by J C Williams
He was struggling for breath and reached for a bottle of water in the chiller cabinet, taking several appreciative slugs.
“Why are you dressed like that, Jack? You look like someone that should be on a register,” said Emma, as she began to clean up the remnants of the potato.
“I ran to work!” replied Jack. “Well… when I say ran, I mean walked. Mostly walked.”
“If you walked, why do you look like that, a sweating mess?”
“I started off running, until I couldn’t breathe… which was about three hundred metres. Then I walked along the seafront until I saw a couple of girls I went to school with who were running. I didn’t want to look stupid, so I started running the last half mile.”
“You didn’t want to look stupid? You do realise what you’re wearing? Those shorts look like something from an eighties’ workout video, and do you think that t-shirt could be any tighter? And since when did you start running?”
Jack’s breathing had returned to normal as he collapsed into a chair. “I think I’ve put a bit of weight on, Emma. I’m supporting a little extra timber!”
Emma didn’t seem at all surprised by this revelation. “I’d say it’s more than a little, Jack.”
“What, you noticed? Why didn’t you say anything?” he said, with a pained expression.
“Jack, it’s pretty obvious. But, do a bit of running and you’ll get rid of it in no time.”
“You’re an old friend, Emma. You could have told me. I’d have told you if you’d put a few pounds on.”
“No you wouldn’t!” scoffed Emma. “Remember, you let me walk around here for an hour with my skirt tucked into my knickers!”
“The old boys loved it, that’s why! Besides, I told you about your moustache!” replied Jack.
“Wait… what? What moustache? You didn’t tell me about any moustache. I haven’t got a moustache!” she insisted.
Jack paused for a moment. “Well… I thought I did. Besides, it wasn’t me that noticed. It was Postman Pete.”
“You and bloody Pete have been talking about me having a moustache?”
“No! Well, not at first. It was your hairy forearms that got us onto the subject.”
Emma stomped towards the nearest mirror. “No wonder we’ve never got any customers. They’re probably afraid that you’ll eat them, or Chewbacca here will moult into their soup!”
The sound of sirens echoed through the street and Emma panicked that someone had witnessed her assault on Jack and called the police. She was relieved as an ambulance pulled up outside the locksmiths, further up the street. She moved to the front of the shop, under the guise of cleaning the tables.
“You nosey old trout!” shouted Jack from his seated position. “What’s going on?”
“One of them has gone in the shop and the other is talking to Postman Pete,” she replied, with her face all but pressed to the glass. “Crap… they’ve seen me!” said Emma, leaving a perfect imprint of her cheek as she withdrew.
Pete frowned at Emma as he walked in. “Caught you rubbernecking!”
“I was showing concern, that’s all!” she protested.
Pete had a deliberately stern look on his face, but Emma wasn’t biting. She ignored him which had an instant effect, as he shuffled impatiently, expecting a reaction. Pete was arguably the biggest drama queen in Douglas and Emma was convinced he fancied Jack. He was openly gay, and possibly the campest mailman in the entire postal service. He was an icon, one of those characters that you either knew or knew someone who knew him. He’d previously worked in the holiday camps, a theatrical type who would often ‘tread the boards’ — he was exceptionally busy when they were looking for the pantomime dame type cast. Nothing happened in the Isle of Man without Pete knowing about it, and his job as a postman was a perfect pretext to force an invite into people’s lives on a daily basis. Emma liked him; he was a ‘bitch’ of the highest order and his gossip was always of the finest calibre. She was slightly annoyed, however. If Pete had noticed her moustache, it would have now been relayed to the entire street.
“Well… what’s going on?” asked Emma, reluctantly.
“Ray’s had a funny turn again. He’s been in the shop all night.”
“Shit,” said Jack. “I saw him, just, sat there. I thought he was just drunk again. Poor sod.”
Ray’s family had run the locksmiths for generations. It was once a thriving business. Sadly, Ray had a penchant for red wine, spending most of his days in a drunken stupor. Jack would often look in on him, but in truth he was beyond hope. He was in his late sixties, well over twenty stone, and his liver must have been like a walnut.
