Pigeon Variations - Ch 26 - Royal Mailing It

(Long Chapter -- 2584 words)

The pub Helen had told him to meet in after work was called The Apple Yard. It was close to the station. Pyser was running late. He had to jog up the hill. It was no fun. He was gasping for breath.

Fat twat. Piling on the pounds from boozing. He could feel his man boobs and belly wobbling.

The place was deserted, except for a barman reading a copy of The Racing Post.

“Pint of cider,” he said, still out of breath.

The barman poured without making conversation. Pyser paid and went and sat at a table. She should have been here. He sipped his pint and realised there was a basement section. That’ll be it. He went down the steep wooden stairs and saw six empty tables. He walked back up. Checked his phone. I’m here, he texted.

He swallowed the cider, half-hoping she’d walk through the doors. Imagining the sight of her. He let a couple of long minutes go by and looked at his phone, saw she’d been online, read his message and not fucking replied. Gutted. “She’s done me,” he said to the phone.

Looking around at The Apple Yard, it suddenly made sense. Helen was never coming here. Not a hovel like this. He realised it was a wind up. A little joke between her Royal Poshness and her Housing Officer chums.

“Fair play,” he muttered, finishing the pint.

He walked back to Kelly’s place. It was windy and about to rain.

She’d made pasta carbonara.

It was alright too. 

 

***

At work the next day, Helen acted like there was nothing to apologise for. “I need these files,” she said, “they’re pretty urgent.”

Pyser chickened out of asking her why she didn’t turn up. There was something about her confidence and manner that intimidated him. Probably her private school education and the miles clocked up riding all those ponies. He took the printed list from her. “Sure,” he said, slotting in his earphones and pushing his trolley. He felt the other Housing Officers looking at him, smirking behind his back. They were lucky he was so hungover, otherwise they would have got a pasting.

There had apparently been some kind of Government bill passed in cunty parliament that meant people transitioning would no longer be eligible for housing benefits. The word among the HOs was that it was going to result in the poorest and most vulnerable people losing their accommodation and living rough on the streets. “It’s an appalling decision,” said Mr Green. “We’re going backwards as a society. Returning to Victorian levels of poverty and destitution.” The man seemed genuinely upset. It was unusual for a boss. Almost unnerving. Like he gave a shit.

Pyser had issues of his own. He was obsessed with Helen. Fixated on her. He could see her face in his morning cup of tea. Feel her presence etched into the sunlight. Hear her voice in the sounds of the ocean. Smell her perfume in the exhaust fumes of Churchill Square.

He wanted that date.         

 

***

Desperate times call for desperate measures. Pyser told the woman who managed the phones, Sarah Lockhart, that he'd like to apply for a job on the phones. It’d impress Helen. Win her over. Make her see him a different light.

“I’m pleased you’ve shown interest in the vacancy,” she said, “we’ve noticed how popular you are – people really like you.”

“They do?”

She handed him the form, explaining what he had to do and how the process worked. “In the last section, read the questions carefully as you have to answer each part and provide clear examples.”

“No probs,” he replied, immediately forgetting what she’d told him. Memory like a sieve.  

He looked at the application form. It terrified him. Immediately put him off. It brought back the shame of the Royal Mail fiasco. That sensation of worthlessness. Failure. Knowing he was as thick as pig shit… Nothing going on between these ears… Back home, he put the form in his underwear drawer and it sat there for one week. Then two. Staring back at him whenever he remembered to put on a new pair of boxers. Feeling the shame of knowing he didn’t make the grade.

It was a Friday afternoon when Sarah asked him to come to her desk. “I’m yet to receive your application,” she said.

“I’ve nearly finished – it’ll be handed in, I promise.”

“The deadline is 9:00am on Monday.”

“I know, I know.”

They both understood he hadn’t touched the form. It was payday and he went out with Kelly that night and got blitzed in a pub and then went clubbing on some fucking brilliant pills. He spunked up a fortune. Doesn't matter. Not like he was paying rent or anything. Saturday was a hangover day. Feeling sorry for themselves. Drinking off a hangover and ordering pizza, garlic bread and chunky fries. Watching Taxi Driver. Making bullshit vows to each other to get healthy, to go to mindfulness classes. Quitting booze.

“That’s the last time I get that mashed,” said Kelly.    

