I WAS JUST TRYING TO BE FUNNY | ✓

▬ 42: in the relativity of the situation, my wickedness is absolute

             Leaning against the stack of cardboard boxes filled with biscuit packets, Baine stares at me with eyebrows raised to his hairline. 'No.' His voice is torn between amusement and anger. 'No fucking chance. Michael told me all about your scenes when you worked for him.'

I've had so many employers over my teenage years that "Michael" means little to me, yet it's not difficult to infer was my boss at Tesco.

I do my best to meet Baine's eye but his traffic cone Sainsbury's vest combined with the fluorescent lighting that sears my retina whenever I try. 'Why would he tell you about that? You're rivals.'

Baine returns to stocking the shelves of biscuits. 'The companies we work for are rivals. We're actually neighbours.'

Perfect. 

'That was over two years ago. I was on the wrong meds. I'm not gonna do that now.'

'You think I'm gonna hire some loony with the worst track record I've seen? I'd be happier if you'd never worked a day in your life and had no experience but you've been sacked from six jobs and you're eighteen years old.' Baine jabs at me with a gingersnap packet. 'Now piss off before you scare my customers.'

I stare desperately at him for a moment before I slug out of the shop. The overcast has broken in my five minutes inside; I'm quick to squint and shield my eyes but it does little to ease the pulsating at my temples once it has started.

Quetiapine is the worst of my medications so far. Normally, the migraines fade after a few days, but I started quetiapine over a week ago and still can't bear to watch telly. Or anything else brighter than a magnetic drawing board.

I dig the crumpled list from the pocket of my trousers — my uniform trousers because they're the only semi-formal ones I own — and frown.

The past three days have passed with me begging for every job available in Sufsdale. I asked all my previous employers and phoned every number from every notice board with no luck. Everyone either hired summer workers already or they just don't want me, which I guess is fair, because I hardly have glowing recommendations. I, in fact, have no recommendations.

But it's not my fault. My frequent tardiness had nothing to do with my unreliability and everything to do with Tristan and Lysander. And when it comes to Tesco... well, I didn't misdiagnose and prescribe myself SSRIs either. It's not my fault that my hallucinations interfered with my work performance.

The issue with boring towns like Sufsdale is that gossip is the best hobby most people can find so of course everybody knows. Have all my efforts since Edenfield been entirely redundant?

I thought Ronny at the least would give me a few hours a week, but he can't afford to employ anyone. No matter how many times I insisted that I'll work for two quid an hour, that I don't care how illegal it is, I "just need something", Ronny's a product of being working class during Thatcher and the only thing he has left is his principles.

I drag my feet past Under the Dryer only to slow to a halt. My gaze is so dull on the buzzer to Dal's apartment that I wouldn't see the numbers even if they weren't worn off. A lazy debate begins in my mind, less ping pong and more DVD screensaver that lags from one edge to another. Affirmative wins; I ring the buzzer, though only once and awkwardly announce myself into it.

Dal unlocks the door without verbal response, When I reach the third floor, he's waiting in the dusty corridor. This is the first time I've seen him since my attack or episode or whatever it was. He looks no different. I'm sure I do.

He scans my flat cornrows, puffy eyes, and chapped lips as I lag over to him. 'Wallahi, blud, you look like shit.'

'I'm recovering from pneumonia,' I say though he knows the truth. Is it a lie or a joke? Is there a difference?