CASHING A GIRO CHEQUE ON MUSHROOMS
Jason and Paolo cause chaos in the Post Office.
An excerpt from the novel, Career Opportunities, by Ian Hunter
It had been hell on
earth. Paolo had been sick in the garden before they had got out of the gate. A
huge pizza of lager and half-digested magic mushrooms. They had been forced to
scoop it into the flowerbeds and bury it before the old man had finished dabbling
with his back garden fauna and came to cast a discerning eye over the progress
of the front. Dad did that on a Saturday, usually between having been sent
shopping with a list like a toilet roll and half an hour’s peace in front of
Football Focus.
They had been
forced to take the long way around due to the fact that Seamus and his two
brothers were waiting for their mates outside The Cross Keys, and by the time
they got to the post office and joined the queue, Paolo was so ashen he looked
as if the only reason he was hanging on for the giro money was in order to get
a taxi to the hospital to ask for a blood transfusion.
The post office was
frightening. Two full lengths of the room like laboratory mice, just to get to
the counter. Jason hated the post office and especially on Saturday mornings.
They hung on for grim death; their eyes were still wide and darting, their
minds conjuring up over vivid explanations for all they were observing. The
queue bristled with the usual array of dishevelled alcoholics and piss smelly
old folk, only today they were all iridescent.
Jason began to
twitch. He got the overwhelming sense of being watched but a scan of the room
had drawn a blank. He reminded himself he was still messy. That much he knew,
and it always helped with the suppression of the fear. Jason had never got the fear but he had seen people who had, and it
was enough to put you off drugs for life. No one was staring at him, he didn't have a bogey hanging from his nose, and Paolo hadn't written 'Fuck Me Big Boy'
on his forehead with eye-liner.
Jason pretended to go in his pocket in a crafty attempt to
check his flies but all was in order in that department. On the surface of it
all, no one appeared to be staring at him and he couldn't pin point a reason
for anyone to be doing so. Not if he didn't count odd socks and Sharon Tate’s
post mortem results plastered across his t-shirt to be a reason for shock or
curiosity. So why was he still feeling under surveillance?
Jason felt a sudden inclination to look down and saw two
faces looking back. Their expressions were ones of intrigue and borderline
hysterics. Twin girls, probably no older than five or six. They were dressed in
matching outfits that consisted of black duffel coats made over-tight by the
six jumpers they appeared to be wearing. They looked as if they were wearing
inflated life jackets underneath their coats. The ensemble was finished off by
a pair of salmon pink woolly bobble hats, both of which had side flaps tide
neatly under their chins, and gloves on elastic that dangled like a kipper from
each wrist. Jason returned their inquisitive stare until something suddenly
struck him. The two little girls had the longest faces he had ever seen. Not
just elongated, like looking into the back of a spoon, but like horses! Cartoon
horses!. Cartoon horses looking into the back of giant fucking spoons. Genetic
mutations were a cruel thing to heap upon his fragile psyche on this particular
Saturday lunchtime.
A chuckle began to
rise up in his chest. He swallowed hard and tried to control the up turning
corners of his mouth. This was all he needed. A giggling fit right in the
middle of the post office. Jason tried to blank. Football! That was always
worth a try. Who was City playing this afternoon? It might be a good game.
Thingy was back from injury and what’s
his name was playing and…, It was no good. Jason
took a deep breath and looked down once more. They were still there, still
staring, and still with very long heads. He shuffled and bit his lip, quivering.
Meanwhile Paolo had cottoned on to Jason’s twitching and poked him in the ribs.
“What’s tickling you, fuck face?”
That was all Jason needed. He didn't dare to turn around.
Paolo would instantly pick up on it and the last thing the situation needed was
a new slant. Jason kept his back to his friend and let out a whine as he tried
to reply. He opened his mouth to speak but the only thing to pass his lips was
a rodent squeak. Paolo moved up to Jason’s shoulder. “Pssst! Monkey Trunk! What
are you gibbering about?”
Paolo’s face was racked with comic anticipation. Jason
rolled his eyes and then tried to stare out of the window but it was no good.
He remembered a school assembly when Andrew Hanson had expelled a real blanket
ripper onto the hard parquet floor and the whole row had rocked with muted
hysterics; holding their sides with the pain of suppressed laughter.
Jason felt the
unmistakable twinge of a guffaw moving up his body. His throat went into spasm
as he tried to swallow once more. Maybe if he looked at the twins again they
might not seem so ridiculous. Not quite so horse like. His gaze darted down to
waist height and he looked. They stared back and remained wedged firmly between
deep intrigue and utter consternation. Jason could hold it no longer. He made
contact with two pairs of innocent eyes. “What the fuck are you looking at,
horse face?”
Paolo’s pale features poked over Jason’s shoulder. He
glanced at the twins and let forth with a spray of saliva from between his
pursed lips before collapsing over the queue rail. The twins began to cry
inconsolably and a gaggle of pensioners began to tut loudly in a typical show
of matronly disdain.
Jason just stood there shaking with laughter, his hand
clamped firmly over his mouth to mute the sound. Paolo had lost it big time.
His eyes filled with tears and a long bead of spit was hanging from the corner
of his mouth as he fought to remain standing. Jason looked at the mother. She
was torn between consoling her children and clumping Jason with a Sainsbury’s
carrier full of tins. She gave him the steely glare of a parent. He made a half
hearted attempt at an apology but his continuing hysterics threw up the question of his sincerity. “Look, I'm sorry. I think I'm still a bit pissed, I mean drunk.”
The tutting began to sound like crickets on a tropical
evening. The mother began to fiddle with her children’s attire as if she
thought it might alter their comic equine appearance. Jason tried once more.
“Look, I'm sorry about what I said.”
The mother snapped at him. “It wasn't a very nice thing to
say to two little girls was it?” At that moment, Paolo achieved a temporary
state of composure. He wiped his mouth, still giggling. “True though! They do
look uncannily like horses!” He leaned in closer. “Possibly more donkey- esque
than horse.”
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