Stroud

Stroud lies secluded from the surrounding sections, its upper air like a false floor of leaves that tricks visitors into falling through. Stroud is where I’m settling down for the foreseeable weeks, there’s a seasoning of bohemia and light headedness throughout the town – the light headedness brought on by the aerobic exercise created by the hills that lead up and around the centre.

Precisely, I’m in a Costa coffee shop half the way up the high street. It’s one of those occasions where an early morning means that I have to settle for a chain venue. Big bucks, early opening. I’m up early, not because of my big bucks, but because of my insatiable need for non-sleep. I cannot sleep, will not, but I will caffeinate. The lone female ‘Barista’ – ‘Barista’ with the full ‘riZZta’ of the Stroud accent – offered to warm up the croissant that I ordered, and I accepted. The French treat is now waiting before me, griddle marked like a Buger King Whopper. I’m not sure the look works. But, the jam’s OK and the butter is butter. The Americano with cold milk swims with my hit and I take it in long gulps. Stroud is a dead town this early.

The ‘BariZZta’ is, in fact, more than a ‘BariZZta’, she’s a manageress. Doing a good job, climbing the ladder. She’s attractive, but it’s the strange ‘you will do this overtime’ appeal that young managers can occasionally carry. She carries it well, ,one of the best I’ve seen. Her apron is the fireplace surround for her behind, a behind made firm by stress-clenching over broken coffee grinders and a boyfriend who’s failed the concluding exam in his plumbing apprenticeship. She looks over at me; probably admiring the grill stains on my pastry. Or perhaps considering the wankstain boyfriend that she fucked for the first time the night she got promoted. Surely that was the time for a one-night stand. But Stroud was a little small, and he had a conscientious attitude initially, to everything.

She’ll see him tonight, buy him a drink and believe that he will give a different apprenticeship a better shot next year. Or, she might give her brother’s unemployment a guilt-trip shine and deliver it to Stan’s purpling cheeks with a ‘Fuck you Stan, Paul can’t even get anything, not even an apprenticeship and you’re throwing this away. Even though we’re saving.’ But she probably won’t, she’ll suck him off lackadaisically, if only because she hasn’t got a penis herself. She’d just suck herself off and let him watch if that was the case. That would be superior.

I know Paul, although I don’t know he’s a long-term-let-down for the ‘BariZZta’ with the customer service eyes and mature pigtails. Paul is my Stroud minion. He failed his apprenticeship exams because he was on look out duty whilst I was doing some burying. Casual burying, but still sensitive enough that I needed to know whether or not anybody was midnight dog walking in my direction. Paul was faithful. I paid him PS3 games and Blu-Ray DVDs. ‘BariZZta’ thought he was nicking them. He thought it would be a good idea to let her think he was stealing them – he passes my minion exams for that quick thought.

Paul is attentive and conscientious, when he’s stimulated. The excitement of WOW-look-out duty makes him Stephen Hawking, but the blah-blah of text books makes him Fred West, not the killing, just the stupidity.

The ‘BariZZta’ is still working alone. Another happy customer says ‘Thank you’ like ‘Fan queue’. Perhaps they were discussing a queue for tickets to see Kings of Leon and I misheard, but it had the tone of a grateful response.

The ‘Fan queues’ diminish, as the customer base becomes Sixth Form dominated. The Espressos and Mochas are their Orange County moments, and to a degree, they deserve them. A-Stars are now standard at A-Level, another level attainment deserves an Orange County moment, plus, their parents hope they won’t start drinking until they’re 21.

Delia is already pissed. She’s seventeen. Her drunkenness is well disguised; she’s never been without it. Her mother still breast-feeds her, and Delia Sr is a career alcoholic. Every morning, Delia gets a human milk White Russian. Her mother hasn’t seen The Big Lebowski, so the sole element of cool in the late teen teet fiasco of Delia’s life is barely recognised. Despite the breast-feeding. Delia rules the situation. She has done since she got full marks in an AS-Level exam where she farted in the direction of an invigilator. Loudly. She orders an espresso and dashes off, slender legs that probably don’t even touch at the very top, switching in a hot walk. Again, I know her. Paul will not shut the fuck up about Delia Devistar. He’s convinced that her legs do meet at the top, and that he can open up this meeting. He can’t, she’s a member of the burgeoning abstinence youth movement that has moved from Middle America to the West Midlands.

