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TIRED
OF WAITING
After
much deliberation I have come to the conclusion
that life is one long queue. As children we are
introduced to the irritating act of waiting in
queues. Shops, sports events, cinema’s, rock
concert’s, you name it and there’ll be a
chain of eager brainwashed subjects shuffling
along slowly wasting more precious minutes in
their life-span.
Take making that dreaded phone call to a leading
company for instance. You are first put on hold
before having a choice of buttons to push before
then being connected to another line where you
are faced with a similar choice. Eventually if
you are one of the lucky ones to have gotten
through you are again put on hold, listening to
some irritating music, usually Greensleeves, or
some other drivel. I believe the reason the
soothing music is bestowed upon us is to calm us
down after much swearing and slapping the phone.
When finally you do hear that live voice who
doesn’t seem to give a shit, you’re either
transferred to another number where you face
another two minutes of Greensleeves, or they
baffle you with a vocabulary of incomprehensible
words.
I wonder how long we spend in our lives waiting
in queues and on the phone? The mind boggles.
Even now, we are waiting in a long queue,
waiting to die.
My hatred of queues only stemmed last January;
my ordeal committed me to being a serial queue
hater. I will not entertain them, I either send
my wife Sue, or one of my three children to join
the queue of life.
Yes January 2nd 2001 will always haunt me; it
was to be my Armageddon. Whilst trying to browse
through the local newspaper with a king-sized
hangover I came across the advertisement that
would change my life. The January sales section
took my eye, especially the 256MB RAM PC with
DVD ROM/CD Rewriter drive, printer and scanner.
Surely there had been a mistake, one hundred
pounds! I knew I had to have that PC.
I arrived outside Wilson’s department store
that afternoon kitted out like I was going on an
expedition to the Arctic. A fine smattering of
snow was falling from the dark sky, transforming
the grey High Street into a children’s
dreamland. There wasn’t much activity going
on, most people were either at the pub or inside
watching the box in front of their warm fires
chewing on a mince pie and pulling the last of
their crackers.
I was lucky, I was the first in the queue and I
arranged my sleeping bag in the doorway. It was
bitterly cold and I was glad of my Parka two
sweaters and extra pair of trousers, even so I
was still shivering and it was only three
'o'clock in the afternoon.
I poured myself a cup of hot soup from my flask
and settled down to read a Steinbeck novel with
one eye closed, the effects of my excessive
drinking the night before clearly still
effecting me. I had barely read the first page
when I felt the presence of someone stood over
me. The stench was unbearable.
I raised my eyes and took in the sight before
me; he was a large man of about forty-years with
a scruffy beard and long straggly unwashed hair.
He was wearing a long green overcoat tied around
the waist with string. At least I think it was
green, it was so soiled it was more a greenish
brown. His boots looked World War 11 and
probably were.
I was aghast as he slid down the wall and rubbed
his hands before settling beside me.
“George Francis,” he said as he offered his
grubby hand.
I reluctantly accepted it and immediately
regretted my action. The strong odour of fish
nauseated me; I wanted to puke as I sniffed my
hand.
“Two peas in a pod eh,” he said in a
Scottish accent.
“Excuse me?” I replied.
“Well me and you, both a victim of this
corrupt and heartless society, New Years day and
would you look at us? Homeless and starving.”
“I’m not homeless; I’ve got...”
“Och, we all say that, I like to pretend
sometimes, it lightens up our pitiful lives.”
“Excuse me, my life is not pitiful, I’m
telling you the truth.”
“Of course ye are,” he said, his index
finger raking around inside his hooked nose.
My stomach was now churning as I watched him
studying his prize bogie, like an artist
admiring their painting. Surely he’s not going
to eat it I thought, he wouldn’t would he?
He did, and swallowed as I gave him a look of
disgust.
“That soup looks delicious, you would not
consider sharing it would ye?”
I looked into his hard eyes; it was more an
order than a request.
“If you promise to leave afterwards then you
can have some of my soup.”
“Ye want me to leave, I thought ye needed
company.”
“No, I don’t want company.”
“If that’s the way ye feel then we’ve a
deal.”
To my relief he removed a battered tin mug from
his pocket. The thought of him sharing my cup
didn’t appeal to me. I poured a decent measure
into his mug and he slurped noisily.
“You’re a gentleman, what’s ye name by the
way?”
“Michael,” I answered keeping my hands
firmly in my pockets, there’s no way I was
going to shake his hand this time.
“Well Mick, seeing as you’ve been so
hospitable, I’m gonna share my pie with ye.”
I watched as he pulled a mouldy looking pork pie
from his pocket and broke it in half.
“No thank you George, I’ve already eaten.”