Pete pulled a handful of envelopes out of his delivery bag — neatly encased in an elastic band — and handed them to Jack. Pete and Jack shared a knowing glance as the obvious red ink shone like a beacon through paper windows.
“Are you going to open them, Jack?” asked Emma.
Jack said nothing.
“Oh, give them here!” said Emma, ripping open the envelopes.
She looked at the letters, back towards Jack, and then onto the letters again. It was like a parent opening their child’s exam results. Jack hadn’t opened his post for weeks. The irony of scolding his grandfather for doing the exact same thing was not lost on him.
He looked sheepish, hoping Emma would soften the blow.
“Jaaack,” she said, in a drawn-out, forceful voice. “This isn’t pretty. We’re overdue on the rent, rates, and insurance. The good news, though, is that your gym membership is only going up by two pounds a month this year.”
Even Pete — the queen of gossip — was rueful. He loved Jack and Emma, and coming into the shop was a feature of his day. He’d be lost if the shop closed down.
“Aww,” groaned Jack. “I tried, but this place is dead. It’s those corporate shysters that keep opening up, they’re taking all the business.” He stared vacantly for a moment. “Hang on, what gym membership? I didn’t even know I was a member of a gym.”
“You could have fooled me!” remarked Emma. “We need to come up with something and quick, Jack!”
He sank his head in his hands. Pete took the opportunity to sit on the arm of his chair and place a friendly arm around his shoulder.
“Jack…” said Pete. “Those shorts are a little… neat. Are they not?”
Emma smiled, unsure if Pete was criticising or approving.
“On a positive note,” said Pete, jumping to his feet in his overly animated manner. “It looks like you’ve got new neighbours!”
“Let me guess,” said Jack. “Another coffee shop, to add to the seventeen already in town?”
“I don’t know,” replied Pete. “The windows are fogged out, but the lights are on and I could see people inside. It’s good for the street though, Jack. Another shop will bring more punters down this side of town.”
Emma scurried outside, followed closely by Pete. They fabricated a conversation as Emma gaped over his shoulder, searching for a clue. There was no sign of life, but she was delighted to see the lights on, in the unit that had been desolate for months.
Jack appeared a moment later, and made no effort to disguise his intentions. He walked straight over to the window and strained to see through the smeared glass, but it was useless. The missing sign above their shop now appeared more apparent with the unit next door illuminated.
“We need to get this place fixed up,” said Jack. “If this place goes tits-up, who’s going to employ us?”
“Speak for yourself!” said Emma. “Besides, we’ll be fine. We just need to come up with a plan to get some new customers in!”
She linked arms with Jack and burrowed her head into his shoulder. “Jack… you really need to go for a shower, you stink. Why don’t you go and use the ones in the gym that you’re paying for and never used!”
Jack laughed, forcing her head closer to his armpit. “Cheeky! Your skirt is tucked into your knickers, again! Oh, and Thomas Magnum called. He wants his moustach
e back!”
.
Chapter Two
I t was a little after six a.m. and already humid. Jack stood with his back against the sandstone-coloured wall of a large multi-storey car park. Sweat formed on his forehead despite his lack of movement. He felt a wave of apprehension as his foot started to tap in time to the dull beat radiating from the building opposite. A steady stream of people made their way energetically through the inconspicuous glass doors. His denim shorts were, by now, a distant memory. Much to Emma’s relief, they were currently to be found under the shop sink absorbing drops of water caused by an ageing washer.
His blue Slazenger t-shirt was a little more forgiving and his grey Adidas shorts were significantly more complimentary than his previous efforts. The blue suede Adidas Samba trainers, a throwback to his youth, were immaculate on their first outing. He smiled as he thought of being back at high school. A new pair of trainers was an invitation for every halfwit to stamp their mark onto your new purchase, white trainers being the principal target. He took one final look in his rucksack, taking a mental inventory: boxer shorts… check; shorts and shirt for work… check; deodorant… check; towel… check; socks… bugger!