After Delia left, a man entered and entered into awkward conversation with the ‘BariZZta’. He was shouting about the presence of a famous antiques television show in the town several weeks previous. She nodded and knew he wasn’t chatting her up. He was moustached, glassed and anorak-ed.

I haven’t spent a morning in Costa for two weeks now. I’ve actually been sleeping. Mainly to prepare for my birthday party. My seventeenth was shit, so the eighteenth had to go somewhere. Paul was the only person I knew, and I instructed him to invite approximately 100 people. If 75 turned up he would receive Batman Begins and The Dark Knight on Blu-Ray.

105 arrived. I gave him Batman Forever as a bonus. Delia and ‘BariZZta’ were amongst the guests. Delia was drinking Black Russians. ‘BariZZta’ was pouring the coffee liqueurs like she couldn’t get Costa out of her system. Paul was pouring tequila down my neck. He was even more attentive when it came to drinking. My three-storey house began to shake to The Dirty Projectors. I shouted in an open letter format:
‘This is more Orange County than Espressos and Mochas!’ Suddenly, ‘BariZZta’ had nestled up to Paul, but she turned and whispered to me, seeking to ensure that I realised that she was using Paul’s inner thigh as a replica of mine. Her lips separated and sound protruded more clearly.
‘Too fucking right Sarah. Yes! Shit – where’s the toilet?’
‘Up stairs on the left.’ She was now using Paul’s crotch as a replica of mine.
‘Thanks.’ She dashed, skirt showing off legs nearly as slender as Delia. These pins definitely met at the top.

Paul took rape very seriously. Delia took self-defence and self-reliance very seriously. The back bedroom was in a state. It was basically a draw. He got a hand near her vulva. She had got a strangle hold on his dangling scrotum. One all, full time. They laughed. Rape wasn’t serious in Stroud. All the rapists were weedy, and all the girls could handle themselves. As I said, Paul only has the stupidity of Fred West.

‘BariZZta’ was in the toilet. Wishing that she’d brought some chocolate covered coffee beans to stick in her nostrils. It reminded her of work and focused her. Her plans for the evening, casual lesbian flirty to turn Paul on had failed. He’d disappeared. She was beginning to consider dropping fifty percent of the lackadaisical sections of her lovemaking. But, she couldn’t stop that low. Especially when Paul was burning up his apprenticeship.

She raided my kitchen and found coffee beans. No chocolate covering, but they were good enough for her nasal passage. She shoved them in. I was the first person to notice the beans – shortly after, she kissed me. I pushed her away, she was hot, ‘You’re late again’ hot, but she couldn’t get me pregnant.

My seventeenth was poor, because I didn’t get pregnant. On my fourteenth, fifteenth and sixteenth birthdays, I’d found a good donor. Steve Stirx, Ian Bladcock and Gianni Smith respectively. On my seventeenth, Robert Barracks had come up blank.
‘Have you got a condom?’
‘No Paul.’
‘I have, just saving ‘em innit.’
‘We don’t need one anyway, I’m on the Pill.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘Yes Paul, every year, on my birthday, since my fourteenth, I’ve intentionally sort out a male, lied about being on the Pill, and got pregnant. Once pregnant, I’ve waited as long as legally possible before having a termination. I love the squirm. This year I’m hoping for a miscarriage. That could be even better than a termination. This year, if the miscarriage fails, I might go beyond the legal limit and get a back streeter.’
‘I believe you Sarah.’ He really is Fred West stupid.
‘Come on then.’

The party’s over. I hope to feel the tiny, tiny prick of my ovum being penetrated by some exam-failing sperm. Over skimmed-milk cornflakes I’m convinced I feel the sensation. It’s bigger, and better than sex. This moment. I convulse in short sudden spurts, this is the only way I come, sperm into ovum.

Five weeks later, it plops into the toilet. I walk downstairs and prepare to go to the hospital. Before I leave, I order the entire James Bond back catalogue on Blu-Ray for Paul. He really is Fred West stupid.