He thrust the pie in front of my face and I
fought back the vomit, swallowing deeply.
“Come on Mick, it’s from Munroe’s, you’d
be surprised the grub they throw out.”
“Honestly, I’m not hungry;” I gasped as he
took a bite of the mouldy pie.
“Mmm, you dinna know what you’re missing
Mick.”
“Michael.”
“What’s that Mick?”
“Michael, my names Michael.” I hated being
called Mick; nobody ever called me Mick.
“Michael, Mick, what’s the fucking
difference?”
“Could you please leave me alone now?”
He burped and crammed the rest of the pie into
his mouth.
“Where are ye staying Mick? I know where ye
can get a great cardboard box, come with me to
Dutton Street and meet the rest of the gang?”
“No thank you, please go away.”
“Maybe I’ll call back later Mick, cheers for
the soup my man.”
Was I glad to see the back of him?
Darkness fell and other bargain hunters joined
the queue. Sitting next to me was a girl
probably in her mid-twenties, she had a
permanent smile on her face, she reminded me of
Stan Laurel. She had curly red hair and she
reeked of cheap perfume. I looked up from my
book to see her studying me, that stupid grin
etched on her features.
“Sorry for staring, “ she squealed;
“Didn’t you go to Bertram Ramsey school?”
“No, I’m sorry you’re mistaken.”
“I’m sure I’m not, Paul Holten right?”
“No, as I’ve already said, you’re
mistaken.”
“I never forget a face Paul.”
Her squeaky voice was now irritating me.
“Look! I’m not the person you think I am,
now if you’ll kindly let me get on with my
book.”
Two minutes passed; “You don’t half look
like him you know, you could be his brother. Do
they call you Holten?”
“No! They don’t call me fucking Holten, and
if they did I wouldn’t tell you.”
“Well sorry for asking, some people these
days, they’re so rude.”
“Look, I’m sorry, I’ve had a bad night,
I’ve a migraine and I can’t get the smell of
fish from my hand. Please let me get on with my
book.”
“So that fishy smell, it’s you is it?”
“No it’s not me, it’s that tramp.”
“What tramp is this then?”
“Forget it.”
“I could spray some of my perfume on your
hand.”
I relented and decided anything was better than
that fish smell. I settled down again with my
book until my guts began to rumble. I broke wind
and continued to read my book hoping nobody
would notice.
“Who the fuck’s that?” Asked a balding
middle aged men with a nervous twitch.
I waited five minutes and had no choice; I had
to empty my guts.
“Does anyone know where there’s a toilet
please?”
Squeaky answered; “The nearest one is Frazer
Street around the corner.”
“Good, will you mind my place?”
“But that one’s closed down for
maintenance,” came the shout from a lady with
a plastic headscarf wrapped around her head.
“Shit! Well where’s the nearest toilet
then?”
“Kettering Street,” yelled plastic
headscarf, she must be a serial bog spotter.
“Kettering Street, that’s miles away.”
“I know.”
“Look mind my place anyway, I have to go.”
“No minding places,” said the bald man, his
head twitching.
“Pardon me?”
“Once you go you’ve lost your place.”
“I’ve never heard anything so stupid in all
of my life, I want a crap, a shit, what do you
want me to do have one here?”
“That’s not my concern, you must bide by the
rules.”
I watched the others nod their heads in
agreement.
“Look, I must go,” I said nipping my cheeks
together; “We’ll continue this argument
later.”
I dashed around to the alley; the snow was now
heavy. I squatted behind one of the bins and
struggled with my boxer shorts.
“Yes!” I screamed with relief as my stomach
exploded. A thought came to me as I relieved
myself; I had no toilet tissue. My eyes scanned
the alley; a piece of newspaper caught my eye.
It was protruding from beneath a bin across the
alley. I checked for prying eyes and satisfied I
waddled over to the newspaper, my trousers and
boxer shorts still around my ankles. To my
horror I heard a back gate open. I froze against
the bin and squatted, hoping not to be seen in
my predicament. I picked up the newspaper and
cleaned myself as a teenage couple holding hands
passed me laughing and pointing at me. I pulled
my trousers up rapidly and ran in the opposite
direction; the young couple now doubled up in
laughter.
As I approached the doorway my eyed settled on
my sleeping bag in the open, covered with snow.
“What the fuck’s going on?”
“We warned you, you’ve lost you place,”
smirked Baldy.
“We’ll see about that won’t we?”
I picked up my sleeping bag and wrestled my way
to the front, baldy and plastic scarf holding
onto me. They finally relented and I sat down to
settle in for the night. I was freezing; my wet
sleeping bag didn’t help.
