TIRED OF WAITING (standard:humor, 2719 words)
Author: Hulsey	Added: Sep 02 2002	Views/Reads: 4180/2356	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A queue-hating man's unfortunate dilemna as he waits in line for a bargain.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

"I'm not homeless; I've got..." 

"Och, we all say that. I like to pretend sometimes. It lightens up our
pitiful lives." 

"Excuse me, my life is not pitiful. I'm telling you the truth." 

"Of course ye are," he said, his index finger raking around inside his
hooked nose. 

My stomach was now churning as I watched him studying his prize bogie,
like an artist admiring their painting. Surely he's not going to eat it 
I thought, he wouldn't would he? He did, and swallowed, as I gave him a 
look of disgust. 

"That soup looks delicious. You would not consider sharing it would
yer?" 

I looked into his hard eyes. It was more an order than a request. 

"If you promise to leave afterwards, then you can have some of my soup."


"Yer want me to leave, I thought yer needed company." 

"No, I don't want company." 

"If that's the way ye feel, then we've a deal." 

To my relief, he removed a battered tin mug from his pocket. The thought
of him sharing my cup didn't appeal to me. I poured a decent measure 
into his mug and he slurped noisily. 

"You're a gentleman. What's yer name by the way?" 

"Michael," I answered, keeping my hands firmly in my pockets. There was
no way that I was going to shake his hand this time. 

"Well Mick, seeing as you've been so hospitable, I'm gonna share my pie
with yer." 

I watched as he pulled a mouldy looking pork pie from his pocket and
broke it in half. 

"No thank you, George, I've already eaten." 

He thrust the pie in front of my face and I fought back the vomit,
swallowing deeply. 

"Come on Mick, it's from Munroe's. You'd be surprised the grub they
throw out." 

"Honestly, I'm not hungry;" I gasped, as he took a bite of the mouldy
pie. 

"Mmm, you're dunno know what you're missing, Mick." 

"Michael." 

"What's that, Mick?" 

"Michael, my names Michael." I hated being called Mick. Nobody ever
called me Mick. 

"Michael, Mick, what's the fucking difference?" 

"Could you please leave me alone now?" 

He burped and crammed the rest of the pie into his mouth. "Where are yer
staying, Mick? I know where yer can get a great cardboard box. Come 
with me to Dutton Street and meet the rest of the gang?" 

"No thank you. Please go away." 

"Maybe I'll call back later, Mick. Cheers for the soup my man." 

Was I glad to see the back of him? 

Darkness fell and other bargain hunters joined the queue. Sitting next
to me was a girl, probably in her mid-twenties. She had a permanent 
smile on her face, and she reminded me of Stan Laurel. She had curly, 
red hair and she reeked of cheap perfume. I looked up from my book to 
see her studying me, with that stupid grin etched on her features. 

"Sorry for staring,” she squealed. "Didn't you go to Bertram Ramsey?" 

"No, I'm sorry, you're mistaken." 

"I'm sure I'm not, Paul Holten right?" 

"No, as I've already said, you're mistaken." 

"I never forget a face, Paul." 

Her squeaky voice was now irritating me. "Look! I'm not the person you
think I am. Now if you'll kindly let me get on with my book." 

Two minutes passed€. "You don't half look like him you know, you could
be his brother. Do they call you Holten?" 

"No! They don't call me fucking Holten, and if they did, I wouldn't tell
you." 

"Well sorry for asking. Some people these days, they're so rude." 

"Look, I'm sorry. I've had a bad night, I've a migraine and I cannot get
the smell of fish from my hand. Please let me get on with my book." 

"So that fishy smell, it's you is it?" 

"No it's not me, it's that tramp." 

"What tramp is this then?" 

"Forget it." 

"I could spray some of my perfume on your hand." 

I     relented and decided anything was better than that fish smell. I
settled down again with my book until my guts began to rumble. I broke 
wind and continued to read my book, hoping that nobody would notice. 

"Who the fuck's that?" asked a balding, middle-aged man with a nervous
twitch. 

I waited five minutes and had no choice. I had to empty my guts. "Does
anyone know where there's a toilet please?" 

Squeaky answered. "The nearest one is Frazer Street around the corner." 

"Good, will you mind my place?" 

"But that one's closed down for maintenance," came the shout from a
woman with a plastic headscarf wrapped around her head. 

"Shit! Well where's the nearest toilet then?" 

"Kettering Street," yelled plastic headscarf. She must be a serial bog
spotter. 

"Kettering Street, that's miles away." 

"I know." 

"Look, mind my place anyway. I have to go." 

"No minding places," said the bald man, his head twitching. 

"Pardon me?" 

"Once you go, you've lost your place." 

"I've never heard anything so stupid in all of my life. I want a crap, a
shit. What do you want me to do, have one here?" 

"That's not my concern, you must bide by the rules." 

I watched the others nod their heads in agreement. 

"Listen, I must go," I said, nipping my cheeks together. "We'll continue
this argument later." 

I dashed around to the alley, the snow now heavy. I squatted behind one
of the bins and struggled with my boxer shorts. 

