gallagher672003
New Member
The first chapter of something I was toying with a while back at work.
CHAPTER 1
As traffic jams go this was a bad one. For over an hour the white van in which Alex Taylor had been working his way through London had moved a matter of feet. Around him people were taking stress to new levels and fighting for every inch of road but Alex was used to it by now. He had long since come to the conclusion that getting uptight wouldn’t get him home any quicker. It was always the same in rush hour, nowhere fast but today nowhere was coming even faster, or was it slower?, he didn’t know. Who cared anyway? Home was a place he kept his stuff and slept these days and not much else.
The radio played tunes he remembered from the eighties and a manically cheerful D.J pattered on about the usual bullshit, peppering his banality with trivia and traffic reports.
This time last year he had been married to Sue and for his part was planning on it being until death did they part. Now he couldn’t see beyond the car in front of him, aspired only to get back to the M1 and travel the soulless motorway back to Leicester and the dingy flat he now called home.
Three hours later he turned the key to his front door and stepped into the dark hallway. On the floor there were several brown envelopes which he picked up and threw onto the telephone table. He could see a sliver of light from the bottom of the lounge door, he always left a light on somewhere in the house because he hated coming back to a dark house (he always referred to it as a house as he hated the term ‘flat’). He laughed inwardly at the idea of a thirty nine year old man having a problem with the dark. Heading towards the kitchen he took off his jacket and threw it across the only chair in the living room and went to take stock of the refrigerator. The milk was two days past its sell by date and the cheese was clinging to life by a thread. One quick look at the stale bread in the cupboard later and the decision was made. Takeaway. He took out his mobile phone and hit the number one key. This was a sad reflection of his life that the only speed dial number assigned on his phone was his local Chinese takeaway, a sadder reflection was that when the phone was answered, Kwan who worked the counter at the ‘Golden Pagoda’ knew it was Alex and always answered with the same line. ‘You wanna sixty nine mister?’,
Alex managed to stifle his indifference and laughed falsely. ‘Er…no thanks, just my usual’. As he said it it struck him that this was also a sad state of affairs, he had a ‘usual’ at the local takeaway ordered via a practical stranger who knew who Alex was and what he wanted. He needed a beer.
Pleasantries exchanged, Alex hung up and flicked the TV on. The tail end of a game show hosted by a vaguely recognisable “hip” young presenter who looked and sounded very “street” was playing out its final throw of the dice. Alex reminisced back to yesteryear when presenters were over-tanned and wore lousy toupees and the big prize was a thousand pounds or a fondue set. Reg from Milton Keynes stood in a spotlight with the timer counting down the seconds, looking desperately for clues in the middle distance, and failing. The clock reached zero and there was sound to signal Reg’s failure, which was cross between a trombone and a fart. As the credits rolled Reg was further humiliated by being forced to wave to a nation whilst holding back the tears. The host waved too, but in a cool and ironic way.
The take away arrived. Alex paid the delivery driver, gave him a small tip, he knew from experience that being a delivery driver was a thankless task and sympathised with the short, balding white man stood on his doorstep. Weather was mentioned before Alex closed the door and went to plate up his meal. Sitting on the sofa with a tray was how he always ate these days. Sitting at a table, alone, with nobody to talk to always felt lonelier and seemed to underline the failure of his marriage to Sue.
On the T.V there were now images of a market place in Iraq where some extremist lunatic had detonated a bomb killing dozens of innocent people. Chaos flashed across the screen and the stark image of a man carrying a dead woman lingered before the newsreader moved on to another story of destruction and murder. The world was going mad and once again people were proving that the human race is shit. To make things worse his sweet and sour pork appeared to be lacking any pork.
2:17 am. The same dream. He was running from something. He had no idea what but he knew it wasn’t good and it certainly wasn’t going to pass the time of day when it caught him. His legs were like jelly and one felt longer than the other. His heart was pounding and the veins in his head were throbbing. As he ran he realised that in his hand he was holding a gun, it was here the dream usually differed. In desperation he turned, raised the gun and pulled the trigger. As he did so a flag shot out of the barrel bearing the solitary word ‘TWAT’. Sometimes he looked on in horror as a jet of water fired into the darkness towards whatever it was that was going to surely at least kick the shit out of him. As usual Alex woke up in a cold sweat.
The alarm erupted a cacophony of electronic bleeps at 6.30am tearing Alex from what wasn’t so much sleep as forced semi consciousness, instinctively he reached out and hit the snooze button. There was a time when he would have been straight out of bed and at the day like a greyhound. These days he was more like a three legged Labrador that simply lumbered its way through life and the nine minute snooze that the clock afforded him was now an essential part of his day. Time to reflect, contemplate and let his eyes focus.
Thirty minutes later he was out in the cold morning air and heading for the depot to load his van with more cheap (and nasty) textiles ready for the drive to London. Maybe tonight he would have sweet and sour chicken.
