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

by J. C. Williams

  He looked up briefly to survey the volume of passing people; if quiet, he’d move on to another bolthole. A small boy, three, maybe four years of age, stared intently at Lee as his mother pulled tightly on his hand. The boy didn’t look away, even as he passed, and struggled further with his mother before finally managing to break free of her grasp.

  The boy walked up to Lee, presenting him a lolly, in his hand, that he clearly treasured but was nevertheless willing to part with.

  “I’ve only licked it twice,” the child assured him. “It’s still good.”

  Lee smiled warmly. That one small gesture had just made up for months of degradation.

  The boy grinned back, until his mother came to retrieve him, yanking his arm and pulling him away from Lee.

  “Don’t speak to filthy losers like that!” she shouted in anger as they blended back into the crowd. Before he disappeared from sight, however, the little boy turned and smiled in Lee’s direction once more, until, in the end, he was gone.

  Those moments of kindness Lee had just experienced would now be tinged with the thought of being ‘a filthy loser.’

  He’d had enough. It wasn’t that one incident that caused him to snap; rather, it was an accumulation, the culmination of a man who could take no more.

  His cup had two coins in it and those were the ones he’d placed in it himself several hours earlier — to prime the pump, so to speak. He put the coins back in his pocket, put the lollipop in his mouth, and threw the cup on the ground.

  He’d seen the security van every day, at the same time, for weeks. He thought it stupid that it came at the same time, almost to the minute. The guard was collecting the cash from some of the shops on the high street, and Lee had spent hours fantasising about grabbing that cash.

  He was halfway across the street before he realised it. He had tunnel vision now — completely unaware what he was doing presently — the words filthy loser ringing in his ears, louder and louder.

  His pace quickened and he’d given up avoiding the busy shoppers and now barged his way through them.

  The security guard was returning to his van, carrying a large metal case, and cautiously looking at those in his vicinity as he’d no doubt been trained to do.

  Call it instinct, but the guard caught sight of Lee marching toward him. But as he tried to react to the impending threat, Lee had now broken into a sprint.

  The guard recoiled for a moment and tried to alert his colleague in the van, it seemed, but in an instant Lee had hurled himself through the air and dispatched both himself and the guard to the ground.

  The shoppers nearby froze for a moment as they assessed the situation. Then they began to scream as the reality of it set in.

  Those screams snapped Lee back to awareness, and he tried to right himself from the cold concrete floor. He looked up and could see fear in the guard’s face.

  But no sooner than he could blink than a second man appeared from nowhere, swinging a cricket bat. It just missed Lee, and, not the kind to take this sort of thing lying down, Lee grabbed for the man’s leg, knocking him off balance. The man’s botched attempt at robbery was scuppered further as the guard’s companion, now at hand, was well prepared for a second volley with the wooden bat.

  Lee was now focused on retreat and, for self-protection as well as good measure, kicked the bat-wielding man firmly in the bollocks, causing him to roar in agony and drop the weapon, which Lee immediately grabbed.

  Lee struggled to his feet and ran, leaving the crease.

  He had no idea where he was going, and just moved as fast as his feet would carry him. As soon as he’d moved away from the main shopping area, he threw the bat in the first available bin.

  “Shit, shit, shit!” he said, struggling to regain his breath. “Bloody fucking hell!”

  He continued walking as the sound of police sirens filled the air. He was stood in a small bay where the bins from a large supermarket were stored. As the sound of the sirens came closer, he jumped behind the nearest bin and cowered. He stayed there for what felt like hours. He was consumed by the overwhelming feeling of guilt. He could never have lived with himself if he’d hurt that guard.

  Lee had to eventually give in to the crippling pains of hunger and venture out from his pungent sanctuary. The cover of darkness put him at ease, but every time a police car passed, his heart smashed against his chest. He had no money to speak of and was desperate for food. He wanted to stay away from public areas, but the lure of a hot meal at the charity food bank was too strong.

