Paul McCartney's Coat

by Michael White

  It was however, unfortunate that Jim was actually there at all in Stan’s case, because Jim had taken it upon himself to bully Stan mercilessly. Never a tall man, in fact Stan was five foot five and a quarter (and the quarter was very important). Jim towered above him. Given that Jim’s seat because of the nature of the construction of the stand was a bit higher than Stan’s, if poor Stan ever turned around to face him the first thing he would see were Jim’s knees. This, sadly he had to do every home game at half time. It had almost become some kind of ritual.

  As the whistle for half time blew Stan felt himself tensing. Every bloody match it was the same! He waited, and there it was. The single tap on the shoulder and Jim’s booming, mocking voice.

  “A large sweet tea please, waitress.” said Jim, a wide stupid grin spreading across his face. Stan had turned to face Jim’s knees as the five pound note fluttered down from high above as it always did. “And I’ll have your shoe.” Stan knew better than to argue. He bent down and slipped his left shoe off before passing it up to Jim who snatched it from him, the same stupid grin increasing just a little bit more.

  “Oh leave him alone.” said Ernie who sat next to Stan. “Go and get your own tea! I don’t know why you have to take his bloody shoe as well.” Jim laughed out loud at this.

  “Just a bit of insurance. Make sure the bugger comes back, right? Besides, it’s none of your business, mate. I’d watch myself if I was you, or you could be doing the tea run next match.” Ernie shuffled around in his seat and sat in silence. Dutifully the single shoed Stan disappeared to get the large sweet tea.

  Eventually he returned and passed the large polystyrene cup to Jim along with the change. “Thank you.” chirruped Jim sarcastically. “Nobody quite makes a nice hot sweet tea like you do.” and removing the lid he had a quick sip of it. “Lovely.” He declared. “Make it a bit quicker though next time, eh? Takes you for bloody ever to get it! Probably because you’ve got such short legs hey, short arse!” Jim burst out laughing at this, but nobody nearby joined in. They never did, but it didn’t stop Jim sniggering loudly to himself for a while.

  “Can I have my shoe back now please?” said Stan. This was the bit he was dreading. On the other side of Stan his season ticket neighbour Bert tutted loudly as Jim held the shoe up and spat into it just the once before giving it back.

  “There you go, little man!” chortled Jim as Stan reluctantly took the shoe off Jim and gingerly placed it back on his foot. Stan sighed to himself as he turned to face the pitch once again. He was just glad that the match day ritual was over for another fortnight. The second half quickly passed, and before he knew it the match was over and it was time to leave. Jim was always quick off the mark, but Stan used to hang back a bit to miss the worst of the rush. He knew Bert did the same and they sat there in silence waiting for the crowds to lessen off a bit. On this day however, Bert had something to say.

  “Don’t know why you let that big fool get away with that every match.” he said. “Wants bloody locking up, he does!” Stan just smiled at him.

  “Don’t worry about it, Bert.” he said. “It doesn’t bother me.” Bert however, was going off on one now.

  “He’s just a bully, he is. Wants reporting. You need to do something about it! Making a right fool of you he is, if you ask me.” Bert seemed just a little angry that his words had failed to make Stan angry as well, or at least get him fired up and determined to do something about it.

  “It’s not a problem.” said Stan. “Really. It isn’t.” Bert however, was determined to have his say.

  “Well if you won’t do something about it I will! I’m going to write to the ground, I am. Let them know what he gets up to every home match. They might even take his season ticket off him if we kick up enough of a fuss.” Stan sighed at this

  “Don’t do that, Bert.” he said simply. “There’s really no need.” Bert however, had the look of a man on a mission. Stan stood to fasten his coat. It was time to leave. But first he had to stop Bert from doing whatever it was that he had planned.

  “Look Bert.” Stan said, getting the other man’s attention. “Have you never wondered why it takes me so long to get Jim’s tea?” Bert sniffed angrily.

