Frank 'n' Stan's bucket list - #1: TT Races - Poignant, uplifting and exceptionally funny!

by J. C. Williams

  Her actions hurt him initially, but when he realised she was with him for his wallet he cared a little less each day. He’d park the taxi in front of the house and think nothing of parading around the garden in tight-fitting shorts on a warm summer’s day. She was particularly impressed when she came home, on one occasion, to find him and Stan drinking beer in a cheap inflatable swimming pool. The truth is, the neighbours were a decent sort, and fond of Frank. They could see Helen for what she was: mutton dressed up as lamb. The thing that hurt him the most was seeing his little angel turning out more and more like her mother.

  He pulled his car up outside his neighbour’s house and, to the uninitiated, must have looked very much like a taxi waiting to pick up a fare. He placed both hands firmly on the wheel for a long moment, before finally letting go and taking up the pile of brochures — clutching them tightly as if they gave him a source of strength. He stepped out and walked gingerly past the sprawling lawn toward his own home and stood at the head of the driveway looking at his house. It was impressive, but perhaps too modern for the look it was trying to achieve. He’d never seen Boris’s car, but the gaudy-looking BMW with an oversized spoiler, there in the drive, gave him the impression that his wife was currently ‘mid-session’ on her fitness regime.

  Frank tried the door and to his surprise it was unlocked. He wasn’t stealthy as he entered his home and for a moment he felt like he was invading on other people’s privacy. The polished wooden floorboards did little to cushion his footsteps as he approached the archway to the kitchen. A shrill voice startled him, but it was the radio in the corner that had been left unattended. Two cups of tea sat on the farmhouse kitchen table, still half-full, as if those consuming them had business elsewhere. A door just off the kitchen led to the insulated double garage where his wife — at great expense — had installed a fully equipped gym.

  Frank looked at the door for a moment. There were two possible outcomes for the current situation: 1) Boris and his wife were behind the door dressed in Lycra, or 2) The gym was empty, and his wife was upstairs promoting pan-European relationships. He thought he wouldn’t care, but as he reached for the polished chrome handle, he knew his life, as he’d known it, could soon change forever.

  He didn’t want to appear like a typical jealous spouse, so he opened the door gently and casually walked inside. The room was empty, but it was warm, and the smell of fresh sweat hung in the air. Scenario № 2 was now presenting itself as the most likely outcome in his thought process.

  A pair of men’s trainers and a blue vest with a blackened sweat patch lay on the floor — cast aside as if removed in haste. Frank booted one of the trainers and marched with vigour, through the kitchen and up the winding staircase to the upstairs landing. Rather than dwell, he kicked aside the assortment of underwear outside their bedroom. “Bitch isn’t even trying to be discreet,” he thought.

  As he pushed the door open, his heart smashed through his chest. He’d rehearsed what he’d say when he walked in the room, and it was going to be memorable, poignant, and possibly scathing. Yes, definitely scathing. But as soon as he saw his wife lying naked on the bed, his mind went blank.

  He walked forward a couple of paces, but if he was looking for inspiration it was certainly eluding him. They looked at each other, he and his wife, like they were in a Mexican standoff. Helen was like a rabbit caught in the headlights and even though it was her husband she reached for something to cover her expensive, cosmetically enhanced modesty. She didn’t break eye contact and unfortunately for her, however, the first thing she grabbed was a pair of black-leather Y-fronts with an impressive appendage attached… that started to vibrate expectantly when she thrust it against her chest.

  “Are they my undies?” asked Frank sarcastically.

  Helen went to speak, though bought a little more time with an awkward cough to clear her throat. It wasn’t the sort of cough that was necessary. It was more the sort of cough you give your doctor when he gets hold of your bollocks.

  “You’re home, Frank? You, em, never come home at this time.” Helen cringed as the splashing noise of a running tap came from the en-suite bathroom.

  Frank turned from her and waited patiently for the bathroom door to open. Boris eventually appeared, looking manly and rugged. Frank felt instantly pathetic and somewhat emasculated as he looked at the sculptured naked physique stood before him in a state of partial arousal.

