42: suicide attempt

Ian is in his room.

Good.

He is listening to Elliott Smith very loud. He is listening to ‘Needle in the Hay’. This is the song they used in the suicide-attempt scene of The Royal Tenenbaums. Ian knows this. I know this too. We watched that film together.

The song ends. Then it starts again. Then it ends. Then it starts again.

The song is played the whole time it takes for me to make beans on toast, eat them, and wash up my plate and saucepan and knife and fork.

I imagine Ian attempting suicide as I eat my dinner and wash up my things.

I go up the stairs. I pass Ian’s room.

You idiot kid / You don’t have a clue, sings Elliott Smith from Ian’s room.

I knock on Ian’s door.

Ian opens his door.

You okay? I ask him.

Yeah, says Ian.

Needle in the hay / Needle in the hay, says Elliott Smith.

You sure?

Yeah.

Now just guitar being strummed.

I peer into Ian’s room. There is no obvious suicide attempt being carried out in here. There is just Ian’s bed and Ian's desk and Ian's computer (a Kate Moss screensaver blinking) and an open packet of crisps and Ian in the doorway, looking at me.

Ian closes his door.

So I go and lie down on my bed and try and think about Carmella but she keeps turning into Carol, and then Elliott Smith stabbing himself in the heart with a knife, and then Carol again. Carmella is busy hiding away in which ever country she comes from. I don’t have a stereo. I listen to ‘Needle in the Hay’ until I fall asleep.

41: traitor

I stop by Linda’s house on the way home.

I ring the door bell.

An old man comes to the door. He stands behind the glass.

Who is it? he calls through the glass.

It’s a friend of Linda’s, I call back. Is she in?

Linda’s sick, he says.

I stand there for a while.

The old man stands there too, behind the glass.

I take a banana from my bag and post it through the letterbox. It falls onto the carpet of Linda’s house. The old man bends down and picks it up.

Goddamn you, Linda, I say very quietly.

Thank you, the old man calls through the glass at me. Thank you!

I watch the shape of the old man carrying the banana off into the darkness of Linda’s hall and the movement of his elbow as he starts to unpeel it.

When I get to the end of the drive I look back at the house.

Goddamn you, Linda.

40: dog biscuit

We don’t get the job done.

Tomorrow, my boss will be waiting for me and wanting me to explain myself. He will be shaking his head at me. He will be disappointed. He will be frantic with disappointment. And some part of me will care about this. It will feel guilty and eager to please him and do anything it can to put right the wrong I have done him.

Meanwhile, another part of me will be watching this first part disgustedly, as if the first part is a carefully manicured poodle, standing on its hind legs, performing a trick in return for a biscuit, and the second part is a bitter, wheelchaired kid – no legs below the knee – left in the shade of the now-closed gift shop, while the rest of his family are off using the public toilets (a sign: ‘key for disabled toilet in gift shop!’ tacked to the door).

39: pep talk

Right, replenishment assistants. No more messing around here. We have twenty five minutes to get this job done. Okay? Do I make myself understood?

I said, DO I MAKE MYSELF UNDERSTOOD?

Right. Andy. Your job is get the fruit and veg from the store room onto the shop floor as quick as possible. Get one of those trolleys. Pile it up and drag it in and just sort of tip it all into the aisles, okay? Don’t worry about making a mess.

Now Lee, what I want you to do is to get that little business-card-sized yellow cloth and the cleaning spray, and when Andy starts tipping all the fruit and veg into the aisles, start spraying it and wiping it all down with the cloth. Got it? I want to see my face in those fruit and vegetabes, Andy.

Sarah? You and me are going to be alphabetising. Apples, baby new potatoes bananas down this end; spinach, turnips, etc. over by the doors.

Right, let’s get to it, replenishment assistants.

Wait. Hold on. Put your hands in here for a second. Like this. Sarah, you too.

Now … gimme a P.

P!

Gimme an R.

R!

Gimme an O.

O!

Gimme a D.

D!

Gimme a U.

U!

Gimme a C.

C!

Gimme an E.

E!

What does it spell?

I said, WHAT DOES IT SPELL?

The replenishment assistants look back at me blankly.

38: TO DO:

• All fruit and vegetables moved from store room to shop floor.
• All fruit and vegetables to be arranged in alphabetical order.
• All fruit and vegetables to be cleaned until shining. This includes ‘matte-finish’ items such as broccoli, carrots, potatoes, etc.

untitled 'supermarket nightmare' photoshoot, part 2

37: worried moth

My boss appears again. He is suddenly walking around the stacks of bananas and apples shaking his head. He is picking up other pieces of fruit and vegetables and shaking his head at them too. He looks distressed. His head flutters around like a shining worried moth under the strip lights.