  “Never even thought about it.” he said. Stan could see that Bert was not calming down in any way at all, and so Stan decided to tell him why he wasn’t bothered about it.

  “It takes me so long because I don’t go to the nearest place to buy the tea. I take a bit of a longer route.” Stan smiled. “One that takes me past the toilets.” Bert smiled a weak smile, not entirely sure exactly where this was headed. “That’s right.” said Stan. “As long as he keeps spitting in my shoe, I’ll keep pissing in his tea.”

  A Good Day at the Office

  ~ Dedicated to anyone who works in a call centre ~

  Christ almighty, I was up early. Had it not been the middle of summer it would still be dark for hours. But I was on the way to work anyway, despite the fact that the electronic lock on the building where I spent every mindless working day would not allow anyone to enter for at least the next two hours at the earliest. That would be at seven thirty. Looking at the clock on the car dashboard I noted that it was currently five thirty in the morning. As I pulled on to the small industrial estate where the call centre I worked in was based it was just getting light. This was a one way street so there was no through traffic. In fact it was the only building on this stretch of the short road. It was very quiet. Nobody around at all.

  Good.

  I drove right up to the building. The car park was off on the left and of course completely empty at this time of the morning. There was however a relatively wide turn circle right in front of the office and so I turned the car around in this and headed back away from the building before turning the car sideways across the road so that it was now completely blocking the road. Normally this would cause havoc, of course. Nearly two hundred people worked in the two storey small squat building, and it was so remote that nearly all of them drove in. But at this early hour nobody noticed at all.

  I sat in the car for a minute and lit a cigarette. I was now gazing sideways at the building that was at the end of the drive, the large green and yellow logo on the side of it catching the early morning light. To me it looked like an infected scab. Even looking at it momentarily made me clench my teeth. I had worked in that damned place for three years now and to say I hated it with a passion was an understatement of monumental proportions. Every single bloody day that I worked there I felt as if I was being watched over by a hatchet faced bunch of spineless gobshites who had the collective intellectual prowess of a slug that’s just spotted a very large lettuce.

  That was all about to change.

  I mean. Call centres. The cotton mills of the twenty first century, and that is doing a great disservice to cotton mills, believe you me. It is the way they have to measure everything, quantify every mind numbing second you spend in the feckless place. How many seconds you spend on the toilet, how many seconds each call lasts, how long between calls and so on for bloody ever, it seems like. Then feeding it all back to you until you want to rip your headset off and beat them into tiny little blood covered lumps with it. “How do you think that call went?” “How do you think that call could be better?” How about if I rushed round to the customer’s house and offered to make them a cup of tea? Would that make you happy? Idiots. As far as I am concerned it’s a big pity they’re not all locked in the sodding building now. Take it from me, I bloody considered it. Simple thing is the whole collective bunch of phone watching dickheads are just not worth it.

  I finished the cigarette and popped the boot. Five thirty-five. Gazing casually in to the car I then stopped to reflect on the building itself. It was quite low and relatively flat for a two storey office, though it was quite long. It stretched from my left to my right before me. I laughed quietly to myself. It almost as if the great big ugly soul sapping spider of a building was somehow apprehensive. As if it realised that somet
hing was wrong. I laughed again. I was about to squash this particular spider.

  Oh yes.

  First I removed the six small stub nosed shells from the boot and laid them carefully out off to my left in a neat little line. Then I shouldered the CSA1 ILAW portable rocket launcher and loaded in the first shell. Effective up to a distance of three hundred metres but not less than ten, the state of the art, second generation rocket launcher was a single shot device favoured by all British army forces. It would take up to eight seconds before I could load the next shell. I was being cautious however, and had decided to give it a minute between each shot. I figured that was just enough time for me to admire my work between shots while I was also loading up the next shell. I didn’t want to rush the job now, did I? There would however be a significant back blast when the launcher was fired so I was careful to make sure neither the shells nor the car were anywhere behind me.

