The small man emerged from the swirling cocoon of dust coughing hoarsely as the tiny particles crowded his flaring nostrils and swarmed his desert-dry throat. The weather forecast had advised citizens to be prepared to face low temperatures and strong winds and he had dressed accordingly, a thick pair of brown corduroy trousers had been paired with three layers topped off by a white Christmas sweater knitted by his mother and they were all enveloped by an oversized wool trench coat that swayed below his ankles. The frosty air soothed the burning in his throat as he took long deep breaths whilst trudging down the deserted pavement, he had been walking for the past forty minutes and neither man nor beast had crossed his path. That being said seven in the morning on a Christmas day was quite an unusual time to be out and about. Majority of the population likely remained deep in slumber, few would never wake, many would be turning over groggily in their beds in a few hours with a pounding in their skulls brought about by their Christmas eve festivities; the children would be awake though, eagerly anticipating the rise of their parents so as to allow them to begin tearing apart the covering on their well-wrapped presents and rummage through the bulging green stockings hanging over the cold stone fireplace. The small man had children of his own, however in their house, the green stockings had been stained brown after many years of service and they hung limply over the faltering radiator, light enough to be swayed by the most insignificant breeze and they were most definitely laying on the floor at this moment after the strong impact of multiple gales had made the house shiver.
He wished he could be at home today with his thin comforter wrapped around his shoulders, hovering over the frying pan and preparing the single full English breakfast that he and his boys would eat all year. Cooking this meal together had been a family tradition and with the passing of his wife four years ago he had now taken on the mantle of being the sous chef. Today he would have to forgo this joyous ritual and the boys would, as they usually did, take care of themselves. His boss had called him late last night as he had been watching ‘The Grinch’ with his children (another family tradition) and told him in no uncertain terms that if he did not come in to work the next day he would have no work to come back to. As this was the highest paying of his three jobs he saw there to be no choice but to comply, rent needed to be paid. There was no snow today, the idealised white Christmas a long lost dream that moved farther from reality with each year that passed, he strode on this grim, snowless morning into the largest supermarket in town through the perpetually unlocked back entrance.
He flicked the light switch and the fluorescent lights flickered to life and illuminated the locker room that doubled as a storage room due to the impressive number of products that simply refused to sell. The boss had the final say on what they took in but his sense of direction when it came to customer desire was as errant as a compass in an ever-changing magnetic field. The small man stripped himself of a few layers and slipped into his work attire, a plain red t-shirt and comfortable black jeans. As he put on his shoes he closed his eyes and groaned, this was not where he was supposed to be, in this room that stunk of musty moth-ridden old coats and lingering sweat he could smell the sweet aroma of fried sausages and taste the smoke that burst forth from the frying pan. The door to the store swung open and interrupted his hallucination, a stern and wrinkled face appeared before him with eyes as cold and grey as the pavements outside. “What the hell is taking you so long? These lights came on five minutes ago, how long does it take you to get dressed?”, spittle flew across the room and landed a few feet in front of him, he looked down at the droplets on the floor and replied, “Sorry sir, I’m just feeling a bit tired.”. The cold-eyed man gave him a look dripping with contempt, “I don’t care about you being tired, when you come into work you flip a switch. If I ever hear that excuse from you again you’re going to have some major issues.”. He turned to walk back into the store and stopped short, looking back he asked, “Isn’t there something you’re forgetting to say to me?”, he looked at the small man expectantly. The small man remained staring at the floor as he muttered, “Merry Christmas sir.”, “My name’s not sir,” he replied “Say my name.”, the mutter came again, “Merry Christmas Mr Jameson.”. Seemingly satisfied Mr Jameson strolled into the store, leaving the small man staring at the floor, his lip quivering slightly and tears welling up in his eyes prepared to begin trickling down at any moment. His kids had been the people who had heard those words from him first every Christmas, even when his wife had been around, Mr Jameson seemed to be intent on stealing everything that made Christmas special for him. He wiped his reddened eyes, tied his shoelaces and headed into the store.
