Sweet Zone Alabama

'OK, thank you for attending this seminar. Lectured by myself, Wayne Sharper, your new Head Porter. Welcome, any questions before I begin?'

Wayne turned from the white board and smiled at his audience. What he was looking at was Alex, on his own in the front row of seats, with his hand up. Like a child asking his teacher if he could go to the toilet.

'Alex?'

'Shouldn't we wait until everyone else gets here?'

'Why should I? They're late.' Wayne replied bluntly.

Alex looked around the room and realised it would be much quieter on his own, so he sat back in his seat and shrugged. Steve and I were on our way, after helping an old woman lift a 48-inch TV into her Nissan Micra. I know your eyesight decreases when we grow old, but that was taking the piss. We all knew Steve didn't like Wayne. I wasn't sure if I liked Wayne. He had a quiet, aged confidence about him, which automatically won him grace and respect. Steve wasn't prepared to give him respect, even with his new title.

'All right, H.P sauce.' Steve said as he bundled through the training room door.

'H.P sauce?' I said as I followed him in.

'Work it out.' He replied quietly.

Wayne wasn't interested, a good sign for anyone with authority. We all had those teachers at school that you could distract for the whole lesson, to put him off teaching you. I had one and it was great fun. Fifty minutes into my history class and instead of knowing the fine details of the Peace Treaty, I found out about Mr Richard's favourite electric guitar. Which was his cherry red Fender Stratocaster, by the way. But Wayne wasn't like that. With his frame less glasses and neatly trimmed hair, he told us both to sit down so he could carry on.

'Right. Basically, there are three new rules.' I began again.

'It stands for 'head porter', if you interested.' Steve interrupted.

'I'm sorry?' Wayne asked.

'H.P sauce. Head Porter? It was going to be your new nickname. Forget it.'

'OK. Three new rules...'

Steve was angry that no one had worked it out. I bet he’d been thinking about that nickname for hours. But as I said, Wayne wasn’t interested. He should be a teacher; he's got the right attitude.

'The three rules are thus...'

Maybe not. Teachers these days would get their heads kicked in if they said 'thus.'

'Phones. Zones and Moans.' Wayne said.

'Phones?' Steve asked.

'Zones?' I asked.

'Moans?' Alex asked.

We all stared at him like he said those three words in Arabic. It turned out that Darren had let Wayne make a few changes within our department, to freshen things up and add more authority. Wayne reeked of authority. With his posture and calm, informative nature. He was wearing a tie for this seminar, even that looked briskly ironed. Anyway, the three changes were Phones, Zones and Moans.

‘No phones must be in your pockets whilst out on the car park. Instead one porter will be allocated a radio, to keep in touch with colleagues in store.’

‘Why would we want to do that?’ Alex asked.

‘In case they want anything.’

‘Like what?’ Steve added, his armed folded.

‘Help a customer, move something…’

We all stared at him.

‘Things that are required of you within your job.’

Suddenly his new role made sense. We hadn’t had communication with colleagues inside before. We could have done last year when a woman was asking us if we had seen her husband. Three times she came back asking that day. We weren’t told he’d collapsed in store and had been taken to hospital. I guessed those radios were much needed.

‘Zones. We must stay in our allocated zones on that car park which will be marked out. And Moans. Anyone who wants to moan about anything or anyone. You come to me.’

‘What about Darren?’ I asked.

‘Or Sharon?’ Steve asked.

‘Consider them the last resort.’

It was hard to fight with him because he was bang on, but he still spoke with a smug calmness that made me want to flick his expensive glasses off his face. We were all told to leave the training room with a laminated bit of card that read ‘PHONES. ZONES. MOANS.’ I gave him credit; he managed to make them all rhyme. Already enough to make him a better head porter, or H.P sauce, than Steve ever was. Trying to conjure enough enthusiasm for that nickname was almost as difficult as teaching Steve how to work the walkie-talkie.

‘Just press that, there. And speak into it.’

‘Right, right. Let me get my glasses on.’ He squinted at the black radio.

‘I thought you’ve used these before? On tour and that.’ I smiled.

‘Oh, yeah loads of times. They were different back then, though. A lot smaller.’

Bullshit, again. If he had used them before it was only in his lorry working for Eddie Stobart. Ten four, rubber duck.

‘Hello.’ He said into the radio carefully.