  I paused for a second. Five thirty nine. Were you to ask me at that second whether I had any doubts regarding what I was about to do then my honest answer would be no. I couldn’t bloody wait. Yet still I paused, savouring the moment. Nobody was going to be putting a headset on today. Or ever again. Not in that hell hole.

  Smiling and at the same time quietly humming to myself I aimed very carefully at the top left hand corner of the building’s upper storey and squeezed the trigger.

  It is probably best to say that although I had very carefully researched the weapon before obtaining it, and that had taken some doing, that’s for sure, I had never actually seen it in action as it were, unless of course you count YouTube videos.

  The real thing is exquisitely more fun. The launcher bucked almost gently as the missile was released and at the same time I saw out of the corner of my eye a large arc of flame erupt just behind me. This all seemed to happen in slow motion. A thin plume of smoke seemed to rise in the air and then there was a deafening explosion.

  The top left hand corner of the building simply disintegrated, and a huge cloud of smoke rose into the early morning air. Rubble flew up in to the sky and then as if realising its error began to fall to the ground again. The centre of the building on the top storey seemed to sag. As the smoke cleared the first fifteen metres of the top of the building had been completely destroyed. Bits of rubble jutted up from the edge of the roof like big black rotten teeth stumps.

  Five forty. I reloaded the launcher. I noticed almost as if through a cloud of excitement that the intruder alarm on the right hand side of the building was wailing loudly. It sounded almost as if the building knew it was injured and was screaming for help. I fired again.

  Time to put it out of its misery.

  This time I hit the top storey in the centre. As the smoke cleared I registered the fact that the alarm seemed to have stopped. Pause. Reload. The third shell finished the top storey altogether. Most of it was in the car park and turn circle now. Three to go. Five forty two. As I was loading the fourth shell there was a loud secondary explosion. Probably the gas mains. As I watched the reception entrance on the far left of the building suddenly blew out, glass flying in to the car park over to the left.

  The fourth shell reduced the lower storey on the left to no more than a pile of rubble. The centre of the building on the ground floor looked as if it was about to fall in on itself, so I was quick to fell it with the next shell. Five forty three. All that was left of it was the bottom right hand corner of the building. It was in fact no more than a large pile of rubble that seemed to be attempting to remain standing but was nevertheless collapsing in on itself. Without hesitation I fired the sixth shell in to it.

  And the building was gone.

  Smoke and dust filled the air, but apart from that everywhere else was quiet. The industrial estate was too remote for witnesses and so I quietly and calmly placed the rocket launcher back in to the boot, and closing it got back in the car. I started the engine and looked at the clock on the dashboard display. Five forty five. Blinking. Five forty five.

  Five forty five. The numbers flashed red. There was a loud buzzing in my ears. I was hot. I closed and opened my eyes but still the loud noise screamed at me. Five forty five. Still the numbers continued to flash.

  Rolling over so I could reach I turned the alarm clock off and lay still in bed.

  Slowly I began to laugh to myself. Jesus! That dream had been realistic! It had almost been as if I had been there! I paused and rubbed imaginary smoke from my eyes. I was still hot. Time for a shower. I kicked the covers off and put my feet on the floor. Reaching for my dressing gown I made my way out of the bedroom, heading for the shower. I was however very careful not to disturb the CSA1 ILAW portable rocket launcher that was propped up ready for use on the landing, the six shells placed carefully around it.

  It was going to be a really good day at the office.

  A Place in the Clouds.

  “Gathering In the Strings”

  Part One: Everyone’s a Critic.

  The removal truck arrived at the Marion Hayrick retirement home at precisely the same time as the hearse from Arthur Prendergast’s funeral directors (motto: “death with dignity, interment with interest: easy pay plans available”), the two vehicles jostling in an undignified manner in the small car park outside the home, in what seemed to be a vain attempt to get as near to the front doors as each one of them possibly could. From these double sized doors (wheelchair ramp carefully placed off to one side, large canopy covering the first six feet of the outside of the building), a small reception area could just be seen. Jumping down from the removal wagon as it and the hearse continued to attempt to outmanoeuvre each other, a large, swarthy looking man entered reception, followed by one of the occupants of the hearse in close pursuit, his dark, well-pressed suit contrasting starkly with the removal man’s slightly dusty and well-worn overalls.