As he entered he heard fingers snapping a few metres away he followed the sound and found Mr Jameson who simply pointed in the direction of a mop and bucket. He trudged over to them and was berated from behind, “No more sluggishness! If you’re tired pour some of the mop water on your face for fucks sake!”. He quickened his pace and swiftly began mopping the floor, he could not afford to anger Mr Jameson again. He started in front of one of the food aisles, his stomach growled at the sight of the frozen sausages, chicken and bacon, he deeply regretted not at least eating a piece of toast before he left the house. He dipped the mop with multicoloured noodle string hair into the murky waters of the bucket, holding its head below the surface for a few seconds more than necessary before letting it come up for air. As he strained the excess water away he heard their squeals of agony, they begged to be set free from the clutches of the bucket, to be given a chance to roam free. He pressed harder to stifle these cries, to drain every last drop, if he couldn’t leave then why should they? He got to lathering the floor with the droplets that had escaped against the odds and bopped his head to the beat made by the faulty fridge holding the sandwiches.
After mopping the floor there did not seem to be anything to do, those who had worked the night shift on Christmas eve had done an impeccable job, everything was in place, you couldn’t even find the random snicker bar chucked in amongst the Twix. The small man sat in front of his locker in the back room considering whether it would be wise to ask whether he could close up for the day. It was now two in the afternoon and even the howling wind had refused to venture into the store, no doubt scared of Mr Jameson. Asking him could trigger an outburst and cause him to follow through on the threat levied the night before, however, the alternative was to skulk around miserably until the sun descended and return home to salvage the day with his boys, trying to pack a days worth of fun into a few hours. He also struggled to understand why he seemed to be the only person called in today, Mr Jameson had not appeared to be agitated by the fact that no other employees had shown up and was content to kick his feet up in his office. He took a deep breath, rose, and then flopped back down again, it was too great a risk. Two alternative thoughts sprung to his mind as he rested his head against a locker. One was to attempt to arouse the sympathy of Mr Jameson by moping around, looking dejected and possibly shedding a tear or two, that would cause Mr Jameson to enquire about the problem which would allow the small man to verbally inject his sadness into him. If this worked he would be sent home with a pat on the back and maybe even a few toys from the store for his boys, however, with its success hinging on the compassion of Mr Jameson the plan had shaky foundations. His other bright idea was to attempt to call a co-worker and ask them to come in and take over from him for the rest of the day. The more he thought about that the clearer it became to him that he would need to go with his first option, there was no way anybody would voluntarily come to work on Christmas day, especially not this late.
He sat there for another minute, eyes wide and unblinking until they reddened and tears dripped down his cheek. He propped himself up to practice his downtrodden walk as he moved towards the door and once he was sure his performance appeared legitimate he shuffled into the store. Earlier in the day this would have been his natural disposition, however, time had made him frustrated, and sympathy was never given to a frustrated man. He made his way through the route he had mopped through earlier, passing through the food aisle he was able to control the growling in his stomach as he had saturated it with two litres of water, a plop sound was made with each heavy step. After five minutes of trudging around he reached the last aisle of the clothing area, in front of which was the door to Mr Jameson’s office, luckily it was open, all that had to be done was to attract his attention. The small man moved into view and knocked over a jumper suspended on a hanger, they both fell to the floor with the plastic hammer clacking against the tiles and the jumper making a soft thud. Mr Jameson stepped out of his office and this was the trigger for his sniffling to start, he began wiping his eyes in an ashamed manner and turned his back to Mr Jameson as he put the jumper back up. Sheepishly, he turned around to see whether Mr Jameson had been duped; his ever-present scowl seemed to have lessened in severity and he gave what the small man deemed as a sympathetic sigh. “What’s wrong?” he asked, the small man internally pumped his fists, with sympathy aroused the rest of this plan would fall into place seamlessly. He failed to answer the question, leaving it hanging in the air like a guillotine, this clearly frustrated Mr Jameson but he kept his composure and motioned for him to come into his office.