“And the rest.”

“No, I’m serious,” she said, “I never want to feel this awful again.”

It was Sunday evening when he sat down at the kitchen table to fill in the form. He didn’t want the fucking job. Stuff it up your arse. Happy enough filing. Left alone. When you’re invisible, you’re free to do whatever you want.

Please give three different examples of where you have helped a customer in a difficult situation.

All the dumb questions.

Pyser went to the fridge and opened a can of lager.

What does that even mean?

A difficult situation.

Telling someone which aisle to go to in a supermarket? What time breakfast is served in a hotel? Putting elitist Tory cunts in their place in restaurants? It’s not like he worked in a fucking care home. Like he did anything useful.  

A feeling of panic came over him. This was the problem in a nutshell. It was why it was impossible to break the vicious fucking circle of crap jobs. He didn’t have the fucking password to progress. To reach the other side. Members only. They knew it too. It was rigged. A waste of time. Didn’t want the fucking position anyway.

But still.

What if? What fucking if? It’d be a relief to finally have something that resembled a half-decent job with sick pay, holidays. A fucking pension. What the fuck is a pension? Dole money for old people. Very cosy. Not that he was going to grow old. Jenny said that enough times. You’ll be dead by the time you’re 30. Other girls too. Dead in a mass grave for paupers. But what if it turned out he was fucking desperate for a proper job? To have a bit of stability. To put a stop to the drama and fucking drifting and backsliding. What if, deep down, he wanted those things but he knew that he fell too far fucking short of what’s required to ever have some of it for himself? Access denied. Too fucking right it is. 

Royal Mailing it left, right and centre.

Better to tell yourself you don’t want these things anyway. Fuck it. He realised tears were dribbling down his face. It was probably more to do with the immense drug come down than anything else. He’d found himself crying earlier as he watched Apollo 13 on the sofa with Kelly.

“Are you blubbing?”

“Fuck off.”

“You are,” she said, laughing.

The sparrow was perched on the fridge in the kitchen. Lucky fucker. Being human was a pain in the arse, especially in this shit-show of a life. Pyser raised a finger and the bird flew onto it and chirped. “The sooner I’m like you, the better. I don’t belong here, my friend – you know it and I know it. Look at us now, I used to think you were a twat as a man, but now we’re like best mates. Brothers.”

It was Roland’s chirping that suddenly changed Pyser’s mood. He felt positive. Upbeat. Birds had the power to do that to you. Flowers too. Sunshine and the sea. It’s why he liked Brighton. It was the full nature package. And he did have examples of sorting customers out. Definitely. They’d slipped his mind. It was ‘cos he’d lost his confidence. Done a bottle job. He placed Roland back on top of the fridge and took up a seat at the round plastic table. He had a red pen.

The form said ‘black pen only’ but ink’s fucking ink.

Doesn’t matter.

 

1. ANSWER

I had a part-time job in a supermarket when I was at secondary school. This was before I got expelled (not my fault btw). It was a Saturday afternoon and a man came up to me in the aisle I was in and told me he wanted cardboard boxes. I laughed and says, ‘We don’t have any boxes.’ He didn’t like that and says, ‘But you must do.’ I was like, ‘Alright, mate, I’ll check.’ I thought he was a nutter. Who goes shopping for boxes? I went to the manager, Mr Hatcher, and said, ‘There’s this geezer who wants boxes. I told him we don’t have any.’ Mr Hatcher rolled his eyes, saying the customer probably wanted them for moving home and then added that the warehouse was full of empty boxes. I went back to the customer and apologised for my ‘brain freeze’ and I went and got him the cardboard boxes he wanted. He was very grateful.

 

2. ANSWER

One of the guests in a hotel I worked in had slit his wrists in the bathroom. He had survived but the bathroom was a right state. The room had been booked and the new guests were arriving for two in the afternoon and we didn’t have any other rooms available. My boss, Isabelle, told me I had to get the bathroom clean before they arrived otherwise there would be big trouble. It was an extremely hard job as there was claret everywhere – on the tiles, shower curtain, behind the toilet and even in the grooves of the screws of the mirror and toothbrush holder. It was an extremely tough job but when Isabelle saw the bathroom she was very happy with me and told me I had done a good job.

