It's All About The Money

‘Take those sunglasses off, you’re not Bono.’

Steve was in a bad mood today. His Skoda was playing up, some World Of Warcraft figurines hadn’t turned up in the post and to top it all off, Alex was wearing sunglasses indoors.

‘Arsehole.’ Steve added, under his breath.

‘Sorry.’ Alex said softly.

Bit of an overreaction if you ask me. Alex was only weeks away from his wedding and over the last few days, he had a confident and mature air about him. He’d even taken down those novelty pair of tits from the back of his car.

‘Steve, that was a bit harsh.’ I said.

‘Sorry, I’m a bit off today.’ He confessed. ‘Not seen Mary for a few days. She’s been working a lot more. We have to pay for our holiday somehow!’

And where does an old rocker and a wrestling goth go on their holidays?

‘Disneyland won’t pay for itself.’

‘Disneyland?’

‘Yeah, so?’

I thought twice about questioning it. He looked far too disgruntled. The three of us strolled down the seasonal aisle, past the 47 different kinds of barbecue’s we have on sale and towards the warehouse doors. Darren had asked us all to stock up on our new summer range of bags. 20p dearer than the normal ones, with flowers scattered all around it. As we got to the doors we were met with the site of Bargainman. That’s not his actual name, you can probably guess, just a name we had christened him over the years, in honour of his overwhelming passion for a bargain. Of course, we all love a bargain. It’s one of those things in life that get you a spark of excitement. That’s normal. It’s a normal thing to feel. But what’s not normal is skipping around a supermarket for hours on end, hunting through the shelves like a predator, seeking out items that may be marked down in price. He’s always the last out of the place when we shut, scuttling out the doors with a trolley full of treats. Dozens and dozens of items, from discounted meat to broken packs of cheese. At the end of his day his trolley with be full, even though he’ll only spend around two pound fifty.

‘Afternoon.’ Steve nodded at him.

‘Oh, alright boys.’ Bargainman flinched.

He shot is eyes towards us, scanning our faces and motives for being near him.

‘Got a few bargains, have you?’ I smiled.

‘...Yeah.’

His eyes narrowed, as if I was about to clock out, rush over to him and steal his 3 week old beans and sweaty ham. A few moments of silence overtook us, the four of us caught in an interlocked gaze.

‘What’s that smell?’

I forgot to mention, Bargainman absolutely stunk. Like a horse had fallen into a tip.

‘Come on, lads.’ I walked towards the doors. ‘Those bags won’t shift themselves.’

In the warehouse, the three of us filled our trolleys with heavy, vacuum packed bags.

‘He’s a millionaire, you know.’ Steve sniffed.

‘What?’

‘Bargainman. He’s loaded.’

‘Bull-shit.’ I smiled.

‘Honest. He won the lottery seven years ago. Janice told me. He’s rolling in it.’

Bargainman? A millionaire? He doesn’t look like a millionaire. Mind you, what does a millionaire look like? They don’t all walk around in gold jewellery, flashy suits and buying lavish goods. That’s just Elton John. Not all millionaires look like Elton John.

‘Why the hell would he spend his days crawling around the bargain bins if he’s rolling in it?’

‘Haven’t you seen those documentaries on the tele? About lottery winners who go the car boot sales?’

I must have missed that one. I just scoffed and threw another pack in my trolley.

‘Ask him yourself if you don’t believe me!’  

At first I considered going straight over to the man and asking him if he was a millionaire or not, but after a few seconds, I realised that was a bit much. It's not really the done thing, asking someone if they're loaded or not. It's like asking a woman her age, it never ends well. Particularly when you try to guess it instead. Believe me, that's never a good idea.

'I can't do that...'

I left the words hanging around in the noisy warehouse. Steve and Alex just looked at me, confident that I would. They had a right to be confident, because six minutes later I was stood in front of the man, trying to avoid my nostrils from picking up his strong scent.

'Alright, mate.' I raised my eyebrows.

'Yeah...you?' He mumbled, re-arranging the bargains in his trolley to make room for even more bargains.

'Did you see that documentary last night? On the tele?'

'No. Don't watch much tele...' He said.

'Cracking, it was. About people...at car boot sales.'

I left out the millionaire bit, seemed a bit too harsh. Now my description of the TV show sounded unbelievably boring.

'Oh, right.'

Another moment of silence passed.

'Any holidays recently?' I asked him cheerily.

'No, went to Wales last year.'

Wales? Do millionaires go to Wales? Surely not.

'Steve...the bloke from before...he's going to Disneyland.' 

'Disneyland?' He finally looked at me.

'Yeah...' I giggled.

I ran out of ideas. Other than just asking him if he was a millionaire, I had nothing. Could I ask him for a tenner? 

'So, any plans for toni...'

'I'm busy.' He interrupted me.

I scrunched my lips up and nodded, listening to the wheels of his trolley squeak past me. In a rush of panic and curiosity, I went for it.

'Are you a millionaire?'

The wheels squeaked to a halt. He turned his head towards me and stared me down. A second later, he was an inch away from my nose.

'What?'

'Steve said that...'

'I am sick of this stupid little rumour...'

Steve  popped his head down the aisle.

'Alright, lads.'

'Keep your trap shut.' Bargainman spat at me, kneeing me square in the bollocks.

I went down like like a sack of swollen testicles, Bargainman gazed over at Steve.

'Disneyland? What are you, eight years old?'

He scuttled off with his trolley of treats. Steve hovered over me.

'Why did you tell him that!'

'Because you told me he was a millionaire!' I squealed. 'He probably owns it, he'll give you discount!'

'Naa...he's not that rich...'

This post is dedicated to Dougie 'The Greeter' Robinson.