|
Throb
Copyright Neil Wills August 2002
My
blood pressure is beginning to rise. Arrhythmic
pumping of my heart heightens my sense of
desperation. The obstacles to my release are
many. I wait, outwardly patient but, the tic in
my cheek is fluttering rapidly. Old people are
meant to die, not queue. And why do they chatter
so? And here? This is a place for people to
transact not socialise. There is a perfectly
good pavement outside on which they can
out-point each other. Claim their precedence in
the line, their nearness to death and their
terminal afflictions. I would cheerfully help
some of them on their way. Especially the bloody
whistler.
What possessed the Lord to give us the ability
to whistle? We don't all look after sheep. We
don't all guard trains. It must have been in His
grand design to thwart me. The one that dogs my
every step. The one that is slowly driving me
mad. I bet the old bastard (not you Lord) has
got every Roger Miller record at home in his
radiogramme. It's not volume, it's the pitch
which cuts through me. Warblers! They are the
spawn of the devil. I swear that if you did a
retro examination of victims in High School or
office shooting, you would be able to identify
the reason for the outrage.
'Oh yes officer, lovely boy and he so loved to
whistle.'
I try to take my mind from the torment by
imagining how well he'd whistle with his teeth
pushed through his fucking head! The queue
shuffles forward and breaks the train of
thought. He stops whistling. Can't shuffle at
the same time as whistling. Too much puff. Thank
God.
I lay my money on the counter and collect the
package from the scales. Freedom. If the path to
the door was empty I'd run. Alas, more old
people are there. Their choreographer has taught
them the stop, back up, block and stop to
chatter move. It is only public disapproval
which prevents me knocking them aside and
kicking the wheeled trolleys they brandish like
fashion statements. 'Sorry dear' they croak as
if interested in being helpful.
Another queue, another place. I used to
disbelieve the conspiracy theory but it has
recently become a valid concept in my mind. I
join the one with the fewest people waiting with
the fewest items to buy and, most importantly,
the one which looks least likely to contain
voucher people. So far so good but, the
well-to-do bird looks suspicious. Her purse is
full but I don't think it's full with money. I
glance at the other queue but it's too late. A
young mother with children has arrived there.
The tension builds as fat purse reaches the
till. I can tell by her stance she is going to
realise my fears for me. She's a packer. My tic
has started again as she calmly begins to smooth
the first bag out. She waits, oblivious to the
people behind her, until every single item has
been scanned. Meticulously, she selects
individual packages and groups them. Eventually
when she is satisfied, she begins, oh so slowly
and carefully to fill the bags. The girl on the
till announces the final tally and, apart from a
glance of acknowledgement, the woman rejects the
idea of paying until every, single bag is filled
neatly and is transferred back to the trolley.
Finally, She rummages for the purse and opens
it.
Blood races in my temple and my chest tightens.
A voucher appears in her hand. Another and yet
more are laid on the counter for inspection. She
looks around as if to gloat at my misfortune.
Her look seems to say.
'Wrong queue again buddy.'
'No', I think. 'Wrong queue for you missus.'
I can take this no longer. Her eyes grow wide
with horror as I step toward her and, … float
upward. I rise gently, hovering in a horizontal
position over the till.
She screams as the body below me jerks and
contorts in front of her before sinking to the
floor.
|
