I Want To Break Three (Part 2)

So the date was set for tonight. And, although I know people had got food poisening from Dave’s Dungeon, I was slightly looking forward to it. I rarely go out to resturants, mainly because these days you have to pay for the food when you’ve finished, and you’re full. The worst time to pay for food, in my opinion. These new pub style resturants are great because you pay before, when you’re hungry. The posher resturants should take note, make them pay before and you’ll double their bill. Onion rings, extra portion of chips, another side of chicken wings! Why not? I’m hungry!

I could have just not turned up, of course. It was Steve’s birthday meal with Mary. But it was my idea to go, and it wasn’t as if it was a romantic, coupley dinner. It was at Dave’s Dungeon. The only romantic thing about it was that the place was dimly lit. Mainly because it’s underground.

I tried to turn up fashionably late. I always try to, but it never works out. Arriving first is the worst thing in the world. You can opt to wait outside in the cold, wrapping the coat around you whilst you wait for the fashionable ones. Or you can go inside, explain to the man on the door that you’re the idiot who turns up first for things, sit down at a huge table on your own and wait. Tapping buttons pointlessly on your phone, waiting for people who decided to wait that extra half hour to set off.

So I arrived first. Dave’s Dungeon is at the top of a rather steep hill beside the church. The glass doors were open to invite me in, down a few steps and to the bar. I ordered a drink and sat down. To my left was the resturant, with a mix of post-modern furniture and dark gothic walls, the place looked rather cosy. Spot lights were set into the bare brick walls and shiny leather booths occupied the back of the room, where a few people where sat in the middle of their meal.

Mary and Steve soon arrived, bumbling in behind me, screeching with excitment. Steve spent the first ten minutes glaring around the room, as if he’d got a free pass to the Playboy mansion.

‘Have you booked a table, guys?’ The young lad asked us behind the bar.

‘Yes, table 3.’

‘That’s a table for two.’ He said, a little confused.

‘Yes, could we change that? To a table for three?’ Mary asked, with one narrowed eye on me.

‘Of course. So, that’s table three for three.’ He smiled.

We sat down at the small table. The young man’s idea of changing our table was to just shove another chair under it, not to change the actual table. It seemed that now we’d got half a plate’s worth of space to eat.

‘This is nice.’ I said calmly, trying to break Mary’s stare.

‘Yes, but I wonder where Dave is. Excuse me!’ Steve ushered the young lad over to us. ‘Where’s Dave?’

‘Dave who?’

‘Dave. As in ‘Dave’...of ‘Dave’s Dungeon’. The owner.’

‘Oh, he left last year. I own this place now.’

Steve appeared rather upset. I was a little shocked too. This lad looked a little younger than me, a slight man with short black hair and sharp features. Someone did well in Business Studies.

‘You own...the entire place?’

No Steve, he just owns the plant pot in the corner.

‘Yes.’ He said. ‘ I'm Paul. The owner. And also your waiter for this evening.’

Looks like someone did really well in Business Studies. The owner and the waiter. He was cutting costs left right and centre. If he was his only employee he’d be making a lot of profit. Good luck to him.

‘Well, Paul.’ Mary broke the silence. ‘Since it’s my boyfriends birthday, I’d like to buy him a beer.’

‘OK, and is that a glass or tankard?’

Oh, yes. I forgot to tell you. This place does tankards.

‘Tankard!’ Mary smiled. ‘You want a tankard, yeah?’ She asked Steve.

‘So where has Dave gone?’ He asked Paul.

‘Retired I think.’ Paul shrugged.

Steve looked really let down. His eyebrows fell about four foot as he stared down at his cutlery. 

‘Did he say anything...before he...’

He’s not dead, Steve! He’s just not working anymore. I know he’s still got his name on the front, but Paul’s Dungeon would sound a bit shit.

‘It’s your birthday, is it? Consider your tankard free!’ Paul smiled.

That seemed to lift Steve’s spirit a bit.

‘What have you got for your birthday, then?’

‘Well, a table here, from Mary.’ Steve said.

My idea.

‘A paintings set. A new Star Wars mug...’

‘Oh, Star Wars. Don’t get me started...’ Paul shook his head.

‘What?’

Steve looked menacing for the first time in his life.

‘I just never got into it. Anyway, a beer for you. What would you like, madam?’

‘What do you mean?' Steve asked.

'I just never got into it.' Paul shrugged.

'Star Wars?' He asked, as if Paul had got confused with another film.

'Yeah. Not for me.'

Normal people would leave it there. I mean, I never really got into Star Wars, but to offer your opinion to strangers whilst your working is a bit odd. 

'Why not?'

'Steve.' Mary warned.

'Hang on, love. Why not?'

Paul shrugged again. His explanation so far hadn't gotten him far. 

'Just didn't like it. R 2 3pio...'

'R2D2. C3pio...' Steve corrected him firmly.

'Yeah, him. Me and misses tried to watch one the other night. The Phantom Solace?'

'The Phantom Menace.'

'What did I say?'

'The Phantom Solace.' Mary and Steve spoke together.

Mary and Steve were now glaring at Paul, who was now just finding out that he was digging his own grave.

'Oh yeah, where did I get that from?' He smiled.

'The Phantom Menace is a Star Wars film. The Quantum of Solace is...'

'Leave it, Dylan.' Steve demanded, still staring at Paul.

Paul started to sweat as he swallowed hard. I wanted a drink, but I couldn't just say what I wanted, I needed Paul to ask, that's his job. But he was concentrating on sweating, so I thought I'd go for it.

'I'll have another coke, please.'

'No, you won't.' Steve barked.

'What?'

'We're leaving.'

'What?' The three of us asked Steve.

Steve stood up and grabbed his coat.

'You're not Dave. You're an idiot!'

'What? Just because I don't know about Star Wars?'

'Correct!'

Steve and Mary made their way out, making a scene amongst a few other diners at the back of the room. 

'Well, I'm sorry If I don't know about bloody, Chewbacca or Dark Vader!'

'Darth Vader...Darth!' Steve shouted back at him.

There were a few mumbling from the people at the back as Steve and Mary slammed the glass door behind them. Paul looked over at me, wondering why I was still sat down. I was hungry. But something was still niggling me.

'Do people still get food poisoning here?'

Paul stared at me.

'Get out.'

I Want To Break Three (Part 1)

'What can I get Steve for his birthday, Dylan?'
'I don't know. Why are you asking me?' 
'Because he says you're his best friend.'

I wanted to cry. The trouble was I didn't know if it was out of depression, emotion, anger or because I was offended. Steve wasn't my best friend, I don't really have one. I kind of grew out of that after High School. Jimmy, his name was. The last time I saw him he had a stall in the market, selling lighters. I didn't go up and speak to him. He was wearing pyjamas, so I don't think our years apart were very good to him. But Steve considered me his best friend. That was kind of odd, knowing that the only other 'friend' I've seen of his is a fat, tattoo'd, darts player called Les. He gets Steve cheap bootlegs from America.

'Why are you asking me now, though? You know it's his birthday today?'
'I know.' Mary said, looking around nervously. 'I've not got him anything yet.'

Well, dressing up in her wresting gear in the bedroom doesn't count as nothing. Steve was 47 today, and had spent the first two hour of his shift complaining about being in work. He could have taken it as a holiday, but his rant to Darren didn't work, Steve believes people shouldn't have to book their birthday off, it should be given to you, anyway. If that was the case, Jesus wouldn't be around on Christmas, and he's the main man that day, there'd be no point in celebrating it.

'He's got all his painting stuff, games stuff. Music stuff...Oh God, what do you get the man who's got everything?'

Some sense? A pair of scissors for his ponytail? A house without his mother in the same room?

'I don't know.'
'Well, you should!'

Mary looked really angry now. If it wasn't for me knowing about her wrestling skills I'd have laughed in her face. I didn't want a body slam or a steel chair to the head. Or, even worse, Scary Mary's finishing move: The Scary Bomb. If you don't know what that involves, count yourself lucky.

'You could take him out to a lovely restaurant.' I suggested.
'Good thinking.'
'Isn't there one in town...that one that's in a dungeon or something?'
'Dave's Dungeon!' She pointed at me with a smile.'
'Yeah! Looks really Gothic...'
'Yeah, good idea. I don't think he's been before.'

Not unless it was with his mother. Even then she'd probably hold his hand. Steve made his way down from his lunch break, still with a face like a bulldog's arse chewing a wasp in an ugly tree.