  Lee joined the small queue. He always admired the work of the volunteers who merrily dispensed meals to the desperate, with little reward other than a feeling of satisfaction, and he gratefully took a bowl of hot soup and a large sandwich. He sat in the corner of the room — ironically, a former police station that had been gifted to the charity — and tried to remain as inconspicuous as he could.

  With the stinging hunger pains temporarily relieved, he dwelled with disgust on his earlier actions. He held his head in his hands as he thought about where to bed down for the evening. Through a gap in his fingers, he could see Tommy — the charity coordinator — scanning the collection the hungry patrons.

  Lee sunk into his chair as low as was possible to sink as Tommy walked toward him, followed by two uniformed policemen. Lee considered making a run for it, but the idea of a room in a warm custody unit was now somehow very appealing.

  “That’s him,” said Tommy, pointing in Lee’s direction.

  “Lee Watson?” asked the first officer, now before him. “Would you mind coming with us?”

  Lee nodded.

  “You can bring your sandwich if you like,” continued the officer.

  Lee was confused as to why he wasn’t being wrestled to the ground and placed in handcuffs.

  “Are you not arresting me?”

  The policemen looked at each other in confusion.

  “What? No, of course we’re not. If anything, we should be buying you a pint!”

  At which point they started laughing.

  Lee laughed as well.

  He had no idea why he was laughing, and it was the only thing that was stopping him from recycling his recent meal into his already filthy underpants. He thought he must have found himself in some sort of reality TV programme, and half expected a camera crew to jump out at any moment.

  But no one jumped out at all.

  It’d been months since he’d been in a car, and he — even in these circumstances — felt for a moment, more human. Even though Lee stank badly, the policemen politely said nothing. They merely wound their windows down slightly and moved their heads toward the fresh air.

  “We’ll get you a change of clothes at the station, maybe have a nice shower, Lee?”

  Lee cleared his throat. “Erm, yes, thanks, that would be lovely.”

  He had no idea what was happening. He wondered for a moment if he’d knocked himself unconscious and was currently in a state of delirium.

  At the police station, a brute of sergeant sat behind the custody desk. One of the officers who escorted Lee had a word in the sergeant’s ear, and the sergeant's face changed from one dispensing justice to a warm, welcoming smile.

  “Lee Watson, a pleasure to meet you. You’ll get a civic award for your bravery. We’ve got the man in custody and just need to take a statement from you, if that’s okay?”

  “Sure,” said Lee nervously, and still in the dark. They were either the most inept police force in the country, or they knew something that he didn’t.

  Lee went with the second option. Lee took a step forward to the imposing desk. “You, erm… know what happened today, then?” he asked, gingerly.

  The sergeant smiled. “CCTV, son. We’ve got the whole lot on video, which is why we knew who to look for. One of the guys recognised you as a street sleeper, so thought you may turn up at the shelter.”

  “Great!” said Lee. “Any chance I could… see it?”

  “You want to see it?”
the sergeant said, repeating Lee’s words in a tone that was difficult to discern. It might have been suspicion, or it might have been nothing at all.

  “I’ve, em, never seen myself on telly,” Lee offered weakly, hoping the absurd excuse might somehow pass muster.

  The sergeant shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t see why not,” he said amiably. “Gary, will you take him into the office and show him the footage?”

  Lee sat uncomfortably as the CCTV footage appeared on the computer screen in front of him. The camera angle covered most of the street, and he smiled as the opening scene had captured the small boy handing him his lollypop.

  He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, however, as the coverage showed him moving at pace toward the security guard. It was like watching a different person entirely. As he viewed himself approaching the guard, he could see a car appear at the corner of the screen and one man jump out of it. The images were a little grainy, but Lee could clearly see the man remove a cricket bat from the passenger seat of the car, walk past the security van, and march towards the security guard. Lee looked on while the man arched the bat behind his back and swung directly at the security guard… with contact only avoided by the actions of Lee, forcing the guard to the cement.

