'Bloody hell.'
'I know.'
Steve wasn't happy. Being told one thing is strenuous for him, so two things was a bad idea.
'It's mental out there...pissing down with rain...and she expects us to watch her shitty clothes...although that shirt looks pretty good.' Steve said, eyeing the black shirt with a dragon on it at half price.
'We could keep an eye on them in here.' I suggested. 'We could get dry too.'
Ten minutes later we saw Sharon scuttle across the front of the store. She spoke a few words to Glen the greeter and carried on walking, double taking in our direction.
'What in God's name are you two doing?' She bellowed over at us.
I don't know what her problem was. We were doing a favour for one of the managers, keeping an eye on supermarket property. Just because we chose to do it whilst sat on a bench sipping tea from a plastic cup, doesn't mean we weren't working.
'Watching the racks of clothes, Sharon.'
She turned her head towards the clothes, one either side of the sliding doors.
'Janice told us to.' Steve added.
'She told you, with my blessing, to keep an eye on them.'
'Yeah...and were getting dry. My coat's on the radiator over there.'
'But not your cap? That's still on your head...' Sharon tilted her head.
'It'll damage the fibres.'
I bet damaged fibres takes a tenner off the Ebay asking price.
'Outside. Now.' She said bluntly.
'Let us finish our brews, Sharon. Joan from the canteen's just made them for us.'
'Outside.'
'She's on the way with the ginger nuts...'
'Out!'
We went outside and braved the sideways rain. I should have been surprised, really. Only half an hour went by until we realised the two racks of clothes had disappeared from the foyer.
'I didn't take them in!' Janice screeched when we rushed over to her.
'Shit! Where can they be?!'
'Go and find them!'
We bounced towards the doors, skipping past the old aged pensioners like they were traffic cones and through the foyer sliding doors. Steve led the way, using his bright red cap as a beacon in the haze of panic and rain. I almost lost him for a second as he turned left out of the store and bolted along the walls. God knows why Steve thought were to go, but he we right. Up ahead I could see the two silver racks of clothes, seemingly moving of their own accord, rumbling down the wheelchair access ramp at the side of the store.
As I got closer to Steve he was at a standstill, his soggy hands gripping one end of the clothes-filled rack. On the other end stood a panting young man with shaggy black hair and shiny necklaces around his neck. The tug of war began as Steve shouted at me to chase the second rack, so I bolted forward again, gaining speed on the moving t-shirts and trousers. I was so impressed with myself when I got a hold of it, yanking it backwards with a tired heave. To my surprise the rack seemed too light as I almost fell backwards with my own strength. I stopped to see another young lad running off into the distance, looking back at me every so often. I wanted to shout something at that point. Something like 'Don't come back!' but I was far too knackered.
Steve was still wrestling with the first rack though.
'Give it back, you melon!' Steve attacked the lad with his words through the mist of rain.
'Piss off!' The lad fought back.
'Dylan, hit him!'
'What?' I asked.
I can't hit people. This isn't a film. I was now stood in the middle, watching the rack being pushed and pulled in opposite directions like a tennis match.
'Hit him!'
'No.'
'Hit him!' Steve spat back through the rain.
'Piss off!'
'All right, all right, stop it, stop it!' The young lad waved his head about. 'You can have your clothes.'
'Good.' Steve panted.
'You have to give me something for it though!'
'What? What do you mean?'
The young lad and Steve were both grasping the rack, bargaining over it's content that was now worth fuck all, thanks to the rain.
'You know, money or something.'
'I've not got any on me.' Steve said. 'I'm not allowed.'
The young man looked at me.
'Piss off, I'm not giving you anything!'
There was a few moments of silence, only filled by the whistling wind and splattering rain against our bodies. The young man nodded at Steve.
'Is that a racing cap?'
Steve looked up and touched it.
'Yes.'
'Official?'
'Hollogrammed, autographed sticker on the peek.'
'Shiny?' The man asked.
'Of course.'
The young man bit his lip, looked at both of us and nodded.
'OK, I'll have that.'
'Oh, no...This is not for sale.'
Until he finds a decent Ebay bid, plus £4.50 postage and packaging.
'Oh, come on Steve.' I tried.
'No.'
'You can get another one!'
Steve looked to the floor, attempted to yank the rack one more time and sighed.
'Fine.'
He handed over the cap slowly. The man grabbed it, crushed it onto his head and raced off into the mist. Me and Steve stood there for a second, breathing heavily and soaked to the bone. A group of colleagues had formed above us, peering down from the canteen.
'I'll get Joan to make us another brew.' I said softly.
'Yeah...get warm...'
'Yeah...'
'It was a fake anyway.' Steve said. 'Got it off the market.'
Steve The Bullshitter lives up to his name.
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