'There's the birthday boy.' Mary held out her arms.
'He still won't let me go.'
'Steve, we've told you. Birthday's aren't holidays automatically. Do I have to explain the Jesus thing again?'
'No, no.' Steve grimaced.
'Anyway, it's time to tell you about your birthday present!'
'But, you've already given it to me.' 
'Besides the wrestling gear.' Mary tried to whisper. 'We are going for a meal at....drum role please...'

Mary looked at me, expecting a drum role. So I tired, pushing air through my gritted teeth and shaking my head a bit. Minutes ago I was considered a best friend, now I'm the twat doing a fake drum role.

'Dave's Dungeon!'
'You've not?'
'Yes!'
'That's brilliant!'

Steve and Mary hugged a kissed a bit, making squealing noises like couples do.

'I've always knew you wanted to go!' Mary shouted.

No she didn't! I can't believe this. I know they're a couple and everything, but give credit where credit is due. If two people split the atom they'd both go the press conference. I'm not saying I want to go to Dave's Dungeon with them, it's their date. Besides, I've read two articles about food poisoning, so I think I'll give it a miss. But I still deserved a bit of credit for the idea. Mary had nothing. Besides her sweaty wrestling tights, nothing. I was lived.

'How did you know I wanted to go there?'

I had to speak first because I knew Mary would take credit. So, I went for it.

'We both came up with it. Kind of a double team.'
'Hey, you know could team up in the ring!' Steve beamed.

No, I'd get battered. Sick Vicky. Black Kath. Minger Linda. It didn't matter who.

'Well, I knew you wanted to go.' Mary tried.
'That's great.'
'Oh, come one.' I said. 'Joint effort.'

It sounds bad, thinking back. But this happens all the time to me. Even in High School, when Jimmy took credit for our primary coloured map in Geography class. Everyone knew they were my pencils we used. And it was my idea to name on the Countries in a black marker pen.

'Well, yeah. Your girlfriend. And as you said, your best friend.' Mary looked at me.

Steve looked genuinely touched.

'Well, this causes for a celebration. Me, you and Dylan at Dave's Dungeon.'
'What?' I asked.
'What?' Mary asked too.
'The three of us.'
'Oh, well. No...it's a table for two...' Mary tried.
'That can be changed. I know the owner...'
'Dave?' I asked.
'Yeah, he's a nice guy. We'll sort it out.'

Time seemed to slow down as I was trying to think myself out of this. It was my idea, after all. But I didn't want to go. I didn't want to interrupt a lovely evening out, or get food poisoning. Two very good reasons to go. But I'd argued my corner. I couldn't think of any excuse. I was going.

Him vs Hair

If you're wondering, Scary Mary did beat Sick Vicky last Friday. With a record crowd of 26, Steve's girlfriend ripped apart her opponent, her real name Victoria Sanders, she works in a care home part-time. It was a hardcore match, as I said. And when they said hardcore, they meant hardcore. I mean, I've seen those kind of matches on those awful cable channels on late night TV, and it's relatively gory. But close up, in the local town hall, it's really, really gory. And entertaining.

 Steve was proud, looking at me every couple of seconds beside me in his folding chair, smiling like a father at his son's football game. We even got to go backstage (the stockroom of the town hall) and meet a few performers. Sick Vicky was a lovely girl. She told me all about her care home and how the pensioners she takes care of don't know about what she does at night. 

'I'm not sure they'd look at me in the same way.' She shook her head. 'A bit like saying I'm a prostitute.'

Hmm, I'm not sure prostitutes end the night covered in blood, sweat and broken ribs. If they do, they're not doing it right. 

I wasn't supposed to be there that night, sat on the front row, glaring up at a badly made wrestling ring. I was supposed to be at Alex and Fran's flat warming for a good party. It was Fran's fault.

'How was I supposed to know you were going with him?'

You can tell when Fran doesn't like someone, she doesn't use their name, for fear of throwing up.

'You didn't give me an address' I protested.

'I thought you knew were we lived. Anyway, I'm sorry. I just didn't want him coming. He's a bad influence on Alex.'

Fran talks about Alex likes she's his mother, or carer. I don't say anything about it, obviously. Sometimes he needs someone like that. And I suppose Steve is a bad influence on Alex. He was the one who told him how to get a free Fanta out of the vending machine in the canteen.

'Was it a good night?'

'Yeah, we had fun. What's with your hair, Dylan?'

This happens every time I have a haircut. I want people to notice but I don't want people to notice. Two very conflicting feelings. People point at you and stick their bottom lip out, searching for a meaning to the difference they're seeing in you. But there was a big difference in me today. Yesterday I went to a gentleman's hairdressers called 'Squires'. Usually I have a standard chop at the local salon every six months or so, with no real style or effort, mainly due to cost. But after my bad date with Sofia, I thought maybe it was the right time to have a bit of a change. I went for the stylish, fashionable, down-with-the-kids hairdo. Short on top with a bit of a fringe, and long sideburns down the side. The trouble was, I have quite a chubby face. Which meant that my stylish, fashionable, down-with-the-kids hairdo made me look a bit... well....girly.

'Why? What?'

'It's a big different, isn't it?'

That's the biggest insult. Forget all the swear words and offensive names you can think of, just call someone different and they can get the authorities involved.

'I thought I'd go for something different.' I said, fingering my hair. 'Do you like it?'

Not a good question to ask someone who you know doesn't like something. She just nodded and called it different again. 

I walked outside onto the car park. Today I had been working with Mary, asking her questions about the wrestling business she worked in. It was fascinating. Using blades to cut foreheads until they bleed, rehearsed arguments and choreographed fighting, and that's just in the dressing rooms! 

'So, are you and Sick Vicky good mates, then?' I asked, pushing up a row of trolley's next to her.

'Oh yeah, we went out for a drink last night. Won the pub quiz.'

Wow, two wrestlers winning a pub quiz. Maybe they just threatened the landlord with a chair and ran off with the prize. I don't know, they can do anything. We crossed the pelican crossing and pushed the trolley's into the bay, side by side. A lady walked behind us and smiled, holding out her hand to get a trolley. She was around forty, wearing a long dark coat and hat, almost like a French beret, but made out of cotton. I gave her a trolley and smiled back.

'Thank you.' 

'No worries.'

'Can I just say, I think it's great how they have woman working out her.' She grinned proudly. 'It's always considered a man's job.'

Mary can fight like a man. Probably better than a man. It was nice to see someone appreciate her presence on the car park as much as I did in the wrestling ring. Mary smiled at her as if to say thank you. But then shifted her eyes onto me and her smile withered into embarrassment. She wasn't embarrassed by herself, she was embarrassed for me. 

I'm not going to Squires again.

Address To Impress

'You going tonight, student?'

'Steve, I keep telling you. I've not been a student for months.'

'Same thing. Are you going?'

'Yeah, yeah.'

'Good, do you know where they live?'

'No.'

'Good, because I've got the address.'

Steve was excited about tonight, Alex and Fran's house warming at their flat. I know, I know, it should be called a 'flat warming', that's what I said. But Fran put her angry face on when I did. Apparently, 'House Warming' sounds better. I would have said that buying a house would have been better, but as I said, she had her angry face on.

I wasn't sure why Steve was excited. Maybe Friday was the one day a week his mother let him out of the house. I was expecting him to meet me at the petrol station with a bottle of Jack Daniels and a pack of cigars, ready for a good old party. But as I crossed the road and spotted him by the car wash, he was clutching a white shopping bag. Inside was was a big bottle of Dandelion and Burdock and a packet of chewits. Party! The days had started to get a little darker, and a hell of a lot colder. Light rain glistened on the street lights and headlights of passing cars as Steve and I walked by them.

'So where are we heading?'

'Well, according to the address and directions Fran gave me, it's only about five minutes away.' Steve winced through the rain, holding a torn piece of paper up to his face.

Alex hadn't been at work during the day, leaving Fran to sort out directions with a few colleagues, most of them her friends off the checkouts. Fran said she was expecting a full flat, full of friends and family.

'Mary not coming with us?' I asked.

'Naa, busy tonight.'

'What she up to?'

'Wrestling.'

I almost fell over. Out of all the things she could possibly have been doing, it's wresting, obviously. Not working, or helping her mum paint the back bedroom. No, she's wrestling on a Friday night. He said it in a way that made me feel stupid for not knowing already. Thinking about it, Mary looked like she'd be a good wrestler. A large, bulky girl. Able to throw herself about a bit. A little bit scary. Probably very scary in the right light and a bit more make up on. I wonder what her wrestling name was?  Mary The Killer! Mary The Murderer!