  Noting the open plan common room off to the left, the men approached the reception desk and began a loud, three way argument with the receptionist behind the counter who wore a white, vaguely medical uniform, and a rapidly growing crimson complexion. In one corner of the common room just off to one side where the doors of two wide lifts were firmly closed, two old ladies sat, quietly watching the television, which was currently playing, “Cash in the Attic” at an extremely low volume. The lack of volume could be easily confirmed by what appeared to be continual adjustments being made to hearing aids by the two women as they attempted to hear the television. One of them stood up to look out of the window, which overlooked a large garden that more or less surrounded the home.

  “Windy, isn’t it?” she said, adjusting her hearing aid once again. The other lady looked at her in disgust and tutted.

  “It’s not bloody Wednesday!” she shouted, “Its Thursday! What are you saying it's Wednesday for? Bloody touched you are!” The other old lady sniffed and made to take up the argument. Her answer however, became irrelevant as from outside the sound of an ice cream vans musical bells could be heard. It grew slightly louder and then the van turned into the car park of the home, before coming to a sudden stop at the sight of the hearse and the removal van still jockeying for a position near to the door. The music from the van rang loudly through the air. There was a vague rumbling from somewhere upstairs and both of the lifts began to move upwards almost simultaneously.

  At the reception desk the woman behind the counter was becoming increasingly agitated. A large white and green trimmed badge on her overall read, “My name is Wilma.” and below that in a slightly smaller typeface, “Happy to help.” Wilma however didn’t seem very happy to help at all.

  “I don’t care what time you were told.” she was saying to the removal man. “You weren’t meant to be here for another hour yet. This man has come to collect poor Mr Jones.” The funeral director nodded solemnly, and the removal van man simply glowered back at her, before repeating something unintelligible under his voice. “Don’t you mutter at me!” she said as the removal man continued to glower at her. “I’ll put a spell on you if you carry
on like that. See if I don’t.” Both the funeral director and the removal man took a step back just as the first lift door opened and about ten old people fell out of it into the reception area. It looked almost like a stampede, only in slow motion and with various assorted walking sticks and Zimmer frames. The crowd had only just exited the lift when the doors on it shut and it shot back upwards again just as the second lift arrived, spilling even more old people into the reception area. All elbows and walking sticks, the rapidly growing crowd of residents began to trample their way towards the doors that led out to the car park and the ice cream van, the driver of which was already standing at the serving hatch rubbing his hands, grinning madly.

  Both the funeral director and the removal man stood back to avoid being pushed out of the way as the mob passed them. Behind the desk Wilma continued to glower at the two men whilst also muttering what sounded like Latin under her breath. It was difficult to imagine what the two men looked more scared of: Wilma, who clearly thought that she was some kind of a witch, or the mob of old people descending on the ice cream van. At that point the first lift hit the ground floor again and even more old people appeared. From the back of them one of them shouted, “Save a flake for me, Eric! If he sells out again someone’s going to get their arse kicked for holding up the bloody lift!”

  The removal driver decided to make a hasty exit and apologising more than was perhaps slightly necessary, headed back to his van to wait for an hour before emptying the van. Wilma looked extremely pleased with herself and put a previously hidden from view voodoo doll down, replacing the long, evil looking pin back in her oddly back combed hair.

  “Mr Jones is on the first floor. Flat 9.” She said. “The doctor is up there waiting for you.” She smiled sweetly and the funeral director backed slowly away from the counter and made to exit the building. Negotiating what by now looked like a mini riot in front of the ice cream van, he returned to the long elegant vehicle, noticing that the removal van and hearse had now more or less decided on a stand-off on the left hand side of the car park, the two vehicles parked facing each other almost as if each of them was glowering at the other one.