Resurrection

Chapter 2 : The Working Holiday

I heard the sounds of the First Great Western Paddington express shudder past our yard as it passed through the local station. I looked up to see David still stirring in and out of sleep. My room-mate couldn't help but fight against his sleep apnoea on a daily basis. A South African Expat, David was another victim of a Working holiday gone wrong. Lured by the promises of Mother England and the exchange rate, he arrived here only two weeks later than I had but already, he could do little to hide his frustration at the working conditions.

I hoisted myself up from the mattress and drew open the blinds, groaning out a primeval yawn and letting the morning glare pierce my eyes as it cast a harsh light over the bedroom. The view was only too familiar: Two single mattresses on opposite sides of the room separated by a tattered shower curtain and a small picnic table that became our common area. The walls were covered in blue plasticine from where my former Polish room-mate left a collage of pornographic posters; a temporary cover for the dents in the walls. Nothing could explain the mysterious black stain on the carpet though. It was as if a demon filled with bile and shit managed to spill itself in one last final orgy of sloth before seeping into the carpet.

I tried to ignore the stench wafting from the chippy down below as the neighbours followed their weekly ritual of emptying out the fat traps and forcing their tenants to look for other real estate.

I moved over to our gas meter, flicking the button that would warm up our hot water pipes before I attempted the shower. The noise of the ignition starting woke David up. He rubbed his eyes and managed to groan a greeting to me.

"Morning" he said.

"How'd you sleep?" I enquired.

"A lot better than you" he said.

What was he talking about? Could he hear me?

"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked.

"You were punching and kicking all night. There was lots of yelling. You need to do something about that man. This job is stressing you out I think."

Words always flew out like bullets in South African. The guttural alkaline accent pushed every syllable home. English was also a distant second language to him over his native Africkanse.

"Thanks for the concern. I'm going to hit the shower. What time do you start?

"Twelve. It's bullshit. I only have four hours today. How many do you have?"

"Ten." I reply. "It's another split-shift." David was not impressed.

"At least you get the hours. I did not sign up for this part time shit. It's fucking bullshit. You should consider yourself lucky"

How do I tell him the irony of this whole situation? I was working third world hours while he could hardly get any. This was clearly a human resources SNAFU.

"I really don't. We need more staff on up front. "

"Yeah I hear you." He said.

I grabbed my towel and wandered down the corridor to the bathroom. Not exactly a Roman bath-house, the pokey little nook that was our bathroom barely shifted into the shape of the building. Cut into a corner of the flat, you had to lean to the side to stop your head hitting the roof while you showered. This was combined with a toilet that clogged and a basin that only pushed cold water through; the bathroom added to the antiquated sense of disappointment running through the flat. There was a period when the light wouldn't even work, using an old globe which was wired into the circuit and impossible to replace unless you were a half certifiable electrician. We would defacate by candlelight: The most romantic shit a man could take.

I locked the door behind me and began to undress, taking the moment to inspect myself in the mirror. No new wrinkles and no more hair loss; I think I may have just passed my age thirty use-by date in decent fashion. I still cringed at the love handles protruding from my waist. They were slowly shrinking away, but were still a painful reminder of the body fat I still needed to shed just to call myself normal. I had some muscle tone but unfortunately that was overlooked by most. I was the Cadillac of human beings: built for comfort and certainly not speed.

There was still money in the gas meter as the water turned hot and I welcomed one saving grace in an otherwise dismal point in time. I sped through the process, taking few moments to let the hot water soak my head as I expected the heat to run out any moment. I got changed quickly and stumbled down the stair well, pushing out the front door into a Berkshire chill. It was the type of frost which would drown you in its own fragile morbidity, smothering you like an incensed mother at a child beauty pageant.

The weather outside was once again bitterly cold, as I threw my hood over and pushed my IPod ear buds in, letting the sombre tones of Joy division's Love will Tear us Apart set the mood as I marched past a few Emo kids. They stood around pretending to look sad, as though the new depression was a fashion statement; a cultural phase rather than a piece of mind. One of them tried to keep eye contact with me but averted his gaze right at the crucial moment, turning his head downward and feigning more indifference. I had seen people at their most miserable and this was almost a complete reversal, just a plea for attention from another one of society's least interesting specimens; another member of the emotionally impaired.

I stared them down as they eventually moved off, shuffling off awkwardly under their hoodies. My attention was caught as a feral dog ran towards me. Salivating like Cujo, it bounded across the road, narrowly missing an Alfa-Romeo in the process. Teeth bared, it flexed its vocal cords, snarling away at its human opponent. I snapped into a master's pose, yelling at it to sit. Eventually, this confrontation was interrupted by the dog's apparent owner, a mangled old pikey who shouted for its attention. The man would put Brad Pitt to shame, bellowing a mongrel breed of accent half English, half Irish that only the dog could understand. I managed to decode it moments later as something like" get home you bastard" but I don't think he was talking to the dog. The site of the flea-bitten old yellow exiting stage left was a welcome site. I resisted every urge I could to riverdance.

I tried to ignore the previous event and wait for my taxi to pull up. It was not your typical Black English taxi but a private car company grabbing the hitchhiker's pound. The driver reeked of an assortment of sweat, garlic and various body odours and still sported a stain from his last meal; as the last piece of Halal meat formed a lapel on his army disposals jumper. A little bit of friendly banter pushed us through the monotonous green hedge that stood between me and my work. We eventually passed a sign reading 'The Rabbit's Foot' and I switched into work mode.