'Scary Mary.' Steve smiled widely.

'Really?' I grinned.

'Oh yeah, she's really good. She beat Julie The Mule last week, at the civic hall.'

'You've been to see her?'

'Oh yeah, I ask her to keep to costume on after, too.'

I was interested before he said that. We walked together in silence, over the bridge, past a row of closed shops and turned right onto a dimly lit street.

'Here we are. Cromwell Street.' Steve said, through a mouthful of chewits. He'd already eaten half a packet.

'What number?'

'46.'

'I thought it was a flat they lived in?' I asked.

'Me too. Maybe it's that one.'

Steve pointed to the small bungalow at the end of the street. The lights were on, flickering like people were inside. Maybe Alex and Fran lived in a bungalow. It made sense with Fran's wheelchair, a bungalow is perfect for that. But Fran said it was a flat. Oh, this was a Friday night. A party on a Friday night. I wasn't meant to be confused on a Friday party night!

'Are you sure this is the right address?'

'Yeah. 46, Cromwell Street.'

As we walked over to the bungalow, I'd noticed Steve's excitement growing more and more. At first he was whistling a tune, which is odd for one. People annoy me when they whistle. I only do it when I'm bored, and not very well. The whistle turned into a low hum, then a high hum. Then, as we got to the street, he was full on singing.

'Celebrate good times, come on! Dud der der der der!'

'You don't even like Kool and the Gang!'

'Who? Should be a good do, this. With what I've got planned!' Steve grinned.

'What have you got planned?'

'You'll see!'

When people say 'you'll see' it doesn't end well. You don't hear people say 'you'll see' to someone, and then give them cash or a new puppy or something. It's normally something horrible.

 We stood outside the house. There was no music on inside, a mainstay to any party. Put that together with a balloons and jelly and you're in business. Before I got a chance to speak, Steve slushed his way over the wet garden and to the window. He held out his arms and took a deep breath.

'Cooooonn......gratulations! And jubilations! I want the world to know I'm happy as can be!!'

'Steve.' I tried.

Steve may have not seen through his tightly squeezed singing face, but a shadow flickered on his frame. Then, a figure appeared at the window. It wasn't Alex. It definitely wasn't Fran. It was a man of about forty, with a remote control in one hand, a drink in the other and his work shirt unbuttoned over his chest. His angry face looked a lot angrier than Fran's.

'Steve!' I shouted.

Steve opened his eyes onto the bloke, which made him jump back about four foot, back onto the greasy grass.

'Run!' He said.

At least I think he said that. I was already three houses away, running for my life. We ran past the row of closed shops, over the bridge and threw ourselves behind the wall next to the car wash.

'Is he still chasing us?' I said in-between quick, painful breaths.

'No idea. I didn't look back.'

'I'm guessing that wasn't Alex's bungalow.'

'Or flat.' Steve added.

We're no athletes, as you can imagine. But trolley pushing does keep us both fit. Well, that's what we thought. Turns out we were wrong, after taking us both 20 minutes to stop wheezing.

'Ahh well.' Steve stood up. 'I've eaten all my chewits anyway. Hey, how do you fancy watching Scary Mary versus Sick Vicky?'

'Is that who she's fighting tonight?'

'Hardcore match!!'

When Fran gave Steve the wrong address on purpose, she didn't think about me going with him. I didn't mind, though. Watching a fat girl wrestle could not be missed.

Scary! Mary! Scary! Mary!

'

Planet Birth

The canteen was nearly full with colleagues, all gathered around one table. To be more precise, they were all gathered around one chair. And to be even more precise than that, they were gathered around one baby. I've often thought about what it would be like to have a child. Being quite a clumsy person, I'd end up tripping over it or something. And it's not like a vacuum cleaner, is it? Of course not. You can't take it back if it breaks.

Beth is one of our checkout colleagues and had just come back from having her baby, a little baby boy called Josh. It wasn't her first day back at work. It would look a bit odd, her bleeping food through her till with a child strapped to her. She had just turned up, welcomed by flowers and smiling faces, peering down at a five day old child.

The card is an odd one, too. I wasn't around beforehand to sign it, but I imagine it was full. Full of signatures and warm comments, from the middle aged canteen staff, ' from all the grocery staff' and 'best wishes from the Home and Leisure department.' I wouldn't know what to write. Five and six messages in and the 'congratulations' is already overused. But what else can you write? There are limited things you can say to a new mother. It's like talking to people in mourning, after 'I'm so sorry' all you can do is walk away. Sandra was the card ringleader. I saw her all day yesterday, shuffling around the checkouts with a pen, forcing strangers to fill the card with messages.

I'm not a socio-path, though. I stood and smiled with all the others, listening to questions like 'How much did he weigh?' 'How is he sleeping?' and 'How are you sleeping?' Questions that, when answered, are received with tilted heads and 'awwww's', no matter what answer they got in return.

One o'clock came around and most of the women said goodbyes and headed downstairs. I sat down by Beth's table with my dinner and smiled. I thought I'd give it a go.

'So, was it hard to come up with a name?'

I was proud of that. No one else thought of saying that.

'No, it's a family name so, we had to have it!' She smiled, looking down at her baby.

That was a good answer, as well. I still tilted my head and let out a little 'aww', but it was worth it. There was a slight pause, which gave way for us both to sip our drinks. Then I came up with another question, a real zinger. It would have knocked off her socks, the baby's little socks and knock all the other questions out of the park. But Alex interrupted, bouncing over and nudging my chair.

'All right, Dyl-do!'

'Alex! There's a baby here!'

I was embarrassed for all three of us, and wasn't even sure a five day old baby could be embarrassed yet. But Beth just smiled and went back to caring for Josh. I think she was genuinely impressed by Alex's insult. I wanted her to know that wasn't my nickname, I wasn't known as Dyl-do to my friends.

'Friday night, our flat. We're having a little house warming, me and Fran. You coming?'

'Erm, yeah. Why not.'

I can't think of a better way to spend a Friday night than to be in the flat of someone who refers to me as 'Dyl-do.' Alex realised I wasn't alone at the table and smiled at Beth.

'You're more than welcome too.'

I don't think Alex and Beth knew each other all that well, as he didn't say her name on the end of the sentence. I think he wanted to, but couldn't remember it. That's the main reason why colleagues in a supermarket wear name badges. It's not for customers, it's for other colleagues. There are hundreds of them, so remembering them all is an impossible challenge.

'Oh, no. Think I've got too much on my hands at the moment.' Beth repiled. 'Thank you, though.'

'It's a great excuse, isn't it.' I smiled.

'Sorry?' Beth said.

'You know, having a baby. I bet it gets you out of all sorts!'

That sounds a bit rude, reading it back. But I said it with a glint in my eye and a warm smile. I guess I got a bit carried away. We were all being nice to each other, inviting each other to house warming parties, saying how nice the baby is, I may have gone too far.

'I beg your pardon?' Beth glared at me.

'No, no. I was just saying...'

'I know what your saying! It's a little offensive, don't you think?!'

I didn't mean it to be. It was just a flippant remark about childcare. Alex gets to call me a dildo in front of her son, but in no way can I make a mild joke like that!

'Sorry.'

It was all I could say.

'Is that really how you think about having children?'

In a way, yes. I mean, they're cute and everything. And I bet in twenty years time she may grow to like her son, instead of him keeping her up and assaulting her furniture. But I think having a kid would be great for the social life you don't want. If I didn't want to go to Alex and Fran's house warming, what could I say? He knows I don't work Friday nights. I can't say 'Oh, no...sorry. I don't want to.' That would be rude. Having a child at home is perfect. Someone's got to look after it, and if it means missing out on going to a friends house for nibbles, it wouldn't be the end of the world, would it?

'No, no. Of course not. I was just joking...'

'I've had a baby five days ago.' She glared at me.

She was right, she had the proof right there.

'I know, I know. He's so cute.' I said, trying to defuse the argument. But she'd heard that compliment about 26 times today, so it passed her by.

'So pardon me, but I think on Friday I'll be at home taking care of him, instead of being at a shitty little house warming!'

Alex let the insult go. Initially because she was already angry, and secondly, the last few words turned into a strained whine, as Beth looked down and started to weep.

'I'm sorry. I was just...' I muttered.

Beth wasn't listening. Her shoulders were slowly shuddering with her eyes squeezed together, gently crying opposite me. A few colleagues walked past the canteen behind us and spotted Beth, her head still facing her child and crying. 