  Frank had no intention of aggression, but even he was disappointed by his own actions as he reached forward to shake Boris’s hand. He was always polite, of course, but on this occasion it was probably ill-timed.

  Boris looked Frank in the eye, then over to Helen, and back to Frank.

  Boris took a toothbrush from his mouth as a small sliver of paste ran down his chin. “Are you going to hit me?” he asked. “You can have one, but don’t go crazy.”

  Frank turned up his nose in anger, revealing his front teeth but the threat level was, at best, mediocre, with Boris not even moving from his current position. For reasons unknown to him, Frank still had his hand held out in front like he was greeting an old friend. He became aware of how close his hand was to Boris’s crotch which was slowly decreasing in mass like an old balloon.

  As Boris’s manhood descended, Frank’s hand rose, turning, as it did, into a tight fist with forefinger firmly extended, and coming to a stop when held in front of the naked lothario’s face.

  “That’s… my… FUCKING… toothbrush,” snarled Frank through gritted teeth.

  Boris now took a step back. The toothbrush drooped slowly as his jaw relaxed, before breaking free and tumbling down onto the tiled floor — leaving a smear of molten toothpaste as it hit.

  Helen, reflexes intact, sprang to attention, sat up in the bed, the still-vibrating dildo clutched tightly against her chest, massaging her heart. Despite the swift, animated motion of her shift in position, her expensive breasts held firm.

  “You pathetic sack of shit!” she shouted. “You’re more worried about your bloody toothbrush than the naked man about to ravish your wife!” She gripped the leather Y-fronts and flung them toward Frank. The weight of the attached rubber phallus caused them to fly through the air like a missile.

  The realistic-looking penis hit Frank directly on the side of the temple with a loud slap. He staggered, putting a hand toward his head before falling onto one knee. As he fell, he reached out to steady himself. He shook his head to clear his senses and became acutely aware that he was now supporting himself by gripping onto Boris’s flaccid tallywhacker.

  Frank stared at the cock in his hand. “Some things are sacred,” he said thoughtfully. “A man’s toothbrush is one of those things.”

  Rather than release his grip, Frank held firm. He used the leverage he had, forcing himself back to a standing position, pushing himself up whilst forcing the other man down. Boris screamed like a fourteen-year-old girl at a concert.

  Frank, now back at full height, brushed his hands together briskly with a few quick claps to clean the cock off them, in a motion that might also be interpreted as an and-that-takes-care-of-that motion.

  “You might have a short wait for your afternoon romp,” said Frank laughing, in reference to Boris now curled up on the floor cupping his genitals.

  “At least it’s worth waiting for!” Helen shouted, like a petulant child.

  Frank smiled. “Rather him than me. He deserves a bloody medal putting up with you, you sanctimonious, selfish, greedy cow. And… I know you’re a bit stupid, but, in case you hadn’t figured it out… I’m leaving you!”

  Frank took one final look at Boris before casually marching back out of the door. “Oh, and just so you know,” he called over his shoulder, “I’ve cancelled all of your credit cards. So the only plastic you’re left with is the contents of your oversized tits. And, Boris? You can keep the toothbrush. My gift to you. I’ll get another.”

  “Thank you,” Boris said weakly, fighting back tears.

  “I hope you’
re both very happy together. All the best!”

  Frank slammed the bedroom door behind him and walked across the landing. He looked with disdain at an oversized vase sat proudly on the hall table. He’d never liked it — it was tacky, bought on a whim, by her, to impress her friends. Call it childish, but he stopped and turned on a sixpence. He looked at the vase for a moment and thought of hurling it down the stairs. Instead, he took the gaping mouth of the vase and placed it cautiously over the handle of the bedroom door. He could have smashed it himself, but he gained more satisfaction knowing that she’d smash it herself when she opened the bedroom door.

  Frank stomped back to his car and by now the neighbours — who’d obviously heard the commotion — were now pretending to busy themselves in the garden next door.

  “Morning, Frank, everything okay with you?” asked George, clearly fishing for information. “Helen not with you?”

  George received a firm elbow in his ribs from his equally nosey wife, Susan, as Frank waved in acknowledgement.