He then held it close to his ear. I could see what would come next. You put a walkie-talkie right up to your eye and you're going to get trouble.

‘Hello?’ A voice said back, making Steve flinch.

‘Who’s that?’

‘Who’s that?’

This went on for fifteen minutes, with both of them refusing to give the slightest bit of information to work out who they were talking to.

‘What’s your name?’

‘What’s your name?’ The voice came back.

‘I'm not telling you.’

‘I’m not telling you either.’

The last sentence seemed to resonate a lot more, as if the actual voice was close to us. I turned around to see Alex, with one hand on a radio and the other holding up his finger to his mouth, mouthing ‘Shhh’ at me. But before Alex could comically jump up behind Steve, another voice scuffled through, making both of them flinch.

‘Hello? Gordon. I need size seven. Adidas shell.’

This voice was much deeper and seemed tired and angry. The three of us stood around and listened again, waiting for the voice to emerge again.

‘Gordon? Come on, man. They’re waiting.’

‘It’s Sports Palace!’ Alex shouted. ‘The sports shop over there!’

Alex pointed to the huge white coloured building two doors down from us. Sports Palace. Essentially a warehouse full of knocked off sports merchandise. From calendars to signed shirts, they had it all. The trouble was the size. You get lost in there like you do in Ikea.

‘Jesus, Gordon! Don’t make me come in there!’ He scowled again, drenched in distortion.

Apparently this Sports Palace place has walkie-talkies just like ours, but as we were on the same channel, their conversations were coming through our radios. I felt sorry for this Gordon lad. I imagined this was his first day, the sweat from the pressure dripping off his forehead. A little bit of a bum-fluff moushtache emerging from his top lip, cowering in fear in the stock room, unable to respond to the man on the radio and get his size seven shoes. Just as I was starting to picture the hideous beating Gordon was going to receive, Steve pressed the button and spoke into it.

‘Yes, OK, I’ll be out in a second!’

‘What was that?’ I shouted.

‘Just having a laugh.’

‘Yeah, at Gordon’s expense!'

‘You don’t know Gordon!’

I really thought I did. Poor Gordon. I bet he’s behind on his college coursework, too.

‘Stop it, Steve. You’re going to get us into trouble.’

‘Gordon!! Get out here now!’ The angry man spat back.

‘OK.’ Steve squeaked a reply.

‘Steve!’ I shrieked.

Not only was Steve interfering with a company’s trading; he was interfering in a boy’s health, by mimicking him. Steve did a pretty good Gordon impression, though. I’d never met the boy, but I bet he had a squeaky little boy’s voice.

‘Right. Too late, Gordon. They’ve left. Forget the shoes.’ The voice spat through the radio.

‘Oh, shit Steve. You’ve done it now. Gordon’s going to get fired because of you.’

‘He could have answered back.' He defended himself. 'This supermarket rules!! Wow!’ Steve whaled down the walkie-talkie, raising his devil horn hands in the air.

We all got back to work; keeping in our respected zones that Wayne had marked out for us. It basically kept us apart so we would work harder. But ten minutes later, Steve called Alex and I over to his zone.

‘What is it, Steve? This isn’t my zone.’

Steve didn’t say a word. He was stood next to a large man and sweating profusely. I didn’t recognise the man at first. He was a short, dumpy man with a baldhead and a pug nose. I recognised the t-shirt, though. All white with a blue stripe along the front. The trademark colours of a Sports Palace colleague. The name badge read ‘Gordon.’

‘Who just got me fired?’ He growled.

This guy could be Phil Mitchell’s stunt double. The same pink, angry face and build. Even his voice sounded similar. This wasn’t the Gordon I knew. I Gordon I knew was at home, crying into his Mum’s arms.

‘F-fired?’ Steve stuttered.

‘Yeah. I didn’t get the shoes Ron was after. Now I’ve been fired. Who’s in charge here?’

Steve was sweating a lot more now, and then he remembered he wasn't the Head Porter anymore.

‘Wayne. Wayne Sharper. He’s responsible for the walkie-talkies.’

‘Cheers.’ Barked Gordon, and bounced inside the store.

Alex and I stared daggers at Steve.

‘Phones. Zones. Moans.’ He said with a smile. ‘If anyone has a problem, see Wayne.’

‘Gordon’s got a problem.’ Alex said.

So had Wayne, now.