Award Of The Rings

I don’t want to use this time to rant, but I will bring up one point, whilst I’m on the subject. Basically, every month the supermarket hosts a little award’s ceremony in the canteen. A manager gives out prizes to colleagues who ‘deserve’ one, and when I say ‘deserve’ I’m obviously using inverted commas done with the fingers. Usually I cringe when I see people doing that, but now I feel it’s justified.

Apparently, Cynthia from the grocery department ‘deserved’ her award over Christmas last year, when she ‘drove into work during that terrible snow and worked her full shift.’ Oh, yes. Poor Cynthia. It must have been a nightmare driving to work and then working in a heated building for six hours. I’m surprised she didn’t get a call from the Prime Minister. What about those who walked it to work that day? And worked in the snow? Apparently that doesn’t ‘deserve’ an award. I still can't feel my toes it was so cold!

What I’m saying is, trolley pushers have never received an award. We have never attended one of these ceremonies with the free food and smiling faces, or felt the pride of standing in front of a packed canteen with your chest puffed out. But today, all of that changed when Steve won one. And when I used to dream about one of our men, collecting the plastic trophy and box of chocolates from a beaming manager, I imagined it would be for something like working in the snow, or lifting a massive TV into a car. But Steve was nominated for resuscitating a former homeless man, who he hated with a passion.

I nominated him. I know I’ve had my crosswords with him in the past, (nearly all of them to you and not to his face) but what he did was noble, and he should be proud of it.  He could have walked away that day, leaving Brian gasping for air in the trolley bay. Revenge for stealing Grace from him. That’s why I nominated him, but Steve didn’t know I had.

‘I’m finally getting rewards for what I do, Dylan. It’s about time.’

‘Yeah, you deserve it.’ I said, in between sips on my Dr Pepper in the canteen. ‘I’m glad you got nominated.’

‘Nominated? I’ve earned it. I don’t need anyone to nominate me.’

Yes he did! If it weren’t for me, half of the managers still wouldn’t know who he was! Even now they call him ‘that tramp kisser.’

‘Yes, well. I’m happy for you.’ I smiled through gritted teeth.

‘You should be. I might not by your Head Porter anymore, but I’m still a role model.’

I nodded because I didn’t have anything to say. I didn’t agree with him, but he was rightly basking in his achievement. And an achievement needed a speech.

‘I’ve done a few drafts. It’s still not perfect.’ He said breezily, picking a folded A4 piece of paper out of his pocket.

‘I hope I get a mention!’

I said that as a joke, obviously, like anyone would. When a friend wins something, the first thing you do is make sure you profit from it. That’s how friendship works. But Steve didn’t do that kind of banter.

‘Fuck off! I brought him back to life, what did you do!’

We made our way back down to the car park. It was 5.30pm, a half an hour until Steve’s Ceremony. He wasn’t the only colleague receiving an award, but after a full day of Steve calling it his ceremony, it kind of drills into you.

‘You going to a bonfire tonight, then?’ Steve asked.

‘Naa, usually my Dad has a few fireworks in the back garden. Set fire to the shed last year, which was funny.’

‘Fire’s not funny, Dylan. Haven’t you seen those adverts? How was it funny?’ Steve asked

‘Well, we got rid of a few bikes we had in there. Saved us a trip to the skip.’

The sun was setting over the supermarket and the first distant shrieks of fireworks were illuminating the skies in front of us. The store was pretty empty, as you can imagine on a Bonfire Night, so we worked on Steve’s speech.

‘The Oxford dictionary defines courage as…’

‘Hang on.’ I said. ‘You can’t start with that!’

‘And why not?’

‘It’s far too cliché. You should be graceful.’

‘Graceful? I kissed a tramp to keep him alive, fuck graceful!’

So Steve began. He described courage, the dangers of working outside and a bullet point presentation of all the great things he had done leading up to that night. Four minutes later he was about to finish when something caught his eye.