'Oh, what have you done, lads?'

'It was Dylan.' Alex said quickly.

Cheers Alex. At least he didn't call me Dyl-do.

'She's just very emotional at the moment.' I tried.

'No, I'm not!' She barked, her face covered in tears and saliva. 

She shrieked out again but it was inaudible, glaring up at me and then around the room, blaming me with words we all couldn't understand. I stood up and moved towards the back of the small crowd that had slowly gathered around us. I searched the crowd for Sandra.

'Is it too late the sign the card?'

Simply The Guest

No matter how well you know your partner, you’d be naïve to try and change their opinions on things, no matter how serious. From your religion to your side of the bed, they’re all tiny little granules that make up who you are. I mean, I have some pretty strong beliefs myself. You shouldn’t eat in cinemas. You shouldn’t walk onto a train when people are getting off it. And, dare I say it; you should take your empty glasses back to the bar when you leave a pub. Hey, it’s just who I am.

And the same goes for every couple. You’re bound to have your differences. Take Fran and Alex, for example. She has her charity that she works for, and all that volunteer work she does down at the primary school. Alex, he tests out XBOX game demos in his spare time, and he only asks for a tenner an hour. They’re both very different people.

Alex and Fran had been engaged for about a month or so, which seemed to make them twice as happy with each other. There is no rule as to how long you can be engaged for. I know a couple who have been engaged for four years now, and when asked about marriage, they tilt their heads and question it, as if it’s not really important to their lives. But Alex and Fran considered it important. I knew that straightaway, when Steve and I were stood by the trolley bay today, watching Alex smiling at us, pushing Fran towards us in her chair.

‘Look who it is.’ Steve nodded. ‘It’s Bill and Ben.’

‘Morning.’ I smiled.

‘Morning, gentlemen.’

Fran held out two white envelopes in our direction and grinned.

‘What are these?’ Steve asked.

‘Invitations. To our wedding.’ Fran relied.

‘Awww, you’ve set a date!’

I’ll admit, that may have been the most girlish thing I’d ever said. But no one seemed to mind.

‘Yes!’ Fran said. ‘14^th of June, next year.’

‘We’ll see you there!’ Alex added with a smile.

‘Erm, Alex? Fran? What’s this?’ Steve asked.

‘It’s an invitation, Steve.’ I said.

‘No, and wasn’t asking you! It says Steve and Guest.’

‘Yeah, you get to bring someone else with you. Have you been to a wedding before, Steve?’

‘Dylan, I’m not talking to you.’

Steve looked genuinely pained by the invitation, which made his eyebrows sink to the floor.

‘It’s a bit odd to have Mary as a guest.’

‘Oh, is that who you’re taking?’ Alex asked.

‘Of course it is. I’m just a bit sad she’s not, you know, got her own invitation.’

‘She has, it’s there!’ Fran pointed at Steve’s envelope. ‘She just has to turn up.

‘I know but…guest?’

‘How long have you been seeing each other?’

‘Two weeks.’

Hmm, I’m not sure that’s long enough for her own, separate invite. And after all, Alex does know Steve more than Mary. Fran agreed with me, too. And being the bride, I’m guessing she wins all disagreements.

‘That’s not long enough.’ Fran shook her head.

‘Not long enough? We’ve been on three dates. Three whole dates!’

Again, I'm not sure going to the town hall to see tribute acts is classed as a date. Still, they enjoyed the last one. Apparently, Rob Stewart rocked the house. They were even better than Alan Cooper and Pete Loaf. If you're interested, they're all available for bookings. Thirty quid, cash in hand.

‘Steve, come on. It’s not that big of a deal.’ Alex reasoned.

‘Is it because you think Mary doesn’t know you well enough?’

‘No, it’s because Alex knows she doesn’t know him well enough.’ Fran spoke for him. ‘She’s your girlfriend. She’s your guest. What’s the problem?’ Alex said.

They were right. The bride and groom were right.

‘OK.’ Steve stuck his tongue into his bottom lip. ‘If I can prove that Mary knows you enough…can she have her own invitation?

‘Yeah.’ Alex shrugged.

Fran looked a bit cross at Alex’s answer. She must have made the invites, and to print just one more for someone who’s already invited would be tedious.

‘Fine. I’ll get Mary. You wait here. We’re going to have ourselves a little Q and A!’

I would have walked away at that point, got on with some work. But watching Steve sweat his bodyweight because his girlfriend’s name isn’t on a bit of paper was too good to miss.

 Steve bellowed over to us twenty minutes later, literally dragging Mary by his side.

‘Right. Here we go.’

‘What took you so long?’ I asked.

‘We had some dinner.’ Steve replied.

‘And you left us here waiting?’ Fran asked.

‘I was preparing questions as well!’

Steve pulled out a bunch of napkins from his pocket. On it were a series of scrawled words in black ink.

‘Are you ready, Mary?’

Mary nodded in excitement and confusion.

‘Right, Mary…What shift does Alex work on a Saturday?’

Steve held out a firm arm in Alex and Fran’s direction, willing them not to speak. The couple just stared at Mary.’

‘Erm, ten six? It’s a ten six, isn’t it?’ Mary said, looking at Alex.

‘Aaaaa! Incorrect.’

‘Hang on, Steve. That’s right.’ Alex stepped in.

‘Is it?’

Steve peered down at his napkins and frowned.

‘I’ve got two ten written down on here. You work 2pm until 10pm on a Saturday, don’t you?’

‘No. Ten till six.’ Alex replied.

‘Yeah, ten six.’ Fran confirmed.

‘Ten six, Steve.’ Mary nodded.

This went on for ten minutes. And I’m telling you, we got it all. Alex’s shoe size, first girlfriend (which was Fran), favourite TV show, film and book, if you can count an X BOX magazine as a book. Steve asked them all, and every answer on his napkins was wrong.

‘Steve, where have you got these answers from?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Mary has got most of them right, but you’ve got all of them wrong. You made the quiz!’ Fran shouted from her chair.

‘I thought they were right.’ Steve said defensively.

‘My favourite TV is The Bill?’ Alex asked.

‘I thought you liked the walking feet at the end?’ Steve said, pointing his two fingers down to the ground and waggling them about.

‘That was ages ago! It’s changed now. That's why I stopped watching.’

'Same here.' I agreed.

‘You like Family Guy now, don’t you Alex?’ Mary smiled.

‘Correct.’ Alex smiled back.

Alex’s favourite food is a pot noodle, not crisps. His favourite drink is Dr Pepper, not a chocolate milkshake. And his favourite thing about Fran is her beautiful blue eyes, not the accessibility they got as a couple in cinemas. It seemed Steve guessed all the answers in a hurry, and hoped they were right.

‘Maybe it should be Mary Walden and Guest.’ Fran said.

We all made noises of agreement, apart from Steve, who was sweating more than ever.

‘OK, OK. Fran, if you don’t think I know him, ask me anything.’

‘Yeah, go on Fran.’ I said. ‘He’s got the answer but it’s wrong!’

‘OK. What’s his last name?’ Fran asked, nodding at her fiancé.

‘White! Whitman! Wilmslow! Whitefield!’

‘That's a long last name, Alex.’ I smiled.

‘Which one are you going for?’

‘Whitfield? Whitefield!’

We all stood and glared at Steve, who was desperately trying to fit letters together in his brain.

'Whitefield. Definitely Whitefield. Alex Whitefield.' Steve nodded.

‘Mary, I’ll get you an invitation printed. Bring whoever you like.’ Fran said.

Fran shot a cheeky smile over to Mary, and then Alex pushed her chair back up to the store.

'Aww, look at them. Mr and Mrs Whitehall.’ Mary smiled.

‘Shit! I knew that!’

Steve barked his last name up to the couple. Being a guest is that bad. After all, Steve will get to be one at the wedding. That’s if Mary invites him.

Good Things Come To Those Who Date

Steve and Mary.

Alex and Fran.

Dylan and…oh, wait…I’ve got no one.

And that’s fine by me, but Steve and Alex had been giggling to each other all day. Sometimes they’d snigger behind their hands like school children and look away. Then other times they’d wait for me to look at them and then laugh. Maybe it was because they had girlfriends, or a fiancé in Alex’ case. I’ve not had a girlfriend since college. And even then I wasn’t really happy with her. I was terrified of Mandy. And I know what you’re thinking; girls that age don’t really know what they want and they tend to confuse and scare boys. But no, she wasn’t like that. She was a rugby player. A big, beefy rugby player. So when she hugged me, I couldn’t enjoy it, as I was concentrating on keeping my ribcage in tact.

