Mary was due back to work within the week, resting her back on the checkouts after her surgery. Steve went mental, claiming that Mary was a 'trolley pusher through and through' and wouldn't be seen dead on a till with all the rest of the women. Sharon told me Mary was delighted, and couldn't wait to sit down for money after weeks of boredom.
Along with the key to Mary's flat, ten unsuccessful lottery tickets and a crisp twenty pound note from his mother, Steve received a present from his friend in America, one of the many middle-aged single men who play World Of Warcraft with him on a nightly basis. It was a bright red baseball cap with logos all over it, the main one being some kind of racing car company. He was adamant on wearing it all the time, even though it's not uniform policy. It wasn't black or navy blue, or bore the title of the supermarket. Instead it was covered with every kind of logo you could think of. From phone companies to sports designers. Telecom businesses to food restaurants, so much so, you could hardly see the actual colour of the cap.
'It's really red, Steve. It looks like you've won a competition or something...'
I rarely tell my honest opinion to Steve, sometimes it would be too painful. He took my statement as a compliment.
'Thanks.'
'Or you've been given it as a gift because you've been ill.'
It was bright red. Too red. All the logos were different colours so the hat looked vaguely comical, like it belonged to clown on holiday.
'This is an official racing cap, this! They're over a hundred quid on Ebay.'
'You actually checked?'
'Too right.'
He loves it so much that he immediately wanted to know how much he could sell it for.
'Look, it's even got a sticker on the peek.'
Steve took off the cap carefully and turned it over, showing the shiny, hologrammed sticker with a print of an autograph in the middle of it. Looked legitimate to me. But it was such a pity I wasn't in any way interested. The walkie-talkie crackled and fizzed in Steve's coat pocket, which made him fish about for it frantically.
'Yeah, what?'
'Foyer. Now.' A voice spat back.
'What for?'
'Foyer. Quick.'
Life would be so much easier if people only spoke two words at a time. Things would get done faster, that's why 30 seconds later we were in the foyer, shaking off the rain as we were met by Janice.
'Alright, lads.'
'Morning, Janice.' Steve said.
They were keeping this 'Two Word' thing up. Maybe we could actually govern it and make it compulsory.
'I've got a job for you two.'
Stupid Janice, ruining my dream. Janice was a fifty-odd year old manager of our clothing department. She was in charge of the quarter of the store that didn't sell food or cheap DVD's. A roundish woman, with dark eyes that matched her straight shoulder length hair.
'We've got a sale on, so we're putting these two racks of clothes in here...so we can shift them.'
'So what?'
Well done Steve, keep my dream alive.
'So, I need you to keep an eye on them. They'll be here until 2pm, OK?'
Janice said 'OK?' as a demand rather than a question and trotted off inside.
'Bloody hell.' Steve sighed.
'I know.'
Maybe me and Steve could keep this up. Let's face it, the less Steve says the better. It could become our thing. We could get YouTube to film it and be in a Louis Theroux documentary. Famous for saying very little, it's the trend these days! But we couldn't think of that right now. We had a job to do. Well, two jobs to do. Push trolleys and keep an eye on some clothes.
Turns out you can't do two at the same time.
End of part one.
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