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?