He goes to his office.

The part time evening replenishment assistants arrive. They are three and a half hours late. They show up thirty minutes before the end of their shifts.

Sorry, they say. We got lost on the way again.

Where’s Linda? they say.

Linda called in sick, I say.

My boss returns. He is holding a piece of paper. I look at the piece of paper he is holding. It is a ‘TO DO’ list. He says something about us getting the things on the list done quickly, before the shop closes. I look at my watch. We have twenty five minutes ‘to do’ the things on the list.

child murder

i am going to write a short story called 'i will murder the tiny break-dancing child'. the short story will feature the line 'i will urinate into my own heart' somewhere in it. i will post this story on here once it is written. it has nothing to do with working in a supermarket. i am sick of working in a supermarket. i will urinate into my own heart.

36: Linda

Where’s Linda? I think.

I stop buffing and stacking bananas and go up to the office with the old lady in it.

Where’s Linda? I ask the old lady.

Linda? says the old lady. She looks through some bits of paper. She finds something and looks at it for a while. Linda called in sick today, she says.

Do you mind if I use the phone and call her?

Go ahead, says the old lady. She passes me a sheet with Linda’s contact details on it. I look at the address. Linda lives down the road from me.

I dial the number on the sheet.

It rings. Someone picks up. Hello? someone says, warily.

Linda? I ask.

Hang on, the voice says. There is the sound of someone walking away and saying Linda? Phone for you, and then someone else walking to the phone. In the background is the sound of a TV.

Hello? says another voice.

Linda?

Linda’s sick.

Put Linda on.

Who is this?

This is the supermarket.

Linda’s sick. She can’t come in.

Is this Linda?

Linda’s sick. I just told you.

Linda, if this is you, then please come in to work. We really need you. It’s an emergency. We have a fruit emergency here at the supermarket.

I’m sorry. I’ve got to go.

Linda?

Sorry.

Linda. Please. God.

Goodbye.

Linda?

Dial tone.

35: disappointment

Carmella is in the staff room. She is eating some soup. There is a banana next to her soup. I wonder if it is one of the bananas I have stacked. Of course it is, I tell myself. I watch her eat the soup. I wait for her to get to the banana. I want to watch the banana disappear. Carmella eating a banana. I wait. She knows I’m looking. She fidgets around in her chair. She looks up at me. I look down. I look up again. She looks down. She finishes her soup. I wait for the banana. Carmella. Carmella vs. the banana. She looks up again. I look away. I look back. She is standing. She is picking up the banana and not eating it and carrying it out of the staff room with her.

I look round in panic. I look for someone or something to somehow change the course of events in my life and to make them make more sense or to make them more kind or more reasonable or more fulfilling.

No one does anything.

34: Carmella vs. Carol

chapter 34, 'Carmella vs. Carol' is guest-appearing at Six Sentences.

33: Ian?

Ian is sitting in the kitchen in the morning. He is crying. He is crying very quietly. There is no sound. Just crying. A kind of silent hiss. Wet streaks on his face.

Ian? I say.

Ian?

Ian?

I want to tell Ian about Carmella, the new girl. I want to describe her to him. I want him to stop crying so I can describe her. I want to refer to her first as ‘the new girl’ and then later as Carmella. I want to say her name out loud for the first time.

Ian?

Ian?

Ian?

But Ian doesn’t respond so I make some toast instead.

32: calm orange light

I wake up at four in the morning. The rain is pounding against the window. An orange light is coming in through the window. I threw away my curtains. I get out of bed and go and look at the orange light. The whole outside is orange, like a kind of calm fire, and the rain is stopping me from seeing anything past it, just the orange light.

I stand looking at the orange light.

My stomach trembles.

I get back into bed.

I dream of going into work and stacking the fruit and vegetables for a while, and then going on my lunch, and then stacking the fruit and vegetables, and then going on my break, and then stacking the fruit and vegetables, and then going home and avoiding Ian as much as possible, and then eating something late at night, and then getting into bed.

I wake up.