‘Oi! What do you you’re playing at!’ He growled.

Three lads were huddled close to Steve’s skoda with their backs to us, in navy blue tracksuits and giggling violently. The boys turned around as Steve made his way over and before I knew what was going on, a fizzing noise turned into a blinding flash of light, which shot over to Steve.

‘Ahh! You bastards! You….ahh…you bastards!’

Steve was bent double, with one knee on the floor and sucking in air that made a hiss.

‘Steve, are you OK? What happened?’

‘What happened? The bastard shot me!’

‘That wasn’t loud enough to be a gun, you’d be dead by now!’ I said.

‘With a firework, you melon!’

If there were a time to call someone a ‘melon’, it would be right after being hit, at almost point blank range, by a firework.

‘My eye, it’s burning! Go and get someone!’

It was Sharon’s turn to get up in front of the canteen and give on the awards to people she didn’t like.

‘Now moving on. The next award is for Steven Grady from services department, who helped a colleague from next-door’s D.I.Y shop. So, please welcome, Steven Gr…Steven, what that on your face?’

Sharon was referring to Steve’s personal first aid. I couldn’t find any help so he did it himself.

‘It a bit of damp toilet roll, Sharon.’

‘I know that, but why is it on your face?’

‘Got hit by a firework, can we move on?’

The entire canteen turned to our table and mumbled to each other.

‘Is that duck tape holding it on?’ Sharon asked.

‘Yes, I couldn’t find bandages. Now, my award?’

‘Didn’t you go to First Aid?’

‘Couldn’t find anyone.’ Steve replied.

‘I see.’

‘Steve can’t.’  I grinned.

A few people laughed, but not enough for me to justify saying it. In Steve’s eyes, or eye, being hit with a firework isn’t funny. Which made him glare at me with his one good eye. I would have told him he looked like a gay pirate, but it was his special ceremony. Sharon cleared her throat and announced his name. There were a few claps from around the room as Steve stumbled his way through the chairs to the corner of the room. They shook hands, Steve received his award and had his picture taken, before Sharon said ‘thank you.’ But it wasn’t a genuine thank you; it was a ‘please-sit-back-down’ thank you, which Steve didn’t understand. He simply stood still, took the A4 bit of paper out of his pocket and began.

‘The Oxford dictionary describes courage as…’

‘No, no. Steve, that’s OK…’

I knew he shouldn’t have opened with that. Far too cliché.

‘It’s OK, Sharon. I won’t be long.’

‘No, I’ve got a few more to get through so would you mind taking your seat?’

‘Don’t people make speeches?’

Apparently not. A few people laughed, Sharon held hers in.

‘No, it’s just a little awards do. Not the Oscars.’

‘But…’ Steve sighed heavily. ‘I’ve got a reconstruction set up and everything!’

‘Of what?’ Sharon asked.

‘That fateful day! The Brian Re-Birth.’

‘You’ve given it a title?’

‘Yeah, Dylan’s in it!’ Steve nodded over to me.

‘No, I’m not!’ I shouted.

He didn’t tell me about that! I would have kept quiet but I just wanted to make sure the whole room knew we hadn't planned a reconstruction of the kiss of life. How the hell was he going to spring that little surprise on me? The cheeky bastard!

‘You said you were glad I’m getting the recognition I deserve!’ He shouted over to me.

‘Yeah, that doesn’t mean I’m going to offer myself up for you to kiss me!’

‘It’s the Kiss Of Life, Dylan! How else are people going to know how I did it?’

‘Just tell them! I think they’ve already got a pretty vivid mental picture of it!’

‘I can see it.’ Sharon mumbled.

‘Steve can’t.’ I said.

This time the whole room laughed, which caused Steve to throw his folded bit of paper at me and storm off. Brilliant. Steve was the one with the burnt retina and the taste of Brian’s saliva still fresh in his mouth, and I’m the one who looks like a hero!