The office was spacious and grand, far grander than what you would expect in a store such as this one. The small man had on numerous occasions stuck his head in through the door to ask for instructions and relay customer grievances but this was his first time stepping foot inside. His reddened eyes surveyed the room, a mahogany chest of drawers was set to the right on top of which were two glass cups inscribed with complex patterns and three bottles of whiskey, the most used one being the Monkey Shoulder. The floor was layered with a carpet, the material of which he could not decipher but as this was the only patch of land protected from the cold, hard tiles its comfort was second to none. Something hung on the wall in the background, he referred to it as something because he could not pinpoint whether it was a picture or painting. He sat in a chair across from Mr Jameson, he had been specifically instructed to sit in that one, as he sat he felt the backrest push back against him and adjusted his position continuously in an attempt to feel comfortable. This was as opposed to Mr Jameson who sunk into his chair, with it seeming to embrace him, the chair next to the small man looked like it would be similarly affectionate. Mr Jameson leaned over his jet black desk and repeated the question he had asked outside, “What’s wrong?”. The small man waited a few seconds before answering, “Sir I feel pained and guilty. On the day of celebration of the birth of our lord Jesus I have ignored my commitment to my family. My sons are at home now, unsure of why their father has left them on today of all days, solemnly waiting for me to return to them. On a day when so many are having fun and making memories with their families here I am in my work clothes moping around. I beg you sir, please let me return to my children and fulfil my duty to them.”. Mr Jameson’s face softened slightly, the scowl now gone completely, leaving a stern expression. He gave another sympathetic sigh and said, “I understand your troubles, I feel for you, but no you cannot leave.”.
The small man’s eyes widened incredulously, his hopes dashed, at that point he could no longer maintain his act, the frustration poured out. “Sir why? Why? What have I done to deserve such unfair treatment? Why have I been the only person called in today? Is your heart so cold that you can’t understand the pain that my children would feel by my absence?”, Mr Jameson stared at him, his scowl had now returned but he said nothing, “Answer me!” the small man demanded. Mr Jameson spoke in a low, aggressive tone, “Look boy, you know I know all about your sob story. Your wife passing, your financial instability, all of it. Again I will say, I feel for you, however, you are not the only one in pain. I myself had a family once, you can see them in the painting on the wall. We were perfect, my daughter, my wife and I. We were doing so well until Julie slit her wrists, I don’t know why she did it, there were no notes left behind, no clues, nothing. We were shell shocked, together my wife and I grieved but I could feel the distance between us growing the more we consoled each other. Once the consolation receded, hate brewed, she blamed me for Julie’s death, saying that I had forced her to live up to unrealistic expectations, that I had pushed her over the edge. Soon after this outburst she, like Julie, left without a word. At this point you can probably tell that I’m a miserable man and as disgusting as it may sound, I called you in because misery loves company. Only you could feel even a modicum of the pain I feel. Your request has been denied.”.
The small man rose from his uncomfortable seat and turned around. As he left he took off his red shirt, this sparked Mr Jameson who stood up and screamed, “I said your request was denied!”, in response the small man raised his middle finger, further incensing the old man. He scurried after him as he made his way to the locker room and pounced upon him, causing them both to tumble to the floor. Mr Jameson ravaged the small man with punches and spittle as he hurled abuse, his face was bloodied and he could feel the strength leaving his body with each strike. They had fallen next to one of the numerous boxes of clothes littering the room and the small man frantically reached out for anything he could, his fingers grabbed onto something thick and he dragged it in front of his face for protection. Suddenly, Mr Jameson began sneezing uncontrollably and his strikes relented as he recoiled, the small man took this opportunity to flip him over, moving him with a jab to his right side and dragging him down. He then placed the thick material he had felt over Mr Jameson’s face and pressed down as hard as he could, Mr Jameson began to writhe in pain and continued to convulse in a fit of sneezing, he attempted to dislodge the small man but his body had lost too much strength. The small man held his weapon in place until all struggle ceased, after which he checked to see whether Mr Jameson remained breathing, to his delight he had not done the unthinkable, the man was alive, he was simply unconscious. The small man hurried to his locker and changed into his clothes, he checked the time on his watch, four o’clock, that left eight hours. He ran through the back entrance and onto the pavement, he would send in a resignation letter tomorrow. He rushed home as the first flakes of snow descended, he grinned as he felt one fall upon his nose, maybe he and the boys could build a snowman.
AAOOA
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