CHAPTER 1
As traffic jams go this was a bad one. For over an hour the white van in which Alex Taylor had been working his way through London had moved a matter of feet. Around him people were taking stress to new levels and fighting for every inch of road but Alex was used to it by now. He had long since come to the conclusion that getting uptight wouldn’t get him home any quicker. It was always the same in rush hour, nowhere fast but today nowhere was coming even faster, or was it slower?, he didn’t know. Who cared anyway? Home was a place he kept his stuff and slept these days and not much else.
The radio played tunes he remembered from the eighties and a manically cheerful D.J pattered on about the usual bullshit, peppering his banality with trivia and traffic reports.
This time last year he had been married to Sue and for his part was planning on it being until death did they part. Now he couldn’t see beyond the car in front of him, aspired only to get back to the M1 and travel the soulless motorway back to Leicester and the dingy flat he now called home.
Three hours later he turned the key to his front door and stepped into the dark hallway. On the floor there were several brown envelopes which he picked up and threw onto the telephone table. He could see a sliver of light from the bottom of the lounge door, he always left a light on somewhere in the house because he hated coming back to a dark house (he always referred to it as a house as he hated the term ‘flat’). He laughed inwardly at the idea of a thirty nine year old man having a problem with the dark. Heading towards the kitchen he took off his jacket and threw it across the only chair in the living room and went to take stock of the refrigerator. The milk was two days past its sell by date and the cheese was clinging to life by a thread. One quick look at the stale bread in the cupboard later and the decision was made. Takeaway. He took out his mobile phone and hit the number one key. This was a sad reflection of his life that the only speed dial number assigned on his phone was his local Chinese takeaway, a sadder reflection was that when the phone was answered, Kwan who worked the counter at the ‘Golden Pagoda’ knew it was Alex and always answered with the same line. ‘You wanna sixty nine mister?’,
Alex managed to stifle his indifference and laughed falsely. ‘Er…no thanks, just my usual’. As he said it it struck him that this was also a sad state of affairs, he had a ‘usual’ at the local takeaway ordered via a practical stranger who knew who Alex was and what he wanted. He needed a beer.
Pleasantries exchanged, Alex hung up and flicked the TV on. The tail end of a game show hosted by a vaguely recognisable “hip” young presenter who looked and sounded very “street” was playing out its final throw of the dice. Alex reminisced back to yesteryear when presenters were over-tanned and wore lousy toupees and the big prize was a thousand pounds or a fondue set. Reg from Milton Keynes stood in a spotlight with the timer counting down the seconds, looking desperately for clues in the middle distance, and failing. The clock reached zero and there was sound to signal Reg’s failure, which was cross between a trombone and a fart. As the credits rolled Reg was further humiliated by being forced to wave to a nation whilst holding back the tears. The host waved too, but in a cool and ironic way.
The take away arrived. Alex paid the delivery driver, gave him a small tip, he knew from experience that being a delivery driver was a thankless task and sympathised with the short, balding white man stood on his doorstep. Weather was mentioned before Alex closed the door and went to plate up his meal. Sitting on the sofa with a tray was how he always ate these days. Sitting at a table, alone, with nobody to talk to always felt lonelier and seemed to underline the failure of his marriage to Sue.
On the T.V there were now images of a market place in Iraq where some extremist lunatic had detonated a bomb killing dozens of innocent people. Chaos flashed across the screen and the stark image of a man carrying a dead woman lingered before the newsreader moved on to another story of destruction and murder. The world was going mad and once again people were proving that the human race is shit. To make things worse his sweet and sour pork appeared to be lacking any pork.
2:17 am. The same dream. He was running from something. He had no idea what but he knew it wasn’t good and it certainly wasn’t going to pass the time of day when it caught him. His legs were like jelly and one felt longer than the other. His heart was pounding and the veins in his head were throbbing. As he ran he realised that in his hand he was holding a gun, it was here the dream usually differed. In desperation he turned, raised the gun and pulled the trigger. As he did so a flag shot out of the barrel bearing the solitary word ‘TWAT’. Sometimes he looked on in horror as a jet of water fired into the darkness towards whatever it was that was going to surely at least kick the shit out of him. As usual Alex woke up in a cold sweat.
The alarm erupted a cacophony of electronic bleeps at 6.30am tearing Alex from what wasn’t so much sleep as forced semi consciousness, instinctively he reached out and hit the snooze button. There was a time when he would have been straight out of bed and at the day like a greyhound. These days he was more like a three legged Labrador that simply lumbered its way through life and the nine minute snooze that the clock afforded him was now an essential part of his day. Time to reflect, contemplate and let his eyes focus.
Thirty minutes later he was out in the cold morning air and heading for the depot to load his van with more cheap (and nasty) textiles ready for the drive to London. Maybe tonight he would have sweet and sour chicken.