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!

Fright Club

It was the day after Halloween, and I was in the canteen tucking into my Shepard’s pie, sat by a table on my own. It sounds sad, but I genuinely don’t know why people squeeze onto a full table to eat, just to join in with conversations. They sit, with their elbows nearly touching each other, making their muscles spasm into cramps. Just so they get to chat. But me, I want some peace and space on my lunch break. You may argue that whilst working on a car park of a supermarket, all you get is peace and space. But with Steve following me around all morning, all I got was a two-hour lecture on ‘Why Brian Is a Dick’. He came up with the title, not me. Over the past few days he had stopped trying to convince me he was over Grace, and moved on to being openly angry at Brian. He was always angry at him, but that fact that he's now working in the shop next door made his anger bubble to the surface. 

‘Shepard’s pie, eh? I’ve gone for Cottage pie.’

Steve had invaded both my peace and my space again, coming up for his lunch too early. Now I was angry, but that didn’t stop me being a little enthused about the pies.

‘Is there a difference?’

‘Oh, I’ve never thought about that.’ He sat down.

Why would you? People normally have lives to be getting on with. Steve licked the gravy off his fingers and began his second lecture of the day.

‘I think Cottage Pie is made in a Cottage. Shepard’s Pie is made by a Shepard.’

He smiled widely, as if he’d just come up with the meaning of life.

‘What if a pie was made in a cottage, by a Shepard?’

I think that made his mind explode. But he just picked up his cutlery, shrugged and tucked into his pie. The days outside were beginning to get a little nippy, so Steve was wearing his annual black fingerless gloves, thick overcoat and bob hat, with ‘Megadeth’ emblazoned in red on the front of it.

‘What did you do for Halloween, then?’ He asked.

I didn’t want to chat. I didn’t want to answer questions. When I’m eating it leads to embarrassing silences of trying to finish my mouthful of food, waving my knife about and attempting to tell them to wait. The truth was I didn’t do much last night. I just did the usual; watched ‘Halloween’ (the best scary movie ever, in my opinion) and ate a big packet of kettle chips.

‘Nothing. You?’

‘I was invited to a gig. You know, ‘The Corspe Kings’? They were nearly signed once. They were on at the cellar bar in town. But I was too tired.’

Or his Mum made him stay in.

‘Apparently they did the full set covered in blood…awesome.’ He grinned.

‘Really…’

I wasn’t really listening. That probably explains why my ‘really’ wasn’t really said as a question. It was just the first word I could think of. I found out early on that Steve was the kind of talker who didn’t need nods of recognition or words of encouragement. As long as there was a human in earshot, he’ll talk. Bullshit, mostly.

‘We had a few trick or treat’ers on our road. Little tykes. But one of the bastards threw an egg at my Skoda. I was lived, obviously.’

‘Obviously.’

‘But by half nine we had ran out of sweets.’

He ate them all whilst watching Robot Wars, probably.

‘So I gave away those free CD’s you get with the newspaper.’

‘You didn’t? Did they take them?’

‘Oh yeah! Most of them came back for more! I had Chris De Burgh….’

Oh, right. That’s what 12 year olds like these days, is it? Forget your drumstick lollies and penny chews. The Best Of Chris De Burgh, they’re all raving about him in playgrounds all over England. Has he done anything since Lady In Red? 

‘Meat Loaf, he was a popular one. Rod Stewart. Even Marvin Gaye!’

‘Really?’

‘Oh, yeah. I got myself a little nickname by the end of the night.’

‘What’s that then?’

‘The Gaye Man!’ He smiled broadly.

I couldn’t help but smirk.

‘I heard them outside. “Let’s go the gaye man’s house again!” Who’d have thought Marvin Gaye was so popular!’

‘I know! Amazing.’

Steve’s new nickname made me smile for the rest of the day. I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it first. A forty odd year old man living with his Mum, maybe the kids on his street weren’t far off. We finished our assorted pies and headed downstairs. In the foyer, Glen The Greeter had his microphone to his lips, omitting his warm Irish tones onto the ears of our Saturday shoppers.

