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, cinemas, rock concerts, you name it and there will be a chain of eager, brainwashed subjects shuffling along slowly, wasting more precious minutes in their life span.

    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 placed on hold, listening to some irritating music, usually Greensleeves, or some other drivel. I believe that 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 does not 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, or one of my three children to join the queue of life.

    Yes, January 2nd, 20I3 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 was not much activity going on, as most people were either at the pub or inside, watching the TV 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 results of my excessive drinking the night before clearly still affecting me. I had barely read the first page when I felt the presence of someone standing 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, as it was so soiled. It was more a greenish brown. His boots looked World War II and probably were.

    He rubbed his hands together and I was aghast when he slid down the wall and sat besides 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 after 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 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 yer?”

    I looked into his hard eyes. It was more an order than a request.

    “If you promise to leave afterwards, then you’re welcome to share my soup.”

    “Yer want me to leave? I thought yer 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 yer name by the way?”

    “Michael,” I answered, keeping my hands firmly in my pockets. There was no way that 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 yer.”

    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 at the grub they throw out.”

    “Honestly, I’m not hungry.” I gasped when he took a bite of the mouldy pie.

    “Mmm, you’re dunno know what you’re missing, Mick.”

    “Michael,” I corrected.

    “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, mon?”

    “Could you please leave me alone now?”

    He burped and crammed the rest of the pie into his mouth.

    “Where are yer staying, Mick? I know where yer can get a great, wee 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, and 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, with 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. “Listen! 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.”

    “I’m sorry. I've had a bad night, I’ve a migraine, and I cannot rid 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 that nobody would notice.

    “Who the fuck's that?” asked a balding, middle-aged man 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 woman with a plastic headscarf wrapped around her head.

    “Shit! So 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,” she responded.

     “Listen, 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…a dump. 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.

    “Listen, I must go,” I said, nipping my cheeks together. “We'll continue this argument later.”

    I dashed around to the alley, the snow 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 when I relieved myself. I had no toilet tissue. My eyes scanned the alley, and 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 who were 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 with 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 were holding onto me. They finally relented and I sat down to settle in for the night. I was freezing, and my wet sleeping bag did not 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 when 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, and all I wanted to do was to sleep. I was now honestly considering going home, but I did not want to give Baldy and co the satisfaction.

    It was about midnight when Gemma, 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 had 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?” I moaned.

    “And don’t worry about the golf clubs. Three or four of them are okay. Perhaps, you can bend the others back into shape.”

    “My golf clubs are bent?”

    “My, Michael, you must have been drunk.”

    She sniffed the air. “What is that smell?”

    “Oh, that. It'’ perfume,” I said, motioning over to Squeaky.

    “No, the perfume’s on you, Michael.”

    Sue looked towards the smiling girl. “You bastard! I cannot leave you alone for one-minute can I? And with a horse-faced hussy.”

    “Excuse me,” said Squeaky.

    Gemma slapped her face and a scuffle broke out. It resembled an all in wrestling match, as the fight continued onto the pavement. Finally, I managed to calm Gemma 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 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, and casting a satisfied smirk at Squeaky, Baldy and co, whose greedy faces were pressed 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 stock computers. That’s our other store in Stockton.”

    That’s when I think I flipped. I swear that I saw a pink elephant soar over the assistant'’ 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 and was standing at the till, smirking at me, his head twitching profusely. I marched over and grabbed the television, throwing it to the floor and gleefully watching as it smashed into a thousand pieces. Squeaky watched me suspiciously, as I approached. She put her arms around her stereo system. I picked up a video recorder and threw it at the stereo, narrowly missing Squeaky. My dissatisfaction at not getting the PC had been lessened.

    As you can imagine, I was arrested and copped for a heavy fine, along with damages. Gemma never divorced me, and forgave me for the perfume incident. As for queues, don’t say that I never warned you!