31: apples

I take an apple down from the tower of crates and spray some of the cleaner onto it. Then I buff the apple with the tiny yellow cloth. Then I carry the apple out to the produce section and stack in on top of the other apples. Then I go back into the store room. Then I take another apple down from the tower of crates and spray some of the cleaner onto it. Then I buff the apple with the tiny yellow cloth. Then I carry the apple out to the produce section and stack in on top of the other apples. Then I go back into the store room. Then I take another apple down from the tower of crates and spray some of the cleaner onto it. Then I buff the apple with the tiny yellow cloth. Then I carry the apple out to the produce section and stack in on top of the other apples. Then I go back into the store room. Then I take another apple down from the tower of crates and spray some of the cleaner onto it. Then I buff the apple with the tiny yellow cloth. Then I carry the apple out to the produce section and stack in on top of the other apples. Then I go back into the store room. Then I take another apple down from the tower of crates and spray some of the cleaner onto it. Then I buff the apple with the tiny yellow cloth. Then I carry the apple out to the produce section and stack in on top of the other apples. Then I go back into the store room. Then I take another apple down from the tower of crates and spray some of the cleaner onto it. Then I buff the apple with the tiny yellow cloth. Then I carry the apple out to the produce section and stack in on top of the other apples. Then I go back into the store room. Then I take another apple down from the tower of crates and spray some of the cleaner onto it. Then I buff the apple with the tiny yellow cloth. Then I carry the apple out to the produce section and stack in on top of the other apples. Then I stop for a moment and wonder what the fuck I am doing. Then I take another apple down from the tower of crates and spray some of the cleaner onto it. Then I buff the apple with the tiny yellow cloth. Then I carry the apple out to the produce section and stack in on top of the other apples.

30: pause

I shouldn’t care about my job.

I should be like a character from an American film.

Maybe the likeable, best-friend character, who is only doing this job until the thing he really wants to do takes off. Whatever that is.

I am a humorous sub-plot in the film.

Or maybe I am the main character, and the whole film is about me ‘overcoming the odds’ of working in a bad job in a supermarket.

Or maybe I am just one of the many extras, and there is only one supermarket scene, and I am only on-screen for maybe one to two seconds, stacking some red shiny apples in the background, as the main character walks past me down the produce aisle.

You press pause and freeze me. You press the ‘frame advance’ button. I am in the background, my arm extending, jerkily, putting another shiny red apple on the pile of shiny red apples, one frame at a time. I am on screen for exactly thirty two frames.

Then you let go of the pause button.

29: buffing

I am standing next to the two towers in the store room. Apples and bananas. There is no one else in the store room. The store room is quiet, deserted.

I blink.

Now my boss is standing next to me. He is saying something frantic and apologetic and angry. It sounds like he is saying something about cleaning. About cleaning all the bananas and apples. About getting all the apples and bananas put out quickly in the next hour or so and also about cleaning them. There is more, too, a lot more – a whole other 84% of what he is saying which is completely unintelligible.

He goes away.

I stand there for five minutes looking up at the towers.

He comes back carrying a bottle of spray-cleaner and a little yellow duster. The duster is about the size of a business card. He goes away again. I hear him clanging around at the back of the store room. He comes back with a step ladder. He sets up the step ladder next to the tower of apples. He climbs the step ladder. He gets to the top of the step ladder. He takes something from the top crate. He climbs back down the stepladder.

See? he says, showing me the apple in his hand.

A red apple.

He sprays a bit of cleaner onto the apple, then vigorously, frantically, apologetically buffs the red apple with the little business-card-sized yellow duster. When he is finished, he shows it to me again.

See? he says.

The apple is now shining.

He hands me the apple, the spray and the duster.

I blink and he disappears.

i got some time off from the supermarket

i interviewed H.P. Tinker for 3am magazine.

my short story 'Honesty' appears in issue four of The Paris Bitter Hearts Pit, which is available to buy now, i think.

tomorrow i am going away for three days. the untitled 'supermarket nightmare' will continue in my absence. my friend Chris will handle the 'administration'.

28: baked potato heaven

I watch the man drive away. His job is to drive between warehouses and supermarkets in his green uniform. He listens to the radio or tapes. He looks out of the window. He parks in a lay by and gets out to have a stretch. His back cracks a bit. He goes over to the bushes and has a long piss. The sun is warm but not burning in the sky. He walks back along the hard shoulder, only twenty metres or so, to the baked potato stall he passed. He buys a baked potato.

Nice day, he says to the woman who serves him the baked potato (tuna and cheese).

Mmmm, she says. Lovely day today. Two pounds for that, love.

The man pays for his baked potato.

He carries it back to the lorry.

He opens the door and puts the potato on the driver’s seat, then climbs in. He transfers the potato to his lap. The warmth of it creeps into his thighs like a piss stain.

It feels nice.

Baked potato.

Heaven.

untitled stock market nightmare

the untitled 'supermarket nightmare' has just been somehow added on the blog shares website. i did not add it. i do not know what the blog shares website is, exactly, but from a cursory glance it looks like it contains all the 'thrills and spills' of the real stock market. please go onto this website and somehow buy shares in my blog and in doing so make my blog a 'considerable force' on the blog stock market.