I walked down from the store after my break to find Steve and Alex, huddled around the trolley bay and giggling. It was no surprise. They were giggling when they watched me walk up for my break and even during, staring up at me in the canteen, pointing and chuckling to each other. Enough was enough.

‘All right, guys. What’s up?’

‘What?’ Steve held out his arms.

‘Yeah, what?’ Alex joined.

‘You’ve been like this all day. Now unless there’s a new XBOX game out, there isn’t much for you to be excited about.’

‘OK, OK shall we tell him, Al?’ Steve said.

‘Tell me what?’ I asked.

‘You’re going out tomorrow night!’

‘What?’

‘We’ve set up a blind date for you!’ Alex held out his arms.

‘What!’

‘Yeah!’

Alex and Steve jumped up and down a bit, like a new XBOX game had just been released.

‘I’m not…Am I?’ Holding my head back.

‘Yeah, it’s all set up. You’re meeting at Leo’s at eight.’

At first I was a little offended. Then I was nervous. Then I made up that Alex and Steve had gone to the trouble of setting up a date. Then I felt all three emotions at once, making me go red with anger and excitement. People like me don't normally do blind dates. It's normally people in their 30's with a successful career and just been through a lengthy divorce. You know the story: female friend sets up a date for this guy who has the the looks but lacks the confidence. Probably played by Hugh Grant or some other charming, bumbling idiot. You've seen those films.

‘What? You’ve not? Really?’

‘Yeah, she’s called Sofia. She’s a friend of Fran’s.’ Alex smiled.

‘I’m not going.’ I chuckled nervously.

‘What? Why not?’

‘Is she nice?’ I asked.

‘Yeah, of course! She’s just finished a degree in Drama.’

‘Drama queen!’ Steve beamed.

‘She’s around your age. You’ll be perfect together!’

I wanted to thank them. Then I wanted to hug them. Then I wanted to smack them both in the face for doing it. It’s hard to deal with more than one feeling at once. It’s tiring, too. So I just smiled and shrugged, safe in the knowledge that tomorrow night I’d be on my very first blind date.

‘Why have you done this?’ I asked.

‘Well, I’m with Mary now. Alex has got Fran. We just think you need a bit of it.’

‘A bit of what?’

‘Action.’

I’ve not had a girlfriend for five years. I don’t want a bit of action. A bit of action wouldn’t go far. I wanted a lot of it. But it still didn’t feel right going on a blind date, I can only see it going downhill. Mind you, it went down hill with Mandy. She hugged me after winning a rugby tournament and I couldn’t move for two weeks. So, I decided to go along with it.

Leo’s is an Italian restaurant; about ten minutes walk from the supermarket. It had been many things before Leo’s. Every six months it seemed to change into something else. First it was a sports bar, then it was an All You Can Eat Chinese restaurant. And I don’t know this for sure, but my mate told me it used to be a brothel. So the thought of eating in that place wasn’t nice. It had been Leo’s for over a year now. We had our Christmas meal there last year, but we can’t go back this year. We got barred for ‘excessive offensive language.’ I knew it was a mistake to invite Archie, one of our night staff.  A bloke with tourette’s syndrome a quiet family owned restaurant don’t mix.

It took me an hour and a half to get ready. I put on my favourite shiny blue shirt and nice aftershave, black shoes and my best jeans. I arrived a little later than Steve and Alex planned, so that way I wouldn’t be the desperate, lonely bloke sitting in the corner. I’d be the desperate, lonely bloke standing outside, peering through the glass trying to find someone who looked like a Sofia. I stepped inside about quarter past eight and was greeted was a large man in a crisply ironed white shirt.

‘Erm, I’m meeting someone here.’ I said, looking around the room.

‘A blind date, ah?’

The guy spoke like those puppets off the Dolmio adverts. Or the pizza delivery man in The Simpsons, whichever one you know of. I presumed he was the Leo.

‘Yes.’ I blushed.

‘I think she’s over there. Table nine.’

I walked over to table nine where Sofia was sat patiently. She was a small, slim girl, around my age as Alex said. She was wearing a dark shirt that matched her dark skin, with a bright silver necklace around her neck. She smiled at me politely as I sat down. Thankfully, there were no inevitable ‘Sofia?’ or ‘Dylan?’ greetings at the beginning. We just seemed to recognise each other as our respective dates straightaway and the date started.

‘So, Alex tells me you’ve got a Degree in Drama.’

‘Performing Arts.’ Sofia corrected me.

Sofia spoke in a gentle, rather posh and over pronounced accent, and her face seemed to form a soft pout every couple of seconds.

‘I’ve just done Biomedical Sciences so yours is bound to have been far more interesting.’ 

‘Yes.’ She nodded with a smile.

I’ll be honest, that was supposed to be rhetorical. She didn’t have to agree with me.

‘How do you know Fran, then?’

‘We were at college together. She started working at the supermarket afterwards and I battled on at University.’

I’m not sure how much battling goes on in a Performing Arts course, but I didn’t question her about it.

‘So what do you want to be?’ I asked.

‘I'm sorry?’

Sofia tilted her head as she spoke, and looked at me as if I’d spoken a different language.

‘You know, what do you want to be? An actor…’

‘Actress…’

‘Dancer?’

‘An actress.’ She stared at me.

‘OK.’ I said, reaching for the menu.

'And it's not something I want to be. It's something I am.'

It didn’t start well. I’d only just taken my coat off and she was making out as if I was questioning her whole career.

‘I've been to a few showbiz do’s this year. You know, for contacts? A friend of mine knows someone at ITV.’

‘Right…’ I nodded, with one eye on the starters.

‘Everyone was at the last one. John off Big Brother, Gary Lineker…the man who reads out the lottery numbers…’

‘Wow…’

That could have sounded sarcastic, but I was genuinely interested. I’ve always wanted to meet that lottery narrator man, just to ask him questions like ‘Have you ever put any numbers on yourself?’ Imagine if he won! He wouldn’t come back the next week.

‘But it’s so hard getting into the industry.’ Sofia rolled her eyes.

‘I imagine.’

‘Especially when you’re Asian.’

‘Right…why?’

She looked at me like I’d just killed her cat.

‘Dylan, most Asian families disapprove of their children in the arts. They look upon it as a joke.’ She pouted again. ‘They see it as a disgrace to the family and don’t consider it a priority. Definitely not as a job.’
‘I see. It’s a bit like Billy Elliot.’

Now she looked at me like I’d just put her cat, brother and favourite actress into a house and burnt it to the ground. Her pout dissolved into an open mouthed stare, dropping her menu simultaneously.

‘Do you know how rude that is, Dylan?’

‘I’m sorry. Haven’t you seen Billy Elliot?’ 

And with that, she made a little ‘psst’ noise through her lips, grabbed her handbag and left. 

Thinking back I suppose it was a bit rude, but I was trying to sympathise with her. Billy was told her couldn’t dance and he did, and the film ended well. It even won an award if I remember rightly! Sofia should have thanked me for giving her good advice. There was no point comically asking for the bill because we hadn’t ordered anything, the date only lasted three and a half minutes. The next day Steve and Alex were asking about it.

‘It didn’t go that well.’ I sighed.

‘Did you get her number?’ Steve asked.

‘Nope.’

‘A kiss?’

‘No.’

‘Not even her e-mail address?’

‘She left before we got a chance to order.’

‘What did you do?’

‘She thought I disrespected her Performing Arts degree.’

‘Why did you do that? She worked hard for that. Do you know what that dancing does to your feet?’ Alex defended her.

‘I didn't mean to. She was just going on about how her family disagrees with what she does and they don’t consider it a real thing.’

‘Awww...like Billy Elliot.’ Steve said.

‘Yes! See! That’s what I said!’

‘The dancing lad?’ Alex asked. ‘You do know Sofia is Asian, don’t you?’

‘Yes! And what’s with all the pouting she does?’

‘Oh, she does that. Fran got annoyed with it, too.’

‘Dylan, that’s racist.’ Steve warned me.

‘It’s not racist. It’s poutist. Besides, she hated me more than I hated her!’

If there’s a lesson in all of this, it’s ‘Don’t Try To Date Struggling Performing Arts Graduates.’ If you do, try not to compare them to a fictional dancing boy from Newcastle.

Listen: Impossible

Flirting is an odd thing. I’ve never been very good at it, to be honest. You need and awful lot of confidence, which I don’t have, and the ability to see through ordinary sentences for what they really are. Like, ‘I like your coat.’ If a girl said to me I’d probably say ‘Thanks, but you’re not having it.’, something that girls don’t really want to hear.