I had just nodded off when I was awoken by the
sound of “Onward Christian Soldiers.” My
head was throbbing and here I was, being
serenaded by the bloody Salvation Army. They had
seen us from the church across the road and must
have felt sorry for our plight. My worst
nightmare came true as they settled down with us
and continued singing those horrible songs,
waving their tambourines in our faces and
handing out soup.
My evening was complete as they one by one
recited passages from the bible before singing
what must have been every hymn in the book.
Squeaky and Baldy were loving it, they were
encouraging the bible bashers, all I wanted to
do was to sleep. I was now honestly considering
going home but I didn’t want to give Baldy and
co the satisfaction.
It was about midnight when Sue, my wife pulled
up in her precious blue Mini.
“Michael, hell, it’s cold out here, I see
you’re in good company,” she said eying up
the Salvation Army who were crooning a rendition
of the Old Wooden Cross.
Had she come to relieve me? My hopes were
dashed; she’d brought fresh soup and
sandwiches.
“Cheer up Michael, it’ll be worth it, top of
the range computer. It’ll soften the blow from
last night.”
“Last night, what happened last night?”
“You remember, your so-called mates in the
front garden with your golf clubs. The
garden’s ever such a mess.”
“The garden?”
“Yes, those terrible divots they made. And Mr
Thompson has forgiven you; he’s left the
bill.”
“The bill, what bill?”
“For his greenhouse Michael, every window was
smashed; he gave you the golf balls back
though.”
“Can this get any worse?”
“And don’t worry about the golf clubs, three
or four of them are ok. Perhaps you can bend the
others back into shape.”
“My golf clubs?”
“My Michael, you must have been drunk.”
She sniffed the air.
“What is that smell?”
“Oh that, it’s perfume,” I said motioning
over to Squeaky.
“No, the perfumes on you Michael.”
Sue looked towards the smiling girl.
“You bastard, I can’t leave you alone for
one minute can I? And with a horse-faced
hussy.”
“Excuse me,” said Squeaky.
Sue slapped her face and a scuffle broke out. It
resembled an all in wrestling match as the fight
continued on the pavement. Finally I managed to
calm Sue down but as she drove away she was
mumbling profane threats about divorce.
I settled down once more and eventually nodded
off.
“Good morning,” was the greeting of the
store manager as he unlocked the department
store. We were requested to wait five minutes
whilst the staff took their places. My head had
cleared and I now felt good, all that waiting
would surely reap its rewards.
The manager returned; “Congratulations sir,
you’re our first customer and you can have the
choice of the store. I entered the premises; the
staff all wore Santa hats and greeted me with a
smile. I approached a camp looking fellow, his
hands clasped together.
“Well sir, the pick of the store is yours,
what is your fancy,” he winked.
“The computer,” I said clutching my hundred
pounds, casting a satisfied smirk at Squeaky,
Baldy and co, their greedy faces pressed up
against the door.
“Computer sir?”
“Yes, the one advertised in the Evening
Gazette, you know, the one for one hundred
pounds.”
The camp assistant scowled and looked towards
the manager.
“I think there’s been some mistake sir, we
don’t sell computers; that’s our other store
in Stockton.”
That’s when I think I flipped, I swear I saw a
pink elephant soar over the assistant’s head.
The door was opened and the other customers
stampeded into the store, greedily buying
anything with the word sale attached to it.
Baldy clasped his television as he stood at the
till smirking at me, his head twitching
profusely.
I marched over and grabbed one of the remaining
televisions, A bargain I came for and a bargain
I would have.
“Would you like it delivered sir?”
“No thank you; I’ll flag a taxi.”
I struggled with my prized possession, thanking
the shop assistant as he held the door open for
me. I took two unsteady steps forward and
tripped over an unforeseen obstacle in the
doorway. I clawed the air in a futile effort to
catch the television as it hurtled to the
pavement in slow motion. It smashed into what
must have been a million pieces as I screamed,
“noooooooo!”
“Now I don’t think you wanted to do that did
you? Was it a new one?”
I was laid across the filthy stinking body of
the tramp. I got to my feet and he must have
realised by my twitching eye that I had flipped
my lid.
Baldy stood in the doorway clutching his
bargain, a top of the range television, a wicked
smile adorning his features. I did what came
naturally to me; I wrestled the telly from his
grasp and it joined mine in the television
graveyard. Squeaky on seeing my manic face
turned her back in an attempt to shepherd her
VCR from me. Her futile efforts were in vain as
the recorder soared over the cowering tramps
head and exploded on the snow-covered pavement.
I wish I could tell you there was a happy ending
but there wasn’t. I was arrested and copped
for a heavy fine along with damages. Sue never
divorced me and forgave me for the perfume
incident. As for queues, don’t say I never
warned you! |