27: bananas

A man comes and finds me in the afternoon. I am shuffling some carrots around. I am arranging them by length. The man is wearing a green uniform. I am wearing a purple uniform.

Do you work here, mate? the man asks me.

Yes, I say.

Got a delivery for you then, he says.

I follow him out the back, through the store room, into the yard.

In the yard is a lorry. Next to the lorry is a palate of crates. The crates all have the same word written on them.

Where do you want them? the man says.

26: new girl

On my way to the staff room I see a new girl at one of the tills. They have put her on the one at the far end, away from all the other girls. She is very pretty. She has black hair. Her skin is light brown. I wonder which country she comes from.

In the staff room I sit near Dave who does the trolleys.

We don’t speak for about twenty minutes.

Then I ask him about the new girl.

Which new girl? says Dave.

The one on the tills, I say.

Which one on the tills? says Dave.

I describe her.

Oh, Carmella? says Dave. That’s Carmella.

When did she start? I say.

Six or seven months ago, says Dave.

25: sorry

It doesn’t make any sense. The supermarket only has so much space in it for apples. The space for apples is about 3 metres x 2 metres. The apples in the tower would need about 3,000 metres x 2,000 metres space.

I don’t want to think about what the words ‘afternoon’, ‘delivery’, and ‘bananas’ might mean.

I decide to forget about the apples and focus on all the other produce. It is still in the chiller. The produce on the shop floor is thin. We are receiving, on average, around three complaints an hour. The staff from the other departments are beginning to hate me. They are constantly having to go out the back and get produce from the chiller for angry customers.

I will not make a joke here about the ‘fruitlessness’ of things.

I get about 1/100^th of the things in the chiller put out.

Before I go on my break, I go into the chiller and get a lettuce and put it on the concrete floor. I use the lettuce leaves to write ‘I’M SORRY’ on the floor. I use a grape for the full stop.

24: note tied to peach stone

Dear Carol,

I have gotten over you. I am in love with a tower of apples now. Please pass my regards onto your knee,

X

23: peach stone

I walk to the tower of apples and stand next to it. Then I walk into the chiller and look at all the other fruit and vegetables that my boss wants me to put out. Then I go and look at the tower again. Then I go out and have a walk around the produce department. I rearrange some broccoli into a more ‘appealing’ shape. I go back into the chiller and sit down on one of the crates. There are no cameras in the chiller. I eat two grapes and a peach. Afterwards, I look at the peach stone for a while. It looks very small and sad. I put it in my pocket. I imagine having a very cold wank in here. I eat another grape. I imagine walking over to Carol’s house after work and tying a note to the peach stone and throwing it at her window. The peach stone does not shatter the window. It bounces off the glass and falls into her garden.

22: two things at once

Apples. Crates of apples. I must do the same thing I have been doing all last week except now with apples. Oh christ. I look around for the replenishment assistants. It is Monday morning. The replenishment assistants only work evenings and weekends. I look around for them anyway. I look in the toilets. I look in the aisles. I look in the staff room. They aren’t there. They are at home or at college or having a nice lie down in the park. I look in the chiller. My boss is in the chiller. Beads of condensation are forming on his head. A sheen of frost. He is waiting in here for me with his hands on his hips.

I look at his stern face.

He asks me something, frantically.

I don’t know what it is.

He is waiting for me to answer the question.

I don’t know, I say.

He is pointing at all the produce in the chiller.

Not even 16%. Nothing. 0%.

I don’t know, I say.

I am looking at the crates he is pointing at. They are all the other fruit and vegetables that didn’t get put out this week. About a thousand crates. I want to throw them all away. That would be the easiest thing to do. I want a job which is just throwing things away. I want to climb inside one of the crates and throw myself away with them.

Then he takes me out to the tower of apples.

He points at it.

He says something.

The only words I understand are 'delivery', 'afternoon', and 'bananas'.

21: something apples

I don’t even make it in the door. My boss is standing at the front entrance, Monday morning. The sun is using the surface of his head to reflect directly into my eyes.

Something something bananas, he says at me from across the carpark.

Sorry, I say once I have reached him. Pardon?

Something something BANANAS?

Oh, I say. We threw them away.

Something something authority.

Um …

Something something taking the piss.

Sorry.

Good job something something apples.

Right.

I wait to see if there is more but it looks like he’s finished.

Something something store room, he says as I pass.

I walk along the empty aisles.

I go up the stairs.

I go into the staff room.

I hang up my coat.

I go out of the staff room.

I clock in.

I go down the stairs.

I go into the store room.