Steve and Mary had been flirting over the week now, but not flirting as we know it. It usually consists of making high-pitched noises, saying subtle little sentences and grinning into each other’s eyes. Saying things that have no meaning, but they mean hundreds of things all at once. But it must remain natural. Steve’s flirting involves being nice, so that’s not natural straight away. And Mary, a bit coarse and dressed in gothic clothes, I can’t imagine her trying to be subtle. But Steve was happy enough as he told about his night with her.

‘We went watching an Alice Cooper tribute act at the town hall.’

‘Oh yeah…’ I said, opening a packet of chewing gum.

‘Alan Cooper, his name was.’

‘How do you know that?’ I asked.

‘It’s his stage name. And his real name.’

‘Does he look like Alice Cooper?’

‘He looks like my Auntie Jean…and Alice Cooper.’ Steve frowned.

‘Brilliant.’

‘Plus he’s our window cleaner during the day.’

‘Rock ‘n’ roll!’

‘Yeah, we got to go backstage, too.’ He beamed.

I went along with it. Even though I imagined the town hall didn’t have a backstage area. Alan probably got an odd stock room as a dressing room, packed full of old hoovers and cleaning products.

‘Did Mary enjoy it?’ I asked.

‘Yeah, wanted to talk to you about that.’ Steve said, stepping closer to me. ‘You know how we’ve been getting along.’

‘I’ve noticed.’ I said quietly.

Noticed? Noticed suggests Mary and Steve were subtle. As we all know, Steve isn’t subtle. Neither is Mary. Goths are like that.

‘Well, I asked her if she’d like to go out with me. You know, as a girlfriend and that?’

‘I asked her as soon as ‘School’s Out’ started.’

‘Classic.’ I said.

‘Agreed.’

‘Yeah, go on…what did she say?’

Steve stared at nothing and shook his head.

‘I don’t know.’

‘What do you mean you don’t know?’

‘It was too loud. I couldn’t hear her!’

‘Why didn’t she wait until the end of the song?’

‘She didn’t feel it was necessary. She answered me.’

‘But?’

‘But I don’t know what she said. She said something, I watched her mouth move! But I couldn't figure it out. And I couldn’t ask her again, that would have been embarrassing.’

But it’s not embarrassing to take a girl to an Alice Cooper tribute act?  I’ll admit Steve had got himself into a pickle here.

‘So what do you think she said?’

‘Well…’ He scratched his head. ‘She kind of did this…’

Steve mouthed something inaudible. He was right, I couldn’t figure out what it was. But I tried.

‘I kind of looked like “No.”’

‘It didn’t, did it?’

‘Or “I don’t know.”’

‘Oh, that’s not good.’ Steve frowned.

‘Yeah…sorry.’

‘Ah, well. She’s in today so I’ll speak to her when she gets in.’

‘Make sure you’re in a quiet room when you do.’

Steve looked like he wanted to hit me, but made a visible mental note about talking to Mary in a quiet room. It was good advice, particularly if you’re thinking about proposing to your girlfriend. Their reply is pretty important, so it’s best not to do it in a loud area. Especially not at an Alan Cooper gig. Mind you, if you’re taking your girlfriend to an Alan Cooper concert, don’t expect a successful night. You may leave alone.

Mary had just got off the bus and was up in the canteen, a coin balancing in the slot of the vending machine and her eyes on the array of chocolate bars behind the glass. Steve ran up as soon as he saw her, and pretended to breezily walk by, even though he’d been waiting in the doorway, breathing and sweating heavily.

‘Hey Mary.’

‘Hey you! Twix or a Wispa?’

‘You what?’

‘Which one?’ Nodding at the glass.

‘Oh, erm…Twix, we can have one each.’

See what I mean about the flirting? That was a bit subtle, unless Steve actually wanted half of her Twix.

‘Good idea. So, good night, last night then.’ Mary sat down.

‘Yeah.’ Steve frowned. ‘Alan’s a good lad.’ Steve joined her at the table.

They sat and ate their fingers of Twix in silence for a few minutes, with Mary grinning every so often. Steve was trying to grin, but was in doubt over why Mary was grinning. If Mary said ‘no’ last night, why was she grinning? Surely that’s the end of the relationship? There’s no coming back from that. But if she said ‘I don’t know’, maybe she did like him, and was deciding over his question. The best idea was to ask her.

‘Good Twix, this.’ He said, looking down at the packet.

‘Yeah…so where are you taking me next week?’ She grinned.

What was this girl’s problem? Is this how she gets her kicks? Rejecting old men and forcing them to spend their hard earned…. earned money. I couldn’t believe her.

‘Erm…Meat Loaf’s on at the weekend.’ Steve smiled.

‘Yeah? Tribute?’

‘Pete Loaf.’

‘It’s a date.’

I know I said Steve isn’t a subtle man, but I was proud of what he said next.

‘It’s a date? Like being on a date? Dating?’

‘Yeah.’ She smiled.

Good work.

‘So we’re dating?’

OK, don’t push it.

‘Of course. Unless you’ve changed your mind?’

‘No, no…. no. It’s just…last night, I didn’t know what you said.’

‘Why not?’

‘Alan. The music. It was too loud.’

‘Well, you should have got up on stage, got Alan to sing me a song.’ She chuckled.

‘Na, I know he’s a tribute act but it wasn’t a wedding. It was a rock show.’

‘We were out by half seven.’

Rock ‘n’ roll! It's not their fault the town hall had to lock up at 8pm.

‘So what did you say last night?’ Steve asked.

‘I said sure!’

‘Oh, sure…’

Steve looked into the middle distance and mouthed the word, pursing his lips and nodding to himself.

‘Pete Loaf it is, then!’

‘Cool!’ Mary beamed, rubbing her hand on Steve’s.

‘Another Twix?’ Steve grinned, pointing at the vending machine.

‘Oh, you naughty boy! I love a good finger!’

‘Ha ha! If you’re lucky you’ll get two!’

There’s flirting and there’s saying things that make me feel sick.

Away With The Marys

‘So what did Sharon say?’

‘About what?’

‘About your notice. Your notice that you put on her desk?’

Steve shrugged for the ninth time today. He was being surprisingly nonchalant…no, surprisingly stupid about the whole thing. The other day he was pretty serious about leaving, but today he was acting like nothing had happened, and was hoping that I would act the same.

‘I don’t know.’ He shrugged again.

‘Have you changed your mind?’ I asked.

‘No, my mind has always been the same.’

‘So, you’re staying?’

‘Yeah.’ He shrugged again.

‘What about the getting-no-respect thing?’

‘Dylan! What are all the questions about? Can we just get on with it?’

What we were getting on with was in the meeting room, assembling desks for Sharon’s meeting later today. We could have had it done in twenty minutes, but with Steve’s incredible time-wasting skills, we had managed to stretch forty-five minutes out of it. Amazing, considering we only have 6 tables to move. But thanks to my questions, Steve was now hoping to get the job done as soon as possible.

‘It’s just a bit odd, that’s all.’ I said.

‘What? Why?’ Letting go of the table we were moving.

‘The other day you wanted to go. Now…’

‘I never wanted to go, I was just, you know…making conversation.’

Steve’s usual art of ‘making conversation’ involves the early work of Alice In Chains, or how World Of Warcraft is not a children’s game. It’s never about leaving your job. I knew the real reason, and usually I would stretch it out a bit more by asking more questions to make him scoff and sweat. But I’d had enough of that.

‘It’s about Mary, isn’t it?’

Steve scoffed and spluttered and turned away, his hairy round face turning red.

‘Why would it be about…’

Mary peeped her heard around the door.

‘Hey guys.’

‘Mary! How are you?’ Steve beamed.

‘Good. Good. I was just going to get my brew? You fancy it?’

‘Yeah! Coffee for me…’

Steve let go of the heavy table we were in the middle of shuffling around the room, which made it fall awkwardly, nearly landing on my foot. I watched them cackle out of the room as I finished putting the desks together. It was slightly offensive. Just how stupid did Steve think I was? I saw them flirting with each other, if talking about a man called ‘Pigeon’ qualifies as flirting. But for him to assume I’d think nothing of it, on the day he said he was leaving, is well…stupid.

