Life in the bus lane

SAM’S ROOM

He is asleep within the wooden cot Dave’s Kids have slumbered in before. If He doesn’t change position, He will wake up to the bog-eyed beauty of His cuddly clown fish. The mobile is still; Young Monster is in Dreamland.

The Yellow, White, and Wood, of His room; made babyish with Jungle Prints from His Mum. A cuddly Lion breaks the monotony of His laminate floor…He stirs! He sighs! The Boy sleeps! Safe in His Little World.

NITE SON

LOVE YOU

CV

How do you write a CV for a forty-two year old man who has never held a job for more than eighteen months? More to the point – why the fuck should I need one? Surely my natural charm, stunning good looks, vibrant personality, and ready wit, should speak for themselves? OK…the CV.

An abridged version would throw-up such diversity as: Warehouse Worker, Shop Worker, Butlins Barman, British Rail Trainee, Van Driver, Shop Manager, Taxi Driver, Radio Operator, Mature Student, Tyre Loader, some illegal stuff, Volunteer, Homeless Peoples Keywoker, Labourer, Glass Toughener, door-to-door salesman, Security Guard, Welfare Rights Advisor, Courier…culminating in…call centre sales advisor…how the hell do you get that on to two pages of A4?

The ethical question visits the table; is it lying? Or – more importantly – Getting Caught? Different jobs? Different CVs. That’s agreed.

How can it be my fault that I’ve had so many jobs? Conflicting CVs. Lack of qualifications. Problems with criminal record checks. Noticeable shortage of checkable references. I’m just a Steady Eddy. How could it be my fault? So many questions.

Getting the job is easy (just pretend to be a nazi for that Warehouse Position) keeping the job represents the challenge.

Where do you find those normal jobs other people bring their families up on? That is not a rhetorical question…just a question...

All things are relative, a person from a community working eighteen hours a day to survive on less than a dollar a day, would view the dilemma as simple maths. No choice. End off.

My choices are different: you gave me a pebble-dashed home, my Father dole money, whilst you destroyed the Working Class. I never swallowed the hands on view…and I still don’t.

My CV will be winging its way to prospective employers. My Son – who despite the thatcherite rhetoric – still needs a Society and a Dad who can provide, merits it.

Criminality? Shake and Quiver.

Not everyone would cook you. Only a few.

ONWARDS AND UPWARDS

I had agreed to four hours overtime on Saturday morning, we had a shit-load of glass to put through the toughener and sort into orders for the drivers on Monday. I found myself working with the new bloke who had started earlier in the week. First time I clapped eyes on him I thought, “Jesus, it’s Rod Hull.” Spitting image. Everybody’s face tells a tale, a glimpse into their life, this geezers screamed that he didn’t need sat-nav to find the offey. The fucker was still bladdered, reeking from Friday’s ale, waffling shite; doing my head in.

Now I’d said nothing to nobody about my first impression of our new colleague when two of the lads from the window assembly section wandered over. “That twats not gonna break his back working,” said Little Mick, nodding toward Rod, who was slumped against the toughener, a crumpled rolly dangling precariously from his lips. Cockney John glanced in his direction, shook his head and asked, “Wonder who the fuck looks after Emu while he’s here?”

As the morning progressed I carried Rod and ended up doing all the donkeywork. He was deep into repeatedly regaling the lengthy and fascinating tale of how he had lost his tobacco the night before. “If I see any bastard with it later they’ll be getting these,” he snarled, waving his puny fists in my face. I was seriously beginning to get the hump with Rod. Fucking waste of space.

The drive into work on the Monday morning was a major pain in the arse. Torrential rain hammering and obscuring the windscreen, the roads awash with thousands on their way to a blind spastic chimps driving convention. The botched up exhaust on my Punto sounded like a Messerschmitt; a coke-addled Orange Lodge drummer at the controls. I was late, narky, and – for fucks sake – found myself on the glass wash with good old Rod. One word, just one fucking word about his lost burn and he was going down. Staying down.

“Remember my baccy that went west?” He enquired. Instinctively, my right hand clenched into a fist. He turned to face me. “I found it this morning next to my shoes, under the bed. Must have fallen out when I was getting my head down.” Now, as riveting as his tobacco tale had proved, the wash was backed-up and my patience stretched to the limit. The thought of enduring one more second listening to this tit overtook everything: Knock him out. Walk out the loading bay. Start looking for a new job. I took a step toward Rod as he began to speak, “To tell you the truth, I wasn’t arsed about the baccy, it was losing the tin that upset me, it was my Dad’s…..all I’ve got left of his now.”

A momentary silence between us followed, punctuated only by the motor throb from a congested glass wash. Asking Rod if he took sugar, I went to fetch two cups of tea from the vending machine.

The train pulls out of Bank Hall Station, bearing right, it snakes toward Sandhills.

High on the left, a brown brick wall stretches the length of Melrose Road above the
steep, densely overgrown embankment; crowning scree slopes of discarded cider bottles, burnt foil, syringes, composted nappies and sanitary towels.

Eight large rectangles of magnolia paint adorn a section close to the derelict cabin shop at the junction with Stanley Road.

Eight magnolia rectangles.

Five above.

Three below.

CLASS
WAR

The letters obliterated, long since rendered indistinguishable – only eight, uniform, magnolia rectangles visible to the officially classless commuters clattering below.