A brief lull in the passing flow of people was his opportunity. He puffed out his cheeks and made his way up the narrow staircase — three flights in total. The heat inside was amplified, and with the effort from the steps, the sweat fell freely down his cheeks. He approached the large wooden desk and was greeted by a brute of a lad whose biceps were bigger than Jack’s legs.
He greeted Jack with a jolly smile. “You’re keen!” he said, acknowledging the pink cheeks and wet face. “Early morning run?”
Jack nodded his head in agreement. “Best way to start the day,” he replied, wiping the sweat which had now reached his neck.
“It’s been a little while since I last came,” said Jack, sheepishly. “I couldn’t seem to find my card.”
“Ah, no problem, I thought I didn’t recognise the face. What’s the name?”
“Jack Tate.”
The young Hercules stared intently at his screen. “I’ve got no Jack Tate listed. When were you last here?”
“Three months, maybe?” replied Jack, lying.
He took Jack’s details and deferred to his manual records in the office. Jack walked to the window to the left of the desk where a spin class was in full throw. A variety of body shapes of various ages sweated vigorously to the backdrop of neon lights, as a small, dark-haired lady shouted encouragement.
Several minutes elapsed and Jack was starting to get impatient.
“Sorry, Jack, but I can’t find a record for you?” he said, raising his hands in submission.
Jack was hot and getting frustrated. “I’ve been paying you thirty-seven pound, ninety-nine pence a month, for the last two years.”
Hercules could sense the frustration in the voice and seemed to instinctively increase his body mass like an agitated pufferfish. This didn’t go unnoticed by Jack, who took a more conciliatory approach. He reached for his mobile phone, opening his online banking application. He nodded his head slowly as the page loaded. “Ah, there… that’s it — thirty-seven pound, ninety-nine, Fitness Works.”
The young lad smiled and leaned back into his chair, placing both his hands on top of his head. Without speaking, he pointed a finger slowly towards the sign above his head.
Jack put his phone away as his cheeks flushed. “This isn’t Fitness Works, is it? I should probably just go.”
Feeling slightly dejected, the thought of staying fat was appealing. He’d made such a palaver about his ‘gym debut’ that Emma would destroy him if he gave up at the first hurdle. He pushed on and was soon on an exercise bike, in the correct gym, armed with a new membership card. It wasn’t the traditional bike but the one where you’re seated, with a backrest. The position you’d be in riding a pedal go-kart. His initial trepidation was eased as he reached the two-mile mark with relative ease. With contempt, he raised the level from one to fourteen, and the increased resistance was immediate. No pain, no gain, C’mon Jack.
He gripped the metal strip on the side handlebars and his heart rate flashed onto the screen: 162. It didn’t mean anything to him. He knew a heart rate of zero wasn’t a sign of optimum health, but other than that, he was clueless. The sleeves on his t-shirt were used to wipe his brow and were now sodden. Sweat appeared sporadically on his stomach and chest, gushing from his forehead. His glasses started to slide down his nose like driftwood on a violent river, so he removed them and placed them into the vacant cup holder. A combination of being short-sighted and sweat in his eyes rendered him all but blind as he stared vacantly. He could see the miles increasing at a very leisurely rate, but the rest was a blur. Unfortunately, in the area Jack had focussed his attention were two exceptionally attractive ladies completing floor exercises. One of them pointed the gawping Jack out to the other, but his gaze was unwavering. As they stood in their tight Lycra outfits, Jack rubbed his sweaty palms on his new Adidas shorts, much to the disgust of the girls, who were now walking towards him at pace.
“You big, dirty, sweaty perv!” shouted one of the girls.
“Loser!” shouted the other.
Jack was oblivious, and a little unsure where the venom was directed. He gave a contrite smile, but this was more out of sympathy than an admission of guilt.