"Yes!" I screamed with relief, as my stomach exploded. A thought came to
me when I relieved myself. I had no toilet tissue. My eyes scanned the 
alley, and a piece of newspaper caught my eye. It was protruding from 
beneath a bin, across the alley. I checked for prying eyes and 
satisfied, I waddled over to the newspaper, my trousers and boxer 
shorts still around my ankles. To my horror, I heard a back gate open. 
I froze against the bin and squatted, hoping not to be seen in my 
predicament. I picked up the newspaper and cleaned myself, as a teenage 
couple who were holding hands passed me, laughing and pointing at me. I 
pulled my trousers up rapidly and ran in the opposite direction; the 
young couple now doubled up. 

As I approached the doorway, my eyed settled on my sleeping bag in the
open, covered with snow. "What the fuck's going on?" 

"We warned you. You've lost you place," smirked Baldy. 

"We'll see about that won't we?" 

I picked up my sleeping bag and wrestled my way to the front. Baldy and
plastic scarf were holding onto me. They finally relented and I sat 
down to settle in for the night. I was freezing, and my wet sleeping 
bag did not help. 

I had just nodded off, when I was awoken by the sound of "Onward
Christian Soldiers." My head was throbbing and here I was, being 
serenaded by the bloody Salvation Army. They had seen us from the 
church across the road and must have felt sorry for our plight. My 
worst nightmare came true, when they settled down with us and continued 
singing those horrible songs, waving their tambourines in our faces and 
handing out soup. 

My evening was complete as they one by one recited passages from the
bible, before singing what must have been every hymn in the book. 

Squeaky and Baldy were loving it. They were encouraging the bible
bashers, and all I wanted to do was to sleep. I was now honestly 
considering going home, but I did not want to give Baldy and co the 
satisfaction. 

It was about midnight when Gemma, my wife pulled up in her precious blue
Mini. 

"Michael, hell, it's cold out here, I see you're in good company," she
said, eying up the Salvation Army who were crooning a rendition of the 
Old Wooden Cross. 

Had she come to relieve me? My hopes were dashed. She had brought fresh
soup and sandwiches. 

"Cheer up Michael, it'll be worth it. Top of the range computer. It'll
soften the blow from last night." 

"Last night? What happened last night?" 

"You remember. Your so-called mates in the front garden with your golf
clubs. The garden's ever such a mess." 

"The garden?" 

"Yes, those terrible divots they made. And Mr Thompson has forgiven you.
He's left the bill." 

"The bill? What bill?" 

"For his greenhouse, Michael. Every window was smashed. He gave you the
golf balls back though." 

"Can this get any worse?" 

"And don't worry about the golf clubs. Three or four of them are okay.
Perhaps you can bend the others back into shape." 

"My golf clubs are bent?" 

"My Michael, you must have been drunk." 

She sniffed the air. "What is that smell?" 

"Oh, that. It's perfume," I said, motioning over to Squeaky. 

"No, the perfumes on you, Michael." 

Sue looked towards the smiling girl. "You bastard! I cannot leave you
alone for one-minute can I? And with a horse-faced hussy." 

"Excuse me," said Squeaky. 

Gemma slapped her face and a scuffle broke out. It resembled an all in
wrestling match, as the fight continued onto the pavement. Finally, I 
managed to calm Gemma down, but as she drove away, she was mumbling 
profane threats about divorce. 

I settled down once more and eventually nodded off. 

"Good morning," was the greeting of the store manager as he unlocked the
department store. We were requested to wait five minutes whilst the 
staff took their places. My head had cleared and I now felt good. All 
that waiting would surely reap its rewards. 

The manager returned. "Congratulations, Sir, you're our first customer
and you can have the choice of the store.” 

I entered the premises. The staff all wore Santa hats and greeted me
with a smile. I approached a camp looking fellow, his hands clasped 
together. 

"Well, Sir, the pick of the store is yours. What is your fancy," he
winked. 

"The computer," I said, clutching my hundred pounds, and casting a
satisfied smirk at Squeaky, Baldy and co, whose greedy faces were 
pressed against the door. 

"Computer, Sir?" 

"Yes, the one advertised in the Evening Gazette. You know, the one for
one hundred pounds." 

The camp assistant scowled and looked towards the manager. "I think
there's been some mistake, Sir, we don't stock computers. That's our 
other store in Stockton." 

That's when I think I flipped. I swear that I saw a pink elephant soar
over the assistant's head. The door was opened and the other customers 
stampeded into the store, greedily buying anything with the word sale 
attached to it. 

Baldy clasped his television and was standing at the till, smirking at
me, his head twitching profusely. 

I marched over and grabbed the television, throwing it to the floor and
gleefully watching as it smashed into a thousand pieces. Squeaky 
watched me suspiciously, as I approached. She put her arms around her 
stereo system. I picked up a video recorder and threw it at the stereo, 
narrowly missing Squeaky. My dissatisfaction at not getting the PC had 
been lessened. 

As you can imagine, I was arrested and copped for a heavy fine, along
with damages. Gemma never divorced me, and forgave me for the perfume 
incident. As for queues, don't say that I never warned you! 


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