‘We hope you enjoyed Halloween last night. And why not stock up on masks from next year? Half price, now in our foyer!’

Alex had just clocked on. And instead of being outside and clearing up, he was stood beside Glen in the foyer, bent over a trolley full of masks and rifling through them with his hands.

‘Having fun, Al?’ I asked his arse, the only part of him I could see.

Alex spun around and growled at us, holding out his palms like claws and shaking his head. This would have been frightening if his mask wasn’t upside down.

‘Scary.’ Steve said.

‘Wrong way, Alex.’ I said.

‘Oh, I thought it didn't feel right on my face.’ Alex peeled it off. ‘Good though, isn’t it?’

‘It’s just a bit of rubber. With black hair glued to it’ Steve said.

‘Bit like Sharon Osbourne.’ I smirked.

'Hey, Steve, that's a cool hat. Where'd you get it from?'

'The boys themselves...' Steve replied smugly

'Sorry?' Alex asked.

'Megadeth.' Pointing at his hat. 'They gave it to me, when they were over here in 82.'

Bullshit. Alex believed it though. The three of us walked outside into the fresh November day, with Alex still clutching the mask.

‘You’re supposed to pay for that, Alex.’ I said.

‘I did. I gave three quid to Glen.’

‘It’s not a market. You have to go to the checkouts. Don’t you know how a Supermarket works?’

‘Fine, bloody hell!’

Alex charged into the store, leaving Steve and I to clear up.

‘Megadeth. That takes me back.’

Brian had spotted Steve’s hat from where his was stood. He was in our trolley bay with a roll up cigarette in his hand.

‘Toured with them in 82.’ He said with a croak.

'Isn't that the year you saw them?' I asked Steve.

'Shut it, Dylan. Shouldn't you be on your side? Working?’ Steve asked him.

‘On my break, Stan.’

‘Steve.’ He corrected him.

‘Stevie!’

Brian aimed his thumbs at Steve, which made him wince. That’s right, being an ex-tramp, Brian's got used to the great outdoors. It’s a force of habit to stay outside.

‘How’s Grace?’ I asked, with one eye on Steve.

‘Fine. Fine.’ He flicked his ash to the floor.

‘You two living together now?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And how’s that going?’ Steve said bitterly.

‘Good. She has one weebabix. I have three.’

‘Sorry?’ I asked.

‘Weetabix. I always eat three. She only eats one. It means there’s never any lying about at the end of the packet. It's a nice even number.'

‘Right…’

‘Yeah. We’re meant to be.’ He winked.

Yeah, we all know it’s a huge grind when there’s an odd number of weetabix in the packet at the end of the week. I suppose God and the Devil could share a flat together and get on, as long as they eat the right amount cereal every morning. Mind you, it would make one hell of a TV show. Brian was about to enlighten us with more, when Alex walked into the back of the trolley bay behind him and shouted, complete with the Sharon Osbourne mask over his face. He growled at him and banged on the Perspex, making it shudder loudly. To say Brian was startled was an understatement. He tried to jump forwards, backwards and up at the same time, making his knees give way and his body reel to one side. He crashed to the floor with a shriek.

‘Alex!’ I shouted, rushing over to Brian.

‘What? It’s on the right way around now, isn’t it!’

‘Yeah, it looks great, Alex.’ Steve said.

‘Fuck the mask! Look what you’ve done!’

Brian was moaning in pain, lying flat on his back in the middle of the trolley bay. As I got to him, his leathery brown face turned white and the moans got louder.

‘I think it’s a heart attack.’ I said.

‘Kiss of life?’ Steve suggested, stood motionless.

‘Urgh! I’m not kissing him.’ Alex added.

‘The kiss of life isn’t just a kiss, you moron! Go and get help!’

‘He’ll be fine. He can look after himself, he’s done it for years!’ Steve said.

Alex disappeared in store whilst I tried to help Brian. I had no idea what I was doing, but I knew I had to make him as comfortable as possible.

‘Steve, give us your hat.’

‘What? No!’

‘Steve, come on! Give it!’