  The coverage continued to show Lee wrestling with the man, before delivering a pinpoint accurate assault on the man’s crotch — resulting in the man collapsing in a heap, right on the spot, like a building fallen under demolition once the explosive charges have gone off. Lee then observes himself on the screen as he removes the offending weapon from the assailant’s possession, before finally retreating off-camera.

  Watching the video back, Lee looked very much like bloody Batman keeping the streets of Gotham free from crime, with every move perfectly choreographed and strategically performed.

  He looked like a hero.

  And that’s when he noticed the crowd of assembled police, who also been watching the video along with him, apparently, because when it came to end, they all cheered.

  “Well done, mate!” shouted one of the officers.

  “Guy’s a hero!” shouted another.

  Lee’s shoulders were currently higher than they’d been for quite some while. He had the feeling that he may wake up at any moment, but he went with it.

  He turned to the room and shrugged his shoulders. “Least I could do,” he said with a grin, soaking up the admiration. Deserved or no, he’d take it. “I’m hardly a hero, though. Only I did what came naturally. Surely it’s what anyone would’ve done?”

  Lee saw his way clear to receive many claps on the back then, without complaint. It was the least he could do.

  Chapter Six

  S ixty-two years young, Frank,” said Stan, topping up his champagne flute. “Here’s to many more!”

  Frank smiled and took a grateful mouthful of the expensively inflated drink. “Thanks, but not sure there will be too many more, especially with my blood pressure in this place.”

  Stan scoured the room. “Yeah, it’s not the place I quite remember. I don’t think they’ve updated the furniture since I was last here years ago.”

  “I don’t know about the furniture, but they certainly haven’t updated most of the girls, honestly. Stella could get a job in here, looking at this lot.”

  Stan nodded.

  “I’m not sure about a strip club, Stan,” Frank continued. “It’s not really my thing. Not anymore, at least. Probably something to do with having a wife and daughter spending my cash on fake knockers.”

  “Yeah, sorry, mate,” Stan agreed. “It’s a bit of a cliché to take out your newly single mate to a strip club. Should we just go the Lion for a couple of pints?”

  Frank laughed as he looked around the strip club that was barely illuminated and tapped his foot along to the deliberately seductive music. He ran his hands on the fabric of the seat which was smooth, like cheap leather, and the realisation that the upholstery was designed to easily be ‘wiped clean’ encouraged him to finish his drink with increased gusto. He reached for his hat which sat — like a sleeping cat — on the shelf behind him.

  The motion of his flailing hand was misinterpreted by a scantily clad brunette as an invitation, or possibly request. She’d been circling the club like a hungry vulture and at the first indication of an easy meal, she flicked her hair seductively and arched her back to emphasise her already considerable attributes. She sauntered over, eyes locked on Frank.

  Now presented before him, she gyrated slowly in time with the music, and for a lady with a fuller figure, one could say that she was certainly quite flexible.

  Frank shifted uncomfortably, placing one hand down on the seat between his legs for leverage as he did so. The woman smiled at this, seeming to misinterpret Frank’s discomfort as arousal.

  “You like vhat you see.”

  She said this more as a statement than a question, and leaned over far enough so that her ample bosom, now on full display, brushed against the tabletop — never letting go of Frank’s eyes as she did so.

  Frank recoiled in his seat, much to the amusement of Stan.

  “No,” said Frank, not wishing to encourage her. “I mean, I’m sure you’re lovely, perfectly lovely. But I wasn’t asking for a dance, I was just reaching for my hat.”

  Her face turned to one of instant anger. “You are for calling me fat?” she shouted, over the din of the music.

  “W-what?” Frank stuttered. “No. No, of course I didn’t. No, no,” he protested. “I said I was just reaching for my hat. My hat.”