I finished moving the desks ten minutes later, so to kill a bit more time I sat on one whilst I messed about with my phone. The canteen was nearly empty. It was only 11am and the cooks in the kitchen were getting ready to make the dinners. In the far corner, Mary and Steve sat in the comfy chairs, chuckling and sipping their coffees. Alex spotted me as I was heading to the stairs. He shot up from the middle table and rushed over to me.

‘Forgot my wallet, Dylan.’

‘Morning to you too, mate.’

‘Oh, yeah…morning.’

Alex patted a few of his pockets and winced at me.

‘You couldn’t lend me 20p, could you?’

‘You’ve not got 20p?’ I asked.

‘Nothing. Forgot my wallet.’

This is the trouble with those wallets with the little pocket to keep loose change. If you forget it, you have nothing. That’s why I keep my change in my pockets. Hence the term ‘loose change.’ It’s hardy ‘loose’ when it’s in your wallet. I was contemplating lecturing my theory to Alex, but he winced a bit more, like he’d not eaten for two weeks.

‘Here you go.’ Handing over the coin.

‘I’ll give it you back tomorrow.’

‘No, it’s fine. I won’t miss it.’ I smiled.

‘Think I’ll get me some crisps.’

Alex popped his card into the machine on the wall and slipped in the coin.

‘You know, Alex…’ I wandered over to him. ‘Loose change is…’

He pushed a few numbers on the machine and watched the crisps fall. He wasn't in the right frame of mind for my theory.

‘Never mind.’

‘You sitting down?’

Alex and I took our seat at the middle table. Steve and Mary were still sat mumbling to each other. Every so often I’d hear a word I’d recognise, followed by a stream of laughter and loud sips of coffee.

‘They’re getting along.’ Alex nodded, opening his packet.

‘Yeah.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Mary.’

‘Hmmm, I like fat Goths…’

Now, Alex comes out with a lot of odd things, but this was a corker. So much so, I had to narrow my eyes and look away, just to figure out what he meant.

‘ I'm sorry?’

‘You know, you see Goths on the train or on the street or whatever, and they look pretty frightening, yeah?’

‘Agreed.

‘But with fat ones, they look almost huggable.’

‘Huggable?’

‘Yeah, like you could give them a big hug.’

‘Yeah, but Alex, they’ve got buckles and sharp things all over them. You might pierce an organ.’

I’d love to hear what someone might have thought of our little chat. Two trolley pushers debating over whether to hug and girl in gothic clothes. You’d never see that on Question Time, would you? 

Alex looked into the middle distance and pondered my theory of pierced organs. He took a large Gary-Lineker-style bite of his crisp and tilted his head in slight agreement. I hadn’t noticed before, but Alex was halfway through his packet of crisps and he hadn’t offered me one. Surely it’s a human kindness? I couldn’t believe my eyes. There he was, sat right in front of me, crunching away on the crisps that I funded. Even if I didn’t give my 20p to him I’d expect one. That’s what people do in this world; they sit down and open a bag of crisps. As soon as you make eye contact with the nearest stranger, you have to offer, aiming the bag in their direction and smiling. It seemed that Alex’ crisp-offering gene hadn’t evolved, and even though I paid for all of the crisps inside, I couldn’t get a look in. But maybe I was getting ahead of myself. He was only halfway through. He was saving the best ones at the bottom for me, surely.

‘And she’s pretty old too. Old fat Goths are the best.’ He said.

He licked the salt and vinegar off his fingers and dived in for another. This time, a massive crisp came out. And I mean a massive one, big enough to enter into a competition or tap a stranger on the shoulder on the bus and say ‘Look at the size of this, mate!’ Alex looked at me, held the crisp to my eye line and chuckled to himself. Then he took a huge bite it, making the broken bits fall down his shirt. That added insult to injury. I wasn’t going to let him get away with this. As he picked out his next one, I followed it with my eyes, open my mouth slightly and watched him take another bite. Surely there weren't many left now. He must have been down to at least 3 or 4 more. I repeated the same process, this time miming a bite of an imaginary crisp in front of me, in sync with his real bite. But he wasn’t getting it. I decided to dig my elbow in his ribs a bit deeper.

‘Enjoying them?’ I nodded at the bag.

‘Mmm…’ His eye glazed over with a full mouth.

I nodded and looked down. Took a big breath of air and shook my head. None of it was getting through. I heard the clack of the comfy chairs behind me as Mary and Steve got up. They chuckled a bit more as they passed our table.

‘Oh, salt and vinegar.’ Mary said. ‘Can I?’

‘Yeah, there’s one left.’

Alex held the bag out and Mary dived in. The final insult.

‘Can you lend my 20p, Steve?’ I asked him, with an eye on Alex’ munching face.

‘Naa, mate. My loose change is in my wallet. That’s in my locker.’

‘It’s not loose change then.’ I held my head low.

‘Sorry?’

‘Never mind.’

Alex finished the bag the classic way, holding the bag above his head and shovelling the crumbs into his mouth. I always wondered if the Queen ate crisps. If she does, do you think she finishes packets the way we do? I bet she does. I bet she even ties up the empty packet into a bow like people in pubs do.

‘We were just talking about you, Mary?’

‘Oh yeah? Nothing bad, I hope?' Mary giggled.

‘No, we were just saying it would be nice to hug you.’

Know you that feeling you get when you can hear someone saying something that’s stupid, but it’s too late to stop them? Even before the sentence I know what he going to say.

‘Sorry?’ Mary asked with a smile, scraping a lock of black hair back behind her ear.

Steve looked a little threatened

‘Me and Dylan were just saying…’

Oh no, suddenly I’m involved.

‘…If we had to hug someone it would be a fat goth.’

‘No, no…’ I interrupted, catching Mary’s astounded face. ‘We were just saying, no, he was just saying that you’d be nice to hug…’

I don’t know how that could have made it better.

‘I’m sorry? What do you mean?’

‘No, we mean…’

I couldn’t think of anything to help. Alex tried, though.

‘Fat Goths that are old, too.’ He smiled.

Alex failed. Mary looked at Steve and smiled timidly, looking a little hurt and confused. We were waiting for Mary to go downstairs, but she smiled, straightened up and held out her arms.

‘Come on then.’

‘What?’ I said.

‘Let’s go.’

Oh no, I was being asked to fight a Goth. I was being asked to fight a Goth by a Goth. No-one fights a Goth. It's a rule of life.

‘What?’

‘Hug. Come one.’

I don’t know if you’ve ever been in this situation, but when a fat Goth wants a hug from you, and two people are watching, it’s hard to decline. I rose to my feet slowly and leant into her torso. She grabbed me, trapping my arms as she gripped her hands together around my back. Mary is a lot shorter that me, but she makes up for it. She bent her knees and attempted to lift me up, making me stand on my tiptoes. After holding on for a few seconds, that’s when I heard something snap. Oh God, she had broken my ribs. A fat Goth had broken my ribs.

‘There you go.’ She said, letting go.

‘Enjoy that, Dylan?’ Steve patted me on the shoulder, which hurt a bit more than I was expecting.

‘Yeah, brilliant.’

We all heard something fall from Mary’s chest.

‘Oh, look what you’ve done!’ She said in mock anger. ‘One of my bloody buckles has come off my coat!’

‘Sorry.’

I was saying sorry! Why?!

‘It’s OK. Let me know when you want another off me!’

I nodded as we watched Mary and Steve cackle off downstairs.

‘Thanks for that.’ I said to Alex.

‘No problem.’

I was in pain. She hadn't broken my ribs but it felt like it. I leant forward in my seat, somehow easing the pain of the Goth hug.

‘Why did you tell her what we were talking about?’

‘Just came out.’ He shrugged, licking his fingers. ‘Those crisps were good. You couldn’t lend me another 20p, could you?’

I’m keeping my loose change in my wallet from now on.

He's Steve-ing Home

I was worried. And I’m not normally worried. Normally I push trolleys and go home, two things that never require much worry. Until I miss my bus and have to find money for a taxi, but even then I could walk home, if I can be bothered.

Steve had arrived with a face on, one of those unpleasant faces that take awhile to lift. He still had his swollen eye, blood shot and purple underneath. The bright light of the firework still burnt onto his retina. But it wasn't just that, was it? I know I embarrassed him a little bit at the awards do, but that was only to break the tension. Sharon should have let him make his speech. He deserved to, after all. Giving the kiss of life to ex-homeless surely warrants a speech. Jack Nicholson gets to make speeches, and that's only for pretending to be other people. I bet if Jack was in Steve's shoes he would want a stunt double to do it for him, or at least get the recipient to have a wash. Two things Steve couldn't fix for himself.