Steve threw his hat at me and I put it on the floor, making a pillow for Brian’s head.

‘I want that back after!’

‘After what?’ I shouted, holding Brian’s hand and trying to talk to him.

‘After…you know…’

Steve tilted his head to one side, and scrunched up his eyes and lips.

‘Steve! Stop it! Get over here, you know CPR!’

Steve gingerly walked over to Brian, before having a long look back up to the store, to check if Alex had found help. But no one was around.

‘Right, I don’t like you, but I’ll help you.’ Steve said to Brian, who was still quietly gasping for air, his motions becoming slower.

Brian juddered and spluttered after a few more seconds, waving his hands about and trying to sit up. When he did so, with me and Steve kneeling beside him, stunned in amazement and relief, he calmly picked up Steve’s Megadeth hat, wiped his face on it and threw in back down to the floor.

‘Thanks, lads. That’s the forth time that’s happened.’

'Are you OK?' I said. 'You well down pretty hard' 

'Yeah, yeah, fine.' He tried to pick himself up. 'Thanks to this guy right here.'  Patting Steve on the shoulder.

'Don't mention it.' Steve said with a wince.

'No, no. It was an honourable thing you did.' 

Brian coughed and spluttered a bit more.

'Stevie...thank you.'

'Don't call me Stevie. I have a new nickname now.'

'Oh yeah, what is it?'

'Call me The Gaye Man.' Steve said proudly.

Brian looked at me as I tried desperately not to smile. I don't know whether you've been in this situation before, but trying not to laugh at a man who's calling himself The Gaye Man, after he's just revived an ex-homeless person is a very hard thing to do.

'Oh, right...will do. Grace always suspected anyway...'

We watched him get to his feet and walk wearily back over to his side of the car park. I looked at Steve, his face moist and red, staring down at his soggy hat.

‘Sorry, mate. You did the right thing, though,’ I said.

‘Yeah…’

He held out his hat, inspected the bits of tobacco and saliva and frowned.

'I think I'll give this to Alex.' He said.

'Good idea.'

A Rush Of Blood To The Head-set (Part Two)

‘Why would we want those little things, Dylan? They make you look like a gay receptionist.’

It was clear Steve wasn’t impressed with the headsets the other trolley pushers were wearing. But that maybe was due to his age; people over forty tend to be wary of hi-tech stuff like that. They put on their reading glasses and wince at it, like they have a bad taste in their mouth. It’s just their generation. But thinking about it, I knew Steve was just worried about looking like a gay receptionist.

‘I think they’re cool.’ I defended them. ‘They look quite space age.’

‘What like on Star Trek?’

‘Yeah.’

‘…Are they silver?’

‘Of course.’

Steve tilted his head to show he was contemplating the thought of wearing a head set. But I don’t think he would suit one. Some people don’t suit headwear. A mate of mine can’t wear caps. It’s not a phobia or anything; he just has a large head. One Size Fits All is a lie, in his opinion.

‘We used to wear headsets on the rock circuits, but they were much bigger. Cost more too.

‘Sure…so you won’t wear these.’

‘Am I a gay receptionist?’

I looked him up and down.

‘You don’t look like one.’ I replied.

‘OK, then.’

‘Maybe one who’s let himself go?’

Steve gave me the angry face, which made me swiftly walk away to my zone. The rain had stopped and a remains of a rainbow was still gleaming over the supermarket. I got a few trolleys together when I heard an ‘Oi!’ coming from the D.I.Y shop. It was Jerry; his hair still slicked back and glistening in the sun. He was walking quite quickly over to me, which make me a little wary of him.

‘What’ve you done with my heat set, mate?’

The ‘mate’ was somewhere in between ‘you’re-not-my-fucking-mate’ and ‘you’re-a-stranger-but-you’re-a-potential-mate’. So I thought for a second before I spoke.

‘I give it to Brian.’

‘No, you didn’t.’

‘Yes…yes I did.’ I stared at him.

‘He said you had it. You walked off with it.’

‘No, I gave it to Brian. He said he’d give it to you when you come out.’

‘He hasn’t got it.’