  “All good, George, thanks. Helen is not with me. Quite right. I’ve just told her that I’m leaving, so, all in all, a great day. She’s upstairs with her lover, Boris… and his friend, Gustav, I think his name was, although he was wearing a rubber mask, so, I may have misheard. It was like a medieval dungeon when I walked in that bedroom — all sorts of harnesses, costumes, and about fifteen dildos lying on the bed. I think one of them was petrol-powered. Susan, you should have a word with Helen, I’m sure she doesn’t need to keep all of them for herself — probably make sure you wash them first, though.”

  A great weight had been lifted and, for the first time in many months, Frank felt happy. He climbed into his car, rejuvenated. He had no idea where he was going to go and had no clothes, or toothbrush, for that matter. But it didn’t matter; he was walking out on one sorry chapter in his life and starting a new one. And even if the new one should be cut short, it would at least be happier than the one he’d been currently living.

  Chapter Two

  F rank ’n’ Stan’s taxis were a feature of the city. A small logo of the green mythical creature immortalised in Mary Shelley’s novel adorned the side of each car, making them instantly recognisable. Head office was an unassuming office, in a scruffy back alley in the heart of the town centre. To bring order to the operational helm of this empire required a certain temperament: calm under pressure, organised, and able to shepherd the drunken hordes, but, ultimately, the ability to coordinate over one-hundred hairy-arsed, surly taxi drivers.

  The dubious honour fell upon the very broad shoulders of Stella. She’d been with the business since Day One and would, at best, be described as an acquired taste. She was a considerable unit, with a prodigious neck that all but absorbed her chin. Her hair was a natural perm, wrapped so tight that it looked and felt like Velcro. She could chastise a tardy driver one moment and, in an instant, turn on the elegant charm to answer the phone which rang incessantly.

  For her, the smoking ban was a challenge rather than an edict. Those brave enough to enter her domain were faced with a plume of smoke from her ever-present cigarette curling up into a dense cloud that hung in the air, swirling slowly around her. It moved languidly and yet it raged relentlessly. Like Jupiter’s Great Red Spot, it was a storm that had survived for years, as long as anyone could remember, and showed no signs of dissipating or remitting.

  Stella sat behind her aged desk. The work counter separating her from others was shoulder-high, ostensibly to prevent drunken, angry patrons from raining abuse upon her, though the unspoken truth of it was more the other way around — that those who might find themselves unfortunate enough to cross her path, rather, should be protected from Stella.

  Frank and Stan had an office at the rear of the building with a linked door, but with a separate entrance if they wanted to avoid the congested waiting room.

  “Have we heard from Frank yet?” asked Stan, peering from behind the door.

  Stella barely moved. She had a fag hanging from her mouth that was more ash than fag. How it remained intact and held in place was quite remarkable.

  “What, I’m his personal assistant now?” she asked through pursed lips, whilst managing to effortlessly contain the tenuous state of her cigarette in what can only be described as a miracle.

  She held her eyes on him for a moment before exhaling an acrid burst of smoke. “Have you dyed your hair?” she asked, looking off the rim of her glasses. Nothing escaped Stella.

  Stan withdrew slightly. “W-what?” he stuttered. “Of course not.”

  Stella removed the fag, flicking the contents into an overfilling ashtray as she forced herself from her leather chair that had a perfect imprint of her ample bum cheeks.

  “Come here,” she insisted with her authoritative, gravelly voice.

  Stan pushed the door open and reluctantly walked forward. He was the same age as Frank but was struggling to accept the prospect of ageing as well as Frank. His dress sense was twenty years younger than he was, and from a distance his excessive gold jewellery looked like it’d been bought from a market stall — but it was all genuine, if not somewhat ostentatious.

  “You’ve had a spray-tan?” continued Stella. She started to laugh, but it sounded more like the laboured efforts of an old car engine being started.

  Stan started to blush, but it was difficult to tell under the generously applied layer of gravy browning. His hair was jet-black, but the giveaway was the perfectly groomed eyebrows that now looked like two manicured black caterpillars. “I’ve got a date!” he conceded. “I wanted to look my best!”

  “I hope you’re going to ask for a refund, then,” cackled Stella. “And Don Johnson just called. He wants to know when he’s getting his suit back?”