I wish I still smoked.

There is a new tower of something in the store room.

20: pessimism

Things are fucked again.

19: optimism

Things are looking up.

untitled spoon nightmare

spoon are posting one new track from their album every day. i like spoon a lot. i listened to 'black like me' on repeat when i wrote a few of the chapters for this. (that one isn't online yet.)

18: Ian's mum

I take Ian to the pub.

The drinks are on me, I tell Ian.

Ian likes cycling. I never talk to Ian about cycling. Tonight I talk to Ian about cycling.

Where is the best place Ian has ever cycled to or from?

What is the highest speed Ian has ever achieved on his bike (or someone else’s)?

What is Ian’s favourite thing about cycling?

Does Ian sometimes wish for a world without other forms of traffic, or does having to ride around lorries, buses, vans, etc., make cycling more exciting?

Ian replies warily and monosyllabically, as if I am asking intimate questions about his mum.

17: my wives

When all the bananas are thrown away the shop looks very empty. It makes me walk differently. I feel good. I want to put my arms around the replenishment assistants and pay them compliments and take them out to the pub with me afterwards. I want to buy them drinks and packets of crisps and things. I want to invite them round to my house and give them drugs and get them stoned and make wild love to them.

I will marry them all – Andy, Lee, and Sarah.

Not Linda though.

The black brown bananas are stacked now in the skip in the back yard.

We can concentrate on normal produce again.

Finally.

Apples, tomatoes, broccoli, etc.

I wear my relief like a uniform.

untitled publicity nightmare

the novel has just got a mention at the Manchizzle blog.

16: rotting

The bananas are rotting. In the morning we get seventeen complaints. The complaints are about the bananas. We have put bananas all around the shop. We have put them in piles by the cigarette counter, and the doors, and in the frozen food aisle, and the beers wines and spirits section. Now they are rotting. They are a black brown colour.

People find them offensive.

People look at them and are reminded of their own mortality.

At least ten of the complaints come from old people.

One complaint comes from a young mother. She is almost in tears. She is very sensitive and lacking in sleep. She says what we are doing is ‘unethical’.

The complaints filter up the stairs and into my boss’s office.

He comes down the stairs and finds us.

Where’s Linda? he asks first of all.

Linda’s called in sick, I tell him.

Linda always calls in sick.

I have been working at the supermarket for almost a year.

I have never met Linda.

Then he says something which no one understands.

What? we ask him.

He says it again.

What? we say.

He says it a third time, then goes back to his office.

The replenishment assistants look at me.

I am in charge of them.

I make six p more an hour than them.

I pretend I’ve understood what he said.

He says we have to throw away all the bananas, I say.

untitled 'supermarket nightmare' photoshoot

15: knee barnacle

I wake up with the urge to call in sick.

I don’t call in sick.

I have never called in sick.

I arrive at work too early – fifteen minutes – and have nothing to do but flip through yesterday’s paper and keep looking up at the clock.

I am still not smoking. I am chewing my nails and throwing things away instead. I want to buy some more things so I can throw them away. I want to de-clutter my life, like I am completing the exercises in some sort of self-help book or television programme. I want to throw away the things in my head, too. The memories of Carol, etc.

I want to throw away Carol’s knee, but it clings to the inside of my head like a barnacle.

untitled 'supermarket nightmare' competition

i am starting an untitled 'supermarket nightmare' competition. the competition is titled "write chapter 50". if you would like to enter the competition, please write chapter 50 and post it below as a comment. you have about thirty days or so to enter.
if anyone enters, i will choose the entry i like best and it will be chapter 50.
i don't think anyone will enter the competition.
if you enter the competition it might really fuck up the writing of this novel.
please enter the competition.

the rules:
you must write chapter 50.
you must use the names of the characters, the situation, etc, that has already been set up in the novel.
the chapter must be at least one word long.

14: dream of my boss's head

I am riding a horse. The horse is my boss’s head. It is shining. The horse is galloping. The galloping is my boss’s head. It is shining. I am riding through a field. The field is my boss’s head. It is shining. We reach a stream. The stream is my boss’s head. It is shining. The horse neighs. The neigh is my boss’s head. It is shining. There are little fish, swimming, in the stream. The little fish, swimming, are my boss’s head, swimming, in my boss’s head. They are shining. It is shining. The horse throws me off its back and I die. My death is also my boss’s head. It is also shining.

I wake up holding a pillow and think that the phone is ringing and that the pillow is Carol. But the pillow isn’t Carol and my phone isn’t ringing and my phone hasn’t rung now for three days.

Four in the morning.

13: then Ian's pasta again

Oh christ.