You should never trust the homeless, or the previously homeless. Why would Brian say that? I did find it a little suspicious when he quickly stuffed the head set into his pocket yesterday. At first I thought it was due to the rain, but obviously, I was wrong. Those headsets looked pretty expensive. Brian has been cashing in on them. Ten minutes later I was in the manager’s office. Not my manager’s office, Jerry’s manager’s office.

‘Dylan, I’ve heard a lot about you. Do sit.’

The manager’s office was a lot smaller than I imagined it would be. And poorly lit, too. Making it a perfect destination for a questioning.

‘Jerry tells me we’re missing a head set.’

‘I heard.’

‘Do you know anything?’

I turned around in my seat. Jerry was stood behind me, with his hands behind his back, guarding the door with his body.

‘I gave it to Brian. Do you know Brian?’

Of course he knew Brian. He employed the man. Idiot.

‘Yes, I know Brian.’

‘Brummy lad…used to be a tramp.’

‘I know Brian.’ He said.

‘Just making sure.’ 

‘Jerry tells me that Brian said you kept it, and walked away with it.’

‘No. It’s your property. I gave it to Brian.'

I started to sweat a bit, realizing this would be a very circular argument. Also, this manager hadn’t introduced himself to me, yet. No time for pleasantries. He was quite heavy set, like he'd been sown into his shirt and tie that morning, with a thick northern accent.

‘Jerry tells me you liked the head set, though.’

Jesus, Jerry told him a lot. It’s surprising these people get stuff done.

‘Yes. I like them. I’m trying to get some for us. But I would never steal yours.’

‘What did you like about them, Dylan?’ He leaned in to me.

‘I don’t know.’ I shrugged.

‘Come on.’ He smiled.

‘Well, they were shiny.’

‘Yeah…’ He leaned back again.

‘Very high tech. Clear reception.’

‘Yeah, now can you understand why we think you took it?’

‘No…’ I thought about it. ‘Well, yes. But I didn’t take it.’

‘Jerry tells me…’

‘Oh fuck off with what Jerry tells you!’

I stood up quickly, which startled Jerry, making him jump out of the way of the door. That was lucky, because if he hadn’t have moved I’d have probably just sat back down again.

‘Why don’t you ask Brian where the head set is?’ I said, whilst in the doorway. ‘He wanted it because his was in the repair shop!’

‘Repair shop?’ The manager asked.

‘Repair shop?’ Jerry asked.

Brilliant. There was no repair shop. Why did I believe that a silver headset had it’s own special repair shop? I bet they don’t get much custom, like that watch repair shop in the indoor market. It’s just a bloke in a little hutch, reading the paper. I bet he only gets three customers a week. I stormed out and over to Steve. If there was one person who would love to hear me slag off Brian, it was him.

‘What an arsehole!’ I shouted.

‘I’ve told you, Dylan. I would look like a gay recep…’

‘No, not you! Brian.’

‘Oh yeah. What an arsehole.’

‘He’s stolen the headsets. And they’re blaming it on me!’

I violently pointed at the D.I.Y shop. Suddenly there was a dark shadow cast over it. I can’t believe they would accuse me of stealing. Look in the ex-tramps pockets before the 23-year-old graduate's, that’s what I say! I had to sort this out.

‘Danny?’

I popped my head round the security office. I hate going in there, the hum of the monitors, the stifling heat of the machines. And Danny. A couple of years younger than me and he walks about the place like he owns it. We all know he still needs help using his clocking in card. His Mum’s the receptionist so she always helps him. Probably helped him get the job, too.

‘Busy, Dylan.’

‘How did you know it was me? You’re not looking at me.’

‘Cameras, Dylan.’ He tapped his pen on the monitors. ‘They see all.’

‘Fair enough. I need a bit of footage. Yesterday. Around three. On the car park.’

I rolled a chair up next to him.

‘I told you. Busy.’

‘With what?’ I asked.

‘College coursework. English Lit. We're doing Othello.’

‘Shouldn’t you be doing that at home?’

‘No.’

‘OK, fair enough. I guess I’ll do it myself.’

