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Short Stories Miscellaneous Stories Trolleys
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Trolleys |
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| Written by Laura Valentine | |
| Sunday, 23 March 2008 | |
| Last Updated ( Sunday, 23 March 2008 ) |
Trolleys
I am a supermarket trolley attendant at the local Asda. Come rain or shine I am out there, gathering stray trolleys and dressed in a regulation green polo shirt and fluorescent yellow jacket, royally sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the hoards of customers, yet they are too busy rushing back to their cars with handfuls of shopping.
When it rains hard, it makes my painstakingly gelled fringe stick to my forehead and makes it look greasy, and to add insult to injury, it drenches my uniform, making me look sweaty. I have been plagued with oily skin during these teenage years and the rain just makes me look ten times worse, like I have been dunked in a big vat of boiling fat. I have never been confident with girls. Who would look twice at a slimy, sodden trolley rat the colour of vomit green?
It is raining right now and already I am soaked through. These clothes will have to be washed before my shift tomorrow evening, 6 pm til 12 am, but I can't work our new washing machine and I feel awkward asking Mum. She always seems to be sick and sometimes I get worried about leaving her in the house each day, but still, she has her animals to keep her company on those long days when I am working. She has kept animals ever since I have been old enough to remember the stale smell of damp dog that lingers in the worn carpets. It mingles with the sprinklings of cigarette ash. That feted scent that is home. Our family is made up of us, ten moggy cats, two ferrets, one Jack Russell, and one temperamental Python. The python is the worst to feed. Cartons of frozen mice contaminate our chest freezer; it is not right having rodent corpses alongside your food. I cannot stand touching them, with their beady eyes in frozen orbs, not even with protective gloves. All in all, it is like having a zoo in your own home, if a bit on the cramped side. It is my sole responsibility to pay for their upkeep, as Mum's unable to work. Most days she will spend hours spread out on the sofa, wrapped in a duvet, watching her daily fix of The Jeremy Kyle Show, with the painkillers on standby.
On pay days, she asks, "How much did they pay you this month?" and look at me expectantly, hopefully. I would love to be able to have all of my well deserved pay packet to myself, but Mum and her pets collectively take a good chunk out of it. At times I cannot help but feel resentful towards them all. But then I recall how Mum was slumped forwards in that hard plastic chair in the waiting room, her eyes almost vacant and her pale fingers absentmindedly twiddling the gold locket around her neck, the one that she always wears. That is when the guilt swarms my body and angrily gnaws away at any bitterness I happen to feel.
At least shepherding trolleys gives me a break from the animals. All they do is pollute the air with noise when I'm in the kitchen, or in my room, my sanctuary, where I sit up and build a new Bomber, which I hang up on my ceiling of peeling pale blue paint. The previous aircraft I made was a grey Tornado. It took me a good week to create, all the long hours I spent meticulously gluing it together and filling in each small detail with a fine paintbrush, and with the aid of a magnifying glass. But my long hours of loving labour didn't close that open window, or stop that strong gust of wind from making the Tornado fall and crash to the floor, disintegrating into unsalvageable pieces. My only souvenir is the propeller, which I keep safe and in pride of place on my bookshelf.
I have always been under confident with girls, like I said. On Saturday nights I go with the boys to the arcade or hang around the field surrounding the community centre. But even when I'm with them, I still feel I can't approach any girls. Why would they? Other lads have cars, better themselves at college and have trendy funked up hairstyles. I have Airfix kits and a soiled Marilyn Monroe wig. What is left of my money every month, after cans of Whiskas and housekeeping, I take to the model shop on the parade, and buy a new kit. Bombers, Spitfires, Harriers... All add to the ever growing air raid above my head. One of my goals had been to buy the complete set of the Red Arrows, but my savings were setback, after a forty quid vet bill to dislodge a splintered chicken bone from the cat's throat. The rasping sound of the cat coughing and seeing near death close up was a harrowing experience for us both. Another pair of fading green eyes looking longingly at me, I can never forget them. The Red Arrows took a backseat.
A dream growing up was to pilot real Airfix planes, just like he did in the R.A.F., before a training exercise and a faulty propeller took him away from his wife and six-year-old son.
Comments (6) |
 03-23-2008 08:23, That was a fantastic piece of writing. The tragic life of a boy with hopes and dreams on hold while he attends to the zoo at home, while building a memorial to his fallen dad. I felt as if I was in that stinking house too. » Reply to this comment...  03-23-2008 08:25, That last comment was from me..alfred. » Reply to this comment...  03-23-2008 08:35, wow... this was a good story. Very descriptive account of life at home. As a matter of fact, this was a GREAT story. » Reply to this comment...  03-23-2008 16:47, This was intriguing...had my attention to the end! Very good! » Reply to this comment...  03-24-2008 18:59, I was bored at first but became intrigued with the descriptions of his home life and relationship with his mother. » Reply to this comment...  03-28-2008 11:01, This is a good story..and a bit sad. » Reply to this comment... |
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