a proposal.

Glen was our greeter today. He only works Sundays and is possibly the most boring man in history. If he isn’t the most boring man in history, he’ll tell you who is. By stretching the story out for twenty minutes whilst invading every inch of your personal space, leaning into your face and nodding. Glen was from Ireland and a bit of womaniser. With big, thick darkened glasses and brown hair that was slicked back with a comb he kept in his top pocket. Divorced at forty, ten years on he is an in-store greeter. And it's a perfect job. Stand in the foyer of a supermarket, smiling at woman and using his brown Wogan-like voice to seduce his prey. It’s a pity no-one listens to greeters in supermarkets, Glen’s black book would be full.

‘Morning, Glen.’

‘Oh, morning young ‘un.’ He scuttled over to me.

‘Do you mind if I use that microphone in a bit? Got an important message.’

‘Oh, right. What is it?’

Glen turned away from me and picked up his heavily used notepad and shiny silver pen.

‘And when do you want it announced?’

‘No, no. I’ll announce it.’

‘But I’m the greeter.’ He said.

‘I know. But this is a special announcement. For someone in store.’

‘Like a celebration of some sort?’

I tilted my head and thought about it. A celebration? Maybe. If Fran said yes and had any hope of the engagement lasting. Technically it was a celebration.

‘Technically.’ I said.

‘I don’t follow.’

‘Just leave it. I’ll do It later.’

I walked up to the canteen to get a drink. My throat was dry and my heart was racing. I didn’t need to feel like this, I wasn’t the one getting engaged. Surely I should get paid for the service I was about to provide. Radio DJ's do. Well very, in fact. And they get to sit down with a cup of tea whilst they do it. I should at least be best man at this wedding. And it was definitely going to happen now. It was causing me far too much stress for it not to happen.

‘You ready?’ Alex said, bouncing over to me at the water cooler.

‘Yeah, is Fran in position?’

In position? What was I thinking? This had suddenly turned into a military operation. I felt like putting on that paint on my cheeks and crawling past Fran's checkout out, saying things like 'Ten four' and 'roger' into a walkie talkie.

‘Yeah, she’s clocking in now. Make the announcement at 11am.’

‘Got it.’

I looked at my watch as I took a long hard drink of water. It was ten too. Time for a quick wee and then I would get down to business.

I headed into the locker rooms, which are about 30% lockers and 70% coats and shoes and rucksacks strewn over the floor. Lads here do use their lockers, but only to store borrowed PlayStation games, crumpled cigarette boxes and old wage slips. Steve was in there, sat on the bench next to a red motorcycle helmet and a few dusty old jackets. He was holding his mobile phone and staring into it with a layer of sweat on his forehead.

‘All right, Steve.’

‘Oh, all right, Dylan.’

I didn’t see Steve as a ‘talk-whilst-I-wee’ kind of friend, so I stood by the lockers.

‘What are you up to?’

‘Trying to remember these lyrics.’

‘I didn’t know you could get the internet on that phone.’ I said, pointing at his mobile that was twice the size as the ones people use today.

‘Oh yeah! It can send message to people too.’

‘Amazing. What lyrics?’

‘Gold. It’s the verse I’m having trouble with.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s hard to learn.’

‘No, why are you memorising lyrics?’

Steve stood up and walked over to his locker, after tripping over a mound of coats on the floor.

‘It’s for Wayne. I think he’d love my rendition of this.’

‘Why are you so obsessed with this?’

‘With what?’ Steve said, opening his locker.

‘Getting Wayne to like you.’

‘He’s a nice guy.’

‘Steve…’

‘OK, it starts off….’

Steve shut his locker and his eyes, steadied himself with his arms and began.

‘Thank you coming home…’

I would have stopped him, but the site of a 46-year-old heavy metaller singing a Spandau Ballet song, surrounded by dirty clothes, in the locker room of a supermarket, was too good to pass up. I may never get the chance to see it again, let alone film it on my phone for later viewing.

‘…Slowly being eaten away…Just another…shit…what is it?’

Like I knew?

‘Shit…shitter! I’ll have to start again!’ Steve barked, getting his phone back out of his locker.