I rolled behind him and grabbed the mouse of the computer, making him jump backwards and grab it off me.

‘Fine! Fine! I’ll do it!’

After twenty stifling minutes of scrolling, fast forwarding, typing and rewinding, Danny pressed play on the screen, revealing a high angled shot of Brian and me, chatting by a car. I had the silver headset on and I looked great, naturally. The footage rolled on to show Brain taking it off my head and stuffing it into his pocket. Then we both walked off different directions.

‘That’s the one! Put it on a DVD for me.’

The disc whizzed and hummed in the machine, a few moments later the disc ejected with a whir. Danny was soon writing on it with a marker pen and waving it dry.

‘OK, thank you. I’ll show that to the manager.’

‘What manager?’ Danny asked.

‘The D.I.Y manager.’

‘Oh, no. It’s my property. It’s part of my investigation.’

No, it’s wasn’t! It was 100 percent my investigation! I don’t remember Danny getting involved until I tapped on his door! The thought of Brian was in my mind. There he was, in a bathtub for of fifty-pound notes, from the headsets he’d sold on. He was a homeless first, and then a thief. I thought it was the other way around!

‘It’s me who’s involved in this, Danny.’

‘And me.’

‘You’re only involved because I interrupted you from your coursework!’

‘The investigation is now in my hands. You can't go showing it to random managers!’

'He's not a random manager. Don't say random, he wasn't picked out of thin air! He's the manager of the D.I.Y shop.'

'What's his name?' He asked.

Shit. Why didn't he tell me his name? Oh, that's right; No time for pleasantries. I knew if I left it with Danny it wouldn’t go anywhere. I know how these things work. They get left in envelopes, files and folders in their computers, and left as neglected, ‘not-really-important’ files. It was important. Someone was accusing me of stealing. Danny turned his back on me and went back to his coursework, leaving the disc beside him in a plastic cover. For a security officer he wasn't very secure, leaving me to quickly swoop the disc off the table and pop it into my pocket.

I walked back into the supermarket, clutching the disc in my pocket. My evidence. My freedom. But the sight of Sharon walking towards me soon knocked the proud smile off my face. Her flame read hair scraped back and a pale white face. Her dark eyes where on me.

‘Afternoon, Dylan.’

‘Aftern…aft…yeah.’ I nodded nervously.

Why was I so nervous? It was my property, as I said. My evidence.

‘What’s that?’ She pointed at my pocket.

My eyes narrowed as I looked at her. X-Ray vision? I know she was a powerful woman but that was stretching it. I realised I was clutching the disc a bit too hard, making my hand bulge. I grabbed the disc in my pocket and pushed it together hard, making it snap. I don't think Sharon heard it, she was focussing all of her energy on staring at me.

‘Nothing.’ I said quickly.

That didn’t help. Sharon tilted her head, which somehow, automatically made me pull it out of my pocket.

‘It’s just my broken disc. It's been broken.’ 
'Is it your disc?'
'Well, technically it's Danny's, but...'

‘Dylan, discs for evidence are strictly Security property. For their investigations.’

‘I heard.’

'Why is it broken in half? I've just had a phone call from Shaun next door. Apparently this isn't the first time you've stolen something.’

Shaun. That was his name, was it? Brilliant. I followed Sharon into the security office.

'Danny, how are you?'

'Good, good. Just finishing a security report.'

If a security report involved the work of William Shakespeare.

'I've got an investigation for you, involving this one.' Sharon nodded at me. 'Apparently some head sets have gone missing from next door.'

'I heard.' Danny said smugly.

'Yes, they were.' I said. 'The culprit is on the disc. Or was on that disc.'

'Is this true, Danny?' Sharon asked.

Danny held out his bottom lip and glared at the broken disc.

'No, never seen that in my life.'  He said calmly.
'Danny, come on.' I tilted my head.
'What?'
'Show her the footage.'
'What footage?'
'The footage of me not stealing things.'
'Oh, you've lost me now, Dylan. As I've said before, if things leave this office, then i'm not involved.' He smiled.