The five-mile mark appeared majestically on the screen. Jack felt like Sir Edmund Hillary ascending Everest. As he stopped pedalling, he felt like a pioneer; he wouldn’t be surprised if the entire gym applauded in unison. He dried his face and replaced his glasses, but the gym was all but empty, apart from two women, talking to a male member of staff and pointing in his general direction. His euphoria was soon replaced with a stomach cramp. Unfortunately, the exercise and scrambled eggs were not good bedfellows, causing him to make a hasty retreat to the changing rooms, and he was that damp that he thought it may already have been too late.
There were only two stalls and one was taken. He wrestled the cord on his shorts — neatly tied in a double knot — with increasing anxiety. Sweat continued to run down his face which further hampered his vision. A wave of abject fear ran through him as the pains in his stomach intensified. He tried to pull his shorts in desperation, but every time he interfered with the knot, it tightened further. Jack threw the changing room door open and moved as fast as he could towards the reception desk. He walked in a strangely rhythmic manner as he clenched his buttocks in an attempt to delay the inevitable.
“Scissors,” said Jack. “Please, I need to borrow your scissors.”
The greying, mature receptionist smiled as she took her glasses from her head and sluggishly looked through the knee-high filing cabinet behind her. Jack shuffled with increasing intensity as he began to comprehend the reality of what may happen at any moment. She engaged Jack in small talk, but her words were lost on him. He leaned over the countertop and saw the scissors sat next to the computer monitor. He reached out with such velocity that the receptionist recoiled in fear. He attacked the waistband of his shorts in a series of stabbing motions. The fabric initially resisted, but with a bit of coaxing the shorts soon slackened. Such was the indiscriminate assault that Jack hadn’t notice the sharp blade had continued through the fabric. He slapped the scissors back on the desk and turned vigorously towards the changing rooms. As he moved, the remaining shards of fabric burst free, and the shorts fell towards his ankles, causing him to stumble. He fell to his knees initially, but the momentum forced him further forward, laying like he was praying at Mecca. Much to the visible disgust of the receptionist who was now stood looking at Jack from a rear perspective, it was apparent there had been a small seepage. The two girls who’d vented their anger at Jack had also appeared on their way back to the dressing room and looked down on Jack with repulsion. His ankles were locked together, so he used his arms to crawl towards the bathroom whilst trying to contain the fragile state of his underpants.
He sat in t
he cubicle and the sense of relief was immediate. His joy was temporary as he reached for the toilet paper. There are only a few scenarios in life that can replicate the feeling of desperation when you realise there is no toilet paper. Among these are:
1) Smashing your mobile phone
2) Losing your wallet
3) Unable to find your keys at 2 a.m.
His kit bag was sat on the bench in the dressing room. He knew his options were restricted. His underpants had already completed the ultimate sacrifice. His shorts were non-existent. His t-shirt wouldn’t flush. Jack took off one of his socks and smiled at the current situation.
Showered, dressed and wearing one sock, Jack picked up his bag and made a hasty exit. Fortunately, the reception desk was empty — he reasoned they were checking CCTV for an imminent police investigation. His gym debut nearly faltered, but despite the degrading start to the day, he was proud of himself. It was an emotion that was alien to him, as it had been a long time since he’d felt pride in himself. His step quickened as he walked through the main shopping street. He threw a nonchalant glance at his reflection in the glass windows of a ladies clothes shop. He’d only cycled a few short miles, but his stomach felt and looked tighter. Even the exhausted-looking signage at the front of his shop wouldn’t dampen his mood. He used his thumbnail to remove several obvious areas of flaking paint which only served to highlight, how much the shop was in need of decoration. There were several greying lumps attached to the wooden framework of the shop front. Only after he’d removed one did he realise they were discarded chewing gum. It stuck like a limpet clinging to a rock, and try as he might, the remaining pieces resisted his efforts. Undeterred, Jack placed his gym bag on the ground and removed his left trainer and used the heel as an improvised chisel. As the last bit conceded, Jack became aware of a wonderful scent of perfume that caused him to take a deep, second lungful.