‘You’ll get there.’ I smiled.

‘By the way, the lyrics on the website comes under something like Spandew Balett? What’s that?’

‘Oh, that’s the name Bon Jovi’s debut album. It’s a good one.’ I smiled.

‘Yeah, I think I’ll get myself a copy of that, if I haven’t already got it in my collection.’

‘I doubt it, Steve.’

And so I left him there in the locker room, screeching out the words with his chin raised up in the air and his ponytail shaking to every syllable behind him. It was time. Glen was making his hourly announcement, scripted beforehand and spoken in his deep Irish tone as if it was made up. Glen was a pro, only he couldn’t remember all the words so he holds up his clipboard, squints softly and speaks. You’d think after four years of saying the same thing every hour he would have learned it.

I waited patiently beside him whilst he finished, shot a quick look about to Fran’s checkout and smiled. Alex was collecting baskets next to her. Great, he was in position. I have to stop saying that.

‘Glen?’ I said, as soon as he clicked the microphone off.

‘Yes, young un’?’

‘Can I?’ Holding out my hands.

‘Oh, yes. What was the announcement, again?’ Reaching for his pen.

‘No, no. I’ll do it.’

‘But I’m the greeter.’

‘Yes, I know. You’ve told me that twice today. It’s a ‘special’ announcement.’

When I said ‘special’ I used the inverted comma sign with my fingers, and nodded violently over to Alex, who was now standing over Fran’s checkout and sweating horrendously.

‘Oh, right.’ He winked.

Glen winked at me. I felt dirty. Not only that, he clicked the microphone on started talking into it. The cheek.

‘Ladies and gentleman. I have a special announcement I’d like to make…’

What was he doing? This was my gig! Alex had asked me personally. The groom asked me personally. No way he was going to steal this away from me. This is more important then those two idiots getting engaged! I’m the announcer!

‘No, no you can’t!’ I shrieked, snatching the microphone from Glen, causing immediate feedback to screech out of the speakers. 

I wrestled with Glen, who, for a fifty-year-old man whose only hobby is fishing, could hold his own pretty well in a tussle. Someone should have told me he was an ex-copper. He still had the microphone whilst I tried to leap onto his back, reaching over his dandruff covered shoulders to grab it from him. I knocked off his glasses off as he grabbed my arm, clamping it down so I couldn’t move it. During all this he was still talking into the microphone, with occasional shrieks of panic coming from the background.

‘I believe GET OFF IT! Alex has a special question NOOOO GLEN THIS IS MY ANNOUNCEMENT! He’d like to ask Fran! NOOOO! GET OFF IT!!!'

Glen finished his speech with me on his back, before throwing me over his shoulder and onto the hard floor. I landed with a cry, but before I could feel the pain I tried to pick myself up, still believing that there was more I could say down the microphone. But It was too late. Fran had said yes, they kissed and cuddled. People applauded. All while they were listening to a greeter in a blue suit wrestle a 23-year-old graduate over the speaker system.

I was in so much pain. Still laid out of the floor, I didn’t notice Steve walk over to Glen, take the microphone and speak into it.

‘Ladies and gentleman. This is for Wayne. Who has, with out question, a heart of Gold.’

That was his cue to sing the song he’d been working on in A cappella. People gathered round to listen, Fran and Alex danced together beside the checkout and Darren leaned over the railings above us, peering down to the foyer.

‘Alllwaysss believe innnnnnnnn!!!!’ Steve finished.

There were claps, but not many. Like when your child does a dance routine while you’re watching the TV. You clap, but not too much. You don't want them to be urged to carry on.

‘Why are you singing a Spandau Ballet song, Steve?’ Darren shouted down to him.

‘Span what? It’s…Bon Jovi.’

‘No, it’s not. It’s Spandau Ballet.’

‘No, it’s Bon Jovi!’

Pretty much the whole supermarket agreed it was Spandau Ballet, nodding their heads and agreeing with each other. Steve looked down at me, still lying flat out on the floor. My back was hurting.

‘You idiot, Dylan!’ He shouted with a kick.

Now my bollocks were hurting.

Congratulations Alex and Fran. I’d better be the best man, now.