Fucking brilliant. The innocent man is charged. Thanks to taking my property. My evidence…. My FREEDOM! So that led to an investigation. Held by Danny and the rest of the security team, with interviews asking me if I’ve stolen things in the past.

I don’t want the headsets anymore. They cause too much trouble.

A Rush Of Blood To The Head-set (Part One)

You know when you meet a stranger who does the same job as you? Suddenly the whole conversation is darkened by the shadow of that fact. You’re desperate not to bring it up, in fear of…. well a few things. Boredom, for one. If you don’t really like your job, talking about it to a stranger won’t be fun, will it? There’s the fear of competition, too. They might be higher up than you, have a stronger relationship with their boss, or even have an office that’s half an inch bigger. They all say size doesn’t matter. But when it comes to defending your position, everything matters. If I worked in an office, I’d stretch out a full twenty minutes dedicated to having a more efficient stapler.

That’s what people in office’s talk about, don’t they? Either that or they’re stood by the water cooler, cracking wise. I’ve only seen this in films, you understand. I don’t work in an office. But today I would have loved to. In meeting a stranger who does the same job as me, I realised I should really be getting on with my life. Because there is no defending of your position, gloating about stationary or telling the person how close I was to my manager. How could I? When my ‘position’ was the B-team of the supermarket; the trolley pushers. Left of the bench at the game and forgotten about. Left only to serve the players with cold drinks at half time. How could I gloat when I didn’t have any stationary to begin with? I may have found the odd pencil on the car park now and again, but what decent human being could call that pencil theirs? And how could I wax about being mates with my boss when she’s a middle aged, cold-hearted, business minded shrew from Kilmarnock. (Steve’s words, not mine.)

So there I was, stood in the car park, in the rain. Trying to make small talk with Jerry, the trolley pusher from the D.I.Y shop next door. He was one of three of their pushers, about 26 years old with thinning brown hair that was slicked back and went past his ears.

‘Bit shit out here, isn’t it?’ He began.

Trying to defend his position. Gone.

‘Yeah…’ I tried.

‘They say it’ll clear up about four.’

Oh, he meant the weather, not the job. Good old weather. Infinitely gives the English something to talk about.

‘Yeah, supposed to be sunny tomorrow, though.’

We were stood under his trolley bay. With our hoods up and hands in our pockets, making that noise people do in the rain. It sounds like a Gorilla sighing. All of a sudden he started talking to someone else. There was no one around, but he was speaking into the middle distance, smiling every so often and replying to, what seemed like thin air.

‘Yeah…yeah, I’ll be up in a second.’

This was brilliant. What’s the point in gloating about your job when the person you’re up against is a mentalist? It would be like shooting fish in a barrel. Like showing off your new custom made kitchen to a tramp. Jerry put down his hood and said his goodbyes, before whipping it back up again and racing in store. I then realised he wasn’t a mentalist. He wasn’t talking to nothing; he was talking to a little earpiece and microphone he had attached to his head. Like those things people in call centres wear. But this one was thinner and silver coloured; far more hi-tech in my book. As I watched Jerry run up to his shop, I tried to think about why our shitty, house brick sized walkie-talkies were better than what they had. But it was no use. David versus Goliath.

When I was at University I felt the same. We all sat at our desks and listened to the lecturer for hours at a time. There were about fifteen of us in the room and about ten of them had laptops, taking notes on Microsoft Word. I felt a hundred years old. There I was with a simple notepad and pen whilst the others tapped away, occasionally doing a bit of Facebook-ing and checking their e-mails. I might as well have had an abacus with me, after riding in on my bicycle, with my satchel of my shoulder and a big red apple in my hand. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for new technology. I love the PlayStation, but when they bring out another for twice the price, I feel old fashioned, questioning ‘What’s wrong with the one I’ve got?’

‘Wayne…’

Wayne was photocopying this month rotas in the offices. He’d just started doing them so I’d only have a few seconds before he finished.

‘You know the D.I.Y shop next door?’

‘I know of it, yes.’ He replied, the slow flash of the photocopier making his glasses light up.