 

Coming up with a third example was a complete bastard. Pyser paced the kitchen, drinking lager. He very nearly wrote about serving bowls of stir-fry at the restaurant. How customers complimented his cookery skills. The thing was, if you lived in Brighton and had eaten there, you’d know full well the food’s complete shit and the restaurant was one of those overpriced novelty cons.

And then it came to him.

 

3. ANSWER

I have lots of examples of great customer service but I would like to say I am also a dedicated employee. I was stacking shelves at this supermarket when I heard shouting. As I ran across to the tills, the shouts turned to an awful scream. I thought someone was transitioning into a bird. It was then that I saw an elderly man sitting on the floor, biting the testicles of our security guard, Barry, who was a Falkland’s veteran. A huge crowd of people stood and watched. They’d never seen a man lock-jawed onto another man’s testicles before. I pushed through and punched the customer in the side of the head. Packs of Super Noodles flew out of his flasher’s mac. Afterwards, Barry was incredibly grateful and when the Old Bill arrived, they thanked me too. It was the only time I’ve ever felt proper special. 

 

***

The second Pyser clocked Sarah’s expression, he knew it was game over.

“I’m afraid I can’t give you an interview based on your application,” she said.

“That’s fine, no worries,” he said, chirpily. “Thanks for letting me apply anyhow.”

“You can try again when there’s another vacancy.”

“I’ll do that,” he said, loading his trolley with files.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Are you dyslexic?”

He laughed. “No, of course not, why?”

A few awkward seconds went by. “No reason. If you’d like more feedback, let me know,” she said, smiling in a friendly way that chilled him to the bone. She walked off, wearing her combats, vest top and arty velvet jacket. The rumour was that she had left her husband of twenty years and was living with another woman.

Pyser slotted in his earphones. Pushed the trolley. Wanting to vomit. Hating every inch of himself. So stupid. Filling in the form when pissed. Leaving everything to the last minute. Giving himself fuck-all chance. He walked between the desks of the HOs. They knew he had tanked the application. Pyser sensed it in how they wouldn’t look up at him or make conversation. None of the usual banter. Deathly silence. Helen was on annual leave. Thank fuck. He wanted to reach the safety and seclusion of the filing cabinets. He could hide himself among the high shelves and digest the shame. Idiot camouflage. What the fuck? At his age. What had he been doing all these years?

And the dyslexic comment. Fuck off. He should have checked the form. Written it out on a lined sheet of A4 first, not straight onto the paper. Doing it pissed up on a terrible hangover. What a nightmare. Talk about shooting yourself in the foot.

“Sorry to hear about the phones.”

It was Ewan and his unbelievably hot, airhead girlfriend. “It’s a shame,” she said.

Word got around fast.

“I’m not bothered,” he said. “I probably shouldn’t have rushed it but there you go. I was thinking of heading back to London anyway.”

“Did you split up with your girlfriend?” the airhead said.

“Nope.”

Pyser realised they were pleased as punch with themselves. They were itching to tell him something. He guessed what it was too. “I take it you got on the phones?”

They broke into wide grins. “Yep,” said Ewan.

The girl squealed with excitement, clapping her hands. “We told the agency already and we can start full-time next week.”

“You got it too?”

“I did,” she said.

“Congratulations.”

“Cheers, mate,” said Ewan. “This is my second attempt. Like you, I didn’t get it first time. Well, I got the interview at least, but do definitely try again.”

The girl said, “It’s my first go.”

Ewan cut her a look and she calmed herself.

“I’ll be going back to London,” said Pyser, feeling his cheeks go red. “I think I’m finished with Brighton. At the end of the day, it’s a bit of a shithole really – full of wankers. No offence.”

“None taken,” said Ewan.

“Right, I need to take a massive dump.” 

Ewan and the girl laughed.

As Pyser walked off, he heard Ewan say, “The toilets are over this way.”

Keep on walking. One leg in front of the other. Coat from the coat rack. Through the security door. Pass at the ready. An airhead’s brighter than me. Fuck off. Everyone’s fucking smarter. Better. Going somewhere. Doing something with their lives.

Everybody can fuck off.

Had it up to here with their fucking bullshit.

Right’on, Brighton, you can go fuck yourself too.

Back to the shit and venom of London it is then.

Doesn't matter.