  She was placated and suggestively took the hat. “Ah. You are the cheeky boy,” she said in broken English. “You vant me vear hat, da? Is no problem.”

  Frank was a little unsure of what was happening as the woman — who’d introduced herself as Ivana — started to dance in front of him.

  “Fifty pounds, lover,” she said, drawing out the word ‘lover’ and pronouncing it as loafer. “You pay at end.”

  All Frank wanted was his hat back and a pint of bitter at the Lion, but at the risk of causing further offence, he went with it. She was now getting fully into her performance and her bra was now carefully placed on the seat beside him. She turned her back to Frank and playfully slid down his body, ending up on her knees. She turned once more to face Frank, and slithered back up his body until their noses were almost touching.

  Ivana wasn’t really having the intended effect, and Frank spent his time looking at the hat wondering if it was, in fact, really his style after all.

  She held her proximity for a moment and Frank realised the thick application of perfume was also designed to mask the smell of alcohol, very likely gin. Fearing his hat was lost forever as a prop for her future performances, he made a concerted effort to retrieve it.

  Unfortunately, Ivana took his sudden hand gesture as an attempt to bring their relationship to another level, and playfully slapped the back of his fingers.

  “You very naughty!” she slurred.

  Frank had heard before the song being played, and expectantly tapped his foot to the final bars of the music. Ivana surely knew, also, that these last notes were her cue to bring her performance to an end, and, apparently aiming to finish on a high, she crouched low — trying to grind her bum against Frank’s crotch (a crotch which had remained blasé and unmoved throughout).

  Her overindulgence, however, caused her to lose her balance and she fell back further than expected.

  Ever the gentleman, Frank raised his hands, once more, to steady her fall, though the gesture was once again met with a dismissive slap on the wrist as the song came grinding, as it were, to a halt.

  “Now you give Ivana fifty pounds,” Ivana announced, eager, it would appear, to bring their transaction to a close and relieve Frank of the money he’d ‘promised’ her.

  But there was a snag. As she tried to push herself into a standing position, she was prevented from doing so.

  Frank assumed she’d drunk more than first assumed, and tried to help her back
to her feet. Every time she made the effort to get to her feet, however, she immediately recoiled back to Frank’s crotch like a spring.

  At first, Frank thought it was perhaps an attempt to increase the payment due, until, with horror, he realised that the buckle on his belt had caught the lace on the back of her knickers. Every time she stood, the fabric stretched, catapulting her back to Frank’s crotch.

  After a half-dozen or so of these back-and-forths, the woman appeared, finally, to understand the physical nature of her dilemma. She turned her head and raised her voice in a language with which Frank found himself unfamiliar.

  “No, stop,” said Frank, who was now desperately pulling at his belt, but which only produced further chastising from Ivana.

  “You need to stop pulling. Look!” he said, pointing furiously at his crotch, but his intentions were not received as they were intended.

  The next swearword, Frank, along with the rest of the club, understood quite clearly, and she stood, this time, rather more forcefully.

  The only option, Frank felt, to maintain the woman’s limited modesty, was for him to stand also — whilst continuing the battle to release her from his belt.

  They were now both stood, but as she was a touch shorter, Frank was now stooped over slightly. She moved frantically, as if trying to escape an angry wasp.

  Everywhere she went, Frank went. She spun on the spot, and such was their coordinated movement that the uninitiated might be forgiven in thinking their dance had continued from the booth outside the allotted three minutes, and continued in a rather more enthusiastic, enflamed fashion.

  There was a burly bouncer who, up to now, had stood politely, but firmly, policing those walking into the establishment. Frank and Ivana’s wild gesticulations had caught the bouncer’s attention, Frank noticed.

  Ivana had noticed this as well, it seemed, as she presently moved toward the bouncer at pace, and, as a result, so did Frank — who continued to wrestle with her knickers.

  The bouncer, now at hand, gripped Frank by the shirt and began to pry the two apart. “You’ve crossed the line, fella,” he said.