  “Very droll… So, you’ve not seen Frank?” repeated Stan.

  Stella took a moment, settling first back into her chair before answering.

  “No, he had an appointment this morning, but he’s not been back here and he’s not turned his radio back on. With all his bloody money, I still don’t know why he insists on driving that cab around.”

  “Probably to get away from you,” whispered Stan.

  “I bloody heard that, Stan— or should I say, David Hasselhoff.”

  Stan gave her a wry smile.

  “I’m going out for a bit, if you hear from him, tell him to give me a ring?”

  Stella nodded wordlessly. The smoke cloud above her head spiralled around, slowly and steadily.

  Frank sat with hands wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee. It was weak — barely drinkable — but kept the icy air whipped up from the River Mersey from numbing his fingers. He squinted his eyes as the wind started to burn his rosy cheeks and a weather-induced tear ran down the side of his face. The iconic Mersey ferry stuttered across the choppy waters, packed with commuters and visitors seeking a unique perspective of the famous skyline.

  Frank felt the metal bench vibrate, but he didn’t need to turn his head.

  “I thought you’d be here,” said Stan, who’d taken a seat beside him. “Not sure about this coffee,” he remarked.

  Frank didn’t speak, but smiled.

  “We were worried about you, Frank. Stella has been all over the place when you didn’t turn up.”

  Frank’s smile opened up into a gentle laugh. “Now I know you’re lying,” he said.

  “Not about the coffee, though,” said Stan, emptying the contents into a salty puddle near his foot.

  The two of them sat in silence as the minutes passed by like the ships heading out into the Irish Sea. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but without saying anything, it was poignant, almost comforting. Frank used his hand to push his hair down which was being tossed about in the breeze. He wiped another tear teased out from the wind off his cheek and turned to look at Stan.

  “You’ve had your hair done?” he asked. Stan’s hair was full of ‘product’ and in spite of the gale-force wind, and unlike Frank’s struggle to keep his own sorted, not a
strand was out of place.

  Stan nodded at the question. “Yes,” he replied. “Although I’m starting to regret it. Stella’s been taking the piss, and to be honest, I look like a bloody Oompa Loompa with this tan. What did the doctor say?”

  “He said you look like an Oompa Loompa as well,” Frank managed.

  Of course, he knew what Stan was asking. Frank hadn’t thought about his appointment since Stan had arrived, actually, and the question startled him. It brought him back to reality and his shoulders dropped. He looked at Stan, and with a feigned smile, he slowly shook his head. The sporadic tears were now replaced with a constant stream and his shoulders began to convulse.

  “Oh, shit, pal.”

  Stan placed one hand on Frank’s knee before moving closer, putting his arms around his shoulder.

  “Everything I want to say to you right now is a cliché, and I mean everything. Frank, you know I’m here for you, no matter what. You know that, don’t you?”

  Frank tapped Stan’s knee in acknowledgement.

  “I know, Stan. We’ve been through quite a lot these last few years. Still… it’s not been all bad today. I found her in bed with Boris, and I told her it’s over.”

  “Poor bloke,” said Stan.

  Frank smiled. “You mean, Boris, don’t you?”

  “Absolutely, the guy deserves a medal,” replied Stan. “And you can stay with me, I insist.”

  “I’m glad you said that because I’ve already been round to yours and left a couple of bags in your garage.”

  “A bit presumptuous!” said Stan.

  “I knew you wouldn’t see me on the street. Come on, let’s walk a while,” said Frank, shaking his arms to get the blood flowing back to his fingers. He turned for a moment and looked up to the peak of the Royal Liver Building towering above them.

  Stan buttoned up his coat as they walked directly into the roiling wind. The two of them stopped and looked down on an empty berth, and a sign posted for the Isle of Man Ferry. “I used to love coming down here as kids, packed up and ready for our summer holidays,” he said. “It’s funny, as I look back on it, through a child’s eyes, it never rained, the sea was never rough, and you just seem to filter out the negativity. Do you remember our mums would give us a few coins to get sweets for the crossing over, and most of the time we’d have eaten them by the time we got onto the boat?”