Alex and I were clearing up as we awaited Steve's arrival onto the car park. He was late coming down, which didn't ease my worry any, but Alex was on hand to take my mind off him.

'Our first night in our flat last night wasn't the best.' He confessed, rubbing his attempted moustache with his fingers.

'Why? I thought you were on the first floor? Fran's wheelchair isn't a problem, surely?'

'No, it's got a lift, anyway. Even though it's covered doodles of cocks.'

Sounds like a lovely place.

'So what went wrong?'

'I thought we'd have a quiet night in. You know, nice little film. Bit of popcorn.'

'Nice.'

'Well, I wanted to rent '28 Days'. You know, Sandra Bullock. She likes Sandra Bullock.' Alex smiled.

'Who doesn't...'

'I ordered '28 Days Later', by mistake.'

I know I shouldn't have, but I burst out into laughter.

'Fran fell out of her chair.'

That didn't help me stop.

'Popcorn went everywhere.'

I was about to shriek out again but I caught site of Steve, gently walking towards us.

'Steve! Steve! Get a load of this...'

'Dylan, don't.' Alex warned me.

'Alex wanted to rent 28 Days, but he got 28 Days Later!'

I got nothing.

'You know, that Danny Boyle one! With the living dead...'

'Yeah...' Steve said. 'Good film.'

That wasn't the point. Steve fiddled with his keys until he found the right one, bleeped open his car and got his coat out of the boot. I can't remember what I said around this point, but it probably involved the words '28 Days Later' and a whole lot of sniggering. Trying desperately trying to squeeze out every last inch of humour from Alex's fright filled night. But it was no use. Steve looked away, bleeped his car locked and pushed a few trolleys up to the store.

Something was wrong.

It was around 2.30pm when the rain finally let off. Alex was on his break, possibly on the phone to Fran, trying to calm her down from the ceiling. Poor girl, I bet she didn't sleep a wink last night. I sidled up to Steve, still silent and working hard. It was unsettling, seeing him like that. So much so, I couldn't thing of anything to say. Normally he does most of the talking, leaving me to occasionally reply with a word or so. But today, I had to do the talking. I began with a few glances in his direction as we walked beside each other, grinning at his swollen eye.

'Can you believe that?' I asked.

'What?'

'Alex.' I shook my head. 'The film...28 Days.'

'Oh, I know.'

I've no idea what he thought I was talking about here. If he wasn't paying attention before, he must have though I was giving Alex a bizarre deadline to make a movie. I began again with a more general question.

'So, how are things?'

'Just handed in my notice.'

He said it so naturally that I didn't quite take it on board at first, I was just glad he was talking. After a few seconds the words seeped into my brain.

'You...you've not?'

'Yes.'

'Why?'

I kind of knew why. But I wanted to hear it from him.

'I'm sick of this place, Dylan. I get no respect...the things I've done for this place over the years.'

He said it as if he'd been doing favours for them for ten years, when really he'd done one thing in ten years. Resurrected a homeless; something that isn’t really supermarket related.

'You do get respect.' I tried.

'They call me The Tramp Kisser, Dylan.'

'Well....yeah...'

That didn't sound good. But it was all I could think of.

'And after the other day with the firework, I think it's time.'

'The firework wasn't the supermarkets fault, though, was it?'

'Didn't stop them calling me The Gay Pirate.'

I went red. I came up with that nickname. Had it really caught on amongst the managers? I was proud of myself. Usually around this point in films, a character does something memorable, like devote a whole speech to why they shouldn't leave, or hold up a stereo and play song at their bedroom window, the lazy man's speech, in my opinion. But again, I couldn't think of anything. I didn't have a stereo on me, and making him listen to my iPod wouldn't create the same effect. Steve was right; he wasn't given any respect here. The managers made fun of him for doing a good deed, then made fun of him when he got assaulted by a firework. Even the customers giggled behind their hands at his girly grey ponytail. Maybe it was time to go.

Darren was waiting at the top of the store, stood beside Wayne, who was quietly inspecting the state of the trolley bays over his glasses.

'Gentleman.' Darren spoke over our rattle of trolleys. 'How are we today?'

'Good.' I spoke for the both of us.

'Where's Alex?'

'On his break.'

'Well, you can tell him when he gets back.'

'Tell him what?' I asked.

'We have a new trolley pusher for you.'

Oh, no. They had replaced him already, had they? I doubt I'd be that gutted when Steve actually leaves, but give me a chance to feel bad about it! Wayne and Darren had thrown someone in his grave already!

'So, Steve. It's your job to train her.'

Hang on. First of all, how could it be Steve's job when he was leaving? And second of all…her?

'Her?' I said.

'Yes? What's your point?' Wayne stared at me.

'Nothing. It's just...you know…’

What was wrong with me today? I could hardy speak!

‘And anyway, why is it Steve's job to train her?'

'Wayne's on holiday as of tomorrow.' Darren replied.

'When are you leaving?' I turned to Steve.

Steve didn't get a chance to reply. Darren and Wayne began their list of one-word questions. What? Why? When?

'Haven't you heard? I left it on Sharon's desk.' Steve said quietly.

'No.' Wayne said.

'Steve, you should leave things like that on my desk.' Darren said. 'Or at least speak to me about it first.'

'Anyway, it's done now. I leave in two weeks.' Steve said.

Darren didn't ask why, which probably proved Steve's point about having no respect. He was just gutted he may not be around for the last part of the girls training.

'Anyway, here she is.'

Darren pointed to the big double doors at the front of the store. Out came Mary, our new porter. She was a heavyset girl in her late thirties. That was only a guess at that point, with big black boots and matted multi-coloured hair, mostly light blue and black, it made her look older than you would usually think. She had her high visibility vest on over her long black coat and thick dark lipstick on, making her grin broad and distorted.

‘Found one that fits.’ She said to Darren, holding the edges of her vest.

‘Dylan. Steve. Meet Mary.’

We all smiled and exchanged pleasantries. Wayne explained that Steve would train her until he leaves in two weeks. Which, thinking about it, would leave about a week and a half after she was fully trained up.

‘So why are you leaving?’ Mary asked, lowering her jet-black eyebrows.

‘Fancy a change.’ Steve shrugged.

‘Oh, right. How have you hurt your eye?’

‘Firework.’ He replied bluntly.

We all stood in silence for a few seconds, smiling at each other and looking around a bit.

‘Right, we’ll leave you to get going.’ Darren said. ‘Any problems see Wayne, who is your head porter, or myself, your manager.’

The three of us walked past a row of cars as I asked questions to Mary. Turns out she used to work for the local council, but left after an argument with her boss. Turns out knee high, buckled platform Goth boots with chains on aren’t appropriate council attire.

‘Even last winter, when we were out shovelling snow out of the road, they were complaining. I was the only one who could stay on my feet!’ She barked

‘It’s political correctness gone mad.’ I said.

It’s true I have no idea what that means, but I’ve heard people say it in response to a complaint, so I thought it would fit perfectly.

‘I like them.’ Steve said.

He grinned slightly at Mary, who grinned back. This was a little odd; I’d never really seen Steve flirt before. He’s not got the subtlety for that, but it seems as if he was trying it out now.

‘Thanks.’

‘Where do you get them from?’

‘Rock Shop in town.’

Steve nodded.

‘My mate owns that.’

‘You know Pigeon?’ She asked in wonderment.

‘Good mates, yeah.’

‘Cool.’

They may well have been talking Arabic, because I had no idea what they were talking about. A Pigeon running a shop? How could he do his tax returns? How can you run a business If you’re a bird?

‘No, no.’ Steve said to me. ‘Pigeon is my mate Keith. Big fella. Got pigeon tattoos.’

I nodded, but I still had no idea. I should have stayed in bed today, because I was getting more lost every minute.

‘So what’s that Wayne do?’ Mary said.

‘Head porter.’ Steve replied.

‘Head porter? A bit like polishing a turd, isn’t it?’

Steve smiled like The Grinch; a wide, ever lasting smile that seemed to take fifteen minutes for it to settle on his face.

‘Yeah. yes it is.’

Mary and Steve grinned at each other again. But I reminded Steve about his opinion on where he was.

‘So when are you leaving, again?’

‘Don’t know.’ He shrugged. ‘Still not settled yet.’ Keeping his eyes on Mary.

‘Your notice is on Sharon’s desk.’

Steve shrugged again.

‘I presume you want to get it sorted. With them not having the respect for you…’

‘Naa…’ He replied.

I suppose he’s right. Who needs respect when you’ve got a Goth to flirt with?