‘Well, their trolley pushers have head sets…to talk to the store.’

‘Good for them.’

‘Yeah…’

I looked around the office. There were a few colleagues milling about, chatting whilst sat on tables. The head boss was at her desk in the corner, ruffling up papers and talking at her phone.

‘Do you think we could get ones like theirs?’

This was embarrassing. I felt like a 12 year old who had just rushed to his Mum after seeing his friend with a new toy. I wanted the same toy. ‘Can I have it, Mummy!?’

‘What’s wrong with the walkie-talkies we’ve got?’ He asked.

‘Well, they’re great and everything. But the head sets would be better.’

‘How?’

‘Lighter? Easier to use…’

‘Go on...?’

‘Steve dropped his in a puddle yesterday.’

‘I’ve talked to him about that.’

‘At first, Alex used it like a phone? He put up to his ear? He was deaf for two weeks?’

‘And I spoke to him about that. Well, I sent him an e-mail about it.’

So I left the office with nothing. Was it wrong that I was jealous of Jerry and his headset? It looked far more professional. I peered over to Jerry, pushing a rack of their trolleys in one hand, and with his other, touching the nib of the microphone and gently speaking into it. Oh, he was rubbing salt into the wound. A shiny, silvery, hi-tech piece of salt. I breezed over and began some small talk again. Two minutes into a rather intriguing conversation about the weekends weather, I realised I wasn’t looking at Jerry. I was just looking at his head set. I decided to go for the jugular.

‘Can I have a go?’ I grinned.

‘Yeah, sure. Here you are…’

Jerry stopped his trolleys beside a car and carefully lifted off his headset.

‘Careful.’ He warned, placing it on my head. ‘That’s looks good.’ Stepping back.

‘D’you think so?’

‘Yeah…looks cool.’

Oh, I was smiling now. So much so, it was hurting my face. Checking my reflection in the car mirror confirmed my delight; I looked quite space age, to be honest. I think that was due to the headset’s colour. If you paint anything silver it looks like it’s from Star Trek; a piece of wood, a hairbrush, even a family member.

‘OK, you’ve had your fun. Let’s have it back.’ He smiled.

‘Naa, just a few more seconds. How do you talk into it?’

Jerry let out a stifled sigh and fiddled with the wire until he found a black box.

‘That. You press that.’

‘Hello?’ I pressed it.

A few seconds later, a voice replied.

‘Yes? Hello, Jerry, did you want something?’

‘OK, give it me back, now.’ Jerry said.

‘We need you inside, Jerry.’ The voice came through again.

Even the clarity of the voice was shiny. With our walkie-talkie’s, they’re all distorted and muffled. I needed to convince Wayne to get some of these.

‘I think you’re wanted inside.’ I said.

‘OK, I’ll be right back. Keep hold of that.’ He said, pointing at the headset.

He disappeared in store whilst I checked my reflection one more time. This time at different angles, pouting occasionally and miming a few words to show how I would actually look like whilst using it. Thinking back, I must have looked like a right tit. But then, I was super cool.

‘What are you doing with that?' A voice spoke behind me.

It wasn’t coming through the headset; this voice was slightly muffled and had a different accent; a Birmingham accent.

‘Brian! How’s it going?’ I turned to him.

‘Cracking, yeah.’

‘How are you and Grace?’

‘Good. We’re living together now, up Haledon Court.’

Not homeless anymore. Far from it, it’s quite nice up Haledon Court. They’ve got private parking and everything. Brian looked a bit healthier, as if he'd had a few warm meals since I last saw him. But still had the same trademark tramps dusty hat, scruffy beard and long hair. The D.I.Y shop clearly didn't care about their trolley pushers either.

‘Great, and how’s working here going?’

‘Super! I’ll take that off you…’

Brian helped himself to what was now my headset in my brain, and stuffed it in his coat pocket.

‘I’ll give it to Jerry when he comes back.’

‘Oh, OK, haven’t you got one?’

‘Yeah, but it’s in the repair shop.’

They’ve even got their own repair shop. I’m definitely convincing Wayne about these now.

End of part one.