Result (Ch1)

It had been three weeks now. Paul opened his wallet for what must have been the hundredth time that day, pulled out the small slip of paper and thumbed it gently. Maybe if he continued this with this compulsion he would never have to make the decision. He would have worn away the clear black ink and would be left with nothing but a guilty memory, a ruined possibility of a changed life, a black thumb and a void lottery ticket.
He closed his eyes, opened the shabby nylon pouch, replaced his dog eared promise of millions, and used his dirty index finger nail to drag what was left of the broken zip to a close once more.
Paul walked to the bin and turned his plate on its side depositing the pieces of barely nibbled toast within without taking a look. He stood with his foot on the pedal gormlessly starring into space. His hand on his back pocket holding the firm square shape that rested on his buttock, once again assessing his fortunes. But it didn’t feel like that. He didn’t feel fortunate, he just felt torn… torn. He removed the ticket once more, his foot still held the bin open. Holding the ticket in both hands between each forefinger and thumb he began to pull his hands apart. It resisted, or he did. He turned and walked out of the kitchen; the sound of the bin lid closing and echoing in the kitchen behind him walked into the front room lifted the seat cushion on the couch. He positioned the piece of paper on the couch replaced the cushion and strode purposefully out of the house.
He walked down the garden path and pushed against the jammed gate with his hip and then pushed again harder, it flung open and he strode purposefully down the street at a pace, stepping over a mound of dog muck and flicking a coke can to one side with his foot. He wouldn’t have to get the bus if he cashed that ticket, he wouldn’t have to even go to work. He winced at the amount of times he’d conversed about being rich in the pub with his friends. Arguing and with them correcting them about what would be best to buy first, how many holiday homes he’d have, the cars and the endless features of his millionaires pad.
The thing he’d do he’d tell his disinterested mated would be to not bother turning up to work, and when they rang him to find out why he was absent, telling them “No I won’t be coming in today or ever. I’m hung over because I drank so much champagne in the pub after I won the lottery last night.” No, even better he would turn up to work, but he’d go and get a tailored suit and buy the most expensive car from the lot on the corner and turn up in style to quit, or he’d drive the car straight through the glass double doors of the shop front. Then he would resign himself to the fact that he was lazy, and knew it, so there would be no way that he would get up to go to work.
He didn’t have this problem the day after his win. There was no sleeping in and getting drunk, because there wasn’t any sleep, or expensive booze. Initially after checking the results on his phone when he got in from the pub, he was elated, he screamed and jumped around with a can of lager drenching his mother’s carpet. But when it came to tell anyone about the win he had resisted. He didn’t know why at first but as he lay in his bed open eyed all night contemplating it began to become clear why he had been so reserved. Change.
As he walked to the bus stop to commute to his dead end job he considered the fact that he’d had the opportunity to change his life once before. He’d attended one of the best Universities in the country, was training for his dream job, he had everything that he thought he wanted but just felt... depressed.
He missed his friends from school, he missed his hometown, and he missed his local. These were the things that were his life, and consequently had destroyed the possibility of the life he wanted.
After a month at Oxford he still felt like an outsider, he despised the self-righteous toffs who flounced around spending daddies money. He despised them and envied them, envied the fact that he could never truly be one of them and fit in. And he hated himself for wanting to.
After six months he returned home. He told his friends that it was just too hard and he’d failed the units. In truth the academic aspects of being at Oxford were the only things he hadn’t failed at. When he received his A level results his friends were clearly impressed, and jealous of where he was going. When he received his prospectus detailing the University rules including that as an undergraduate he would not be able to play on the lawns during the morning on weekdays. He had no intention of ever playing croquet… until he read this. His friends thought this was hilarious.
When he came home things didn’t return to normal, to what he wanted. His mum was clearly disappointed in him, although she’d never say so, and most of his friends were enjoying themselves at university. They hadn’t received the massive culture shock that he had. They’d tell him of the wild antics and escapades they were involved in during the many phone calls he made to them. He’d lie and tell them similar stories; he didn’t know why, why he couldn’t just tell them he was having a terrible time. He missed them. He was homesick. He supposed they’d think him boring, and that he should be embracing being free from his parents like they were. He’d visited them and had had a great time going to the local clubs with them. He’d drank until he was sick, taken drugs, woken up in foreign exchange students dorms and had thought it was amazing. Why had he not felt he could do this whilst he was at University? The price for one thing, but that wasn’t an absolute excuse. He had amounted huge debts. The price of his accommodation alone was astronomical, and then there were the computer games guitars, DVDs and beer he’d bought to try and fill his time and keep the feelings of angst and solitude at bay.
These things made his journey to work seem more pointless he’d maxed out two credit cards on top of all his other debts. He earned little over minimum wage now, and money he had left over after his repayments had been sprayed over the porcelain at the King George.
Paul worked at a sports shop, the type of place that looked like a factory, a huge shop floor with rails of clothes, and trainers in diagonal rows on the walls. Underneath was a gym. As an employee he had free membership, but he never took advantage of this. It had originally been part of the reason he’d applied for the job, it was just a stopgap whilst he decided what to do next, and why not get into shape whilst he was at it. That was six years ago, and now he was deeper in debt than ever.
The bus stop was full of kids as it was every morning. They wore the uniform he’d worn eight years ago, and rode the bus he rode. A slap in the face every morning, a reminder that in those eight years he’d acquired nothing, and amounted to the same.
The teenagers were laughing and pointing at a tramp in the bushes behind the bus stop. Paul nostrils flared as he caught the putrid stink of him on the wind. He’d clearly pissed himself. He had the dregs of a crumpled, empty bottle of cider in his hand and had fallen asleep supping it.
The man could’ve only been a few years older than him. The dirty, unshaven face gave the illusion he was older, but looking carefully the truth was evident.
A globule of phlegm landed on the broad sheets used as bedding by the vagrant. Paul looked across to the boy who’d regurgitated it his guffawing mates slapping him on the back.

The bus pulled up and hissed as it stopped. The schools kids pushed on as the doors opened. A couple of girls appeared from behind the bus stop, one of them stubbed the cigarette they’d shared out on a lamp post and flicked it under the bus as she passed him. Paul meandered through the folded door dragging his feet as he stepped aboard. He looked down the isle at the throng of today’s clientele. A few stared back at him. He turned to pay the driver; he’d not bought a pass that month again. There were no seats so he reached for a loop, scanned the recognizable faces of his companions again, and stared out of the window. He couldn’t stand to look at the faces of the other passengers today. He felt he knew them, he’d analyzed them and speculated where they were going, what their job was, who they were. One thing he did know was that none of them wanted to be on the bus.