Night out. [Short story] Atmosphere, imagery,twist.
The Stores was amazing. Again. The fake I.D. worked just fine. You had to hold it away from the light. The sellotape and ink that took 4 hours to perfect were given a cursory glance by a steroidal side of beef in a black bomber jacket. He was too preoccupied staring at a scuffle down the hill and wishing he was there, to notice Jack didn't have much in common with the picture on the card.
Inside was a car crash. Half of Jack's pals were drunk from the bus trip to town. His girlfriend spent the first half hour pulling and yanking her red dress to undo the puritanical efforts her mother had set it with. "Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god!",seemed to be her default phrase. High pitched when sighting a friend in the crowd, grunted while dress-adjusting. It was already past midnight. Judging by the garish scenes unfolding in front of him, Jack knew the night had already been a roaring success. His friends danced, courted, necked shots and cavorted like only uninhibited youth can. Everyone shone with perspiration and inebriation. Success.
The old town is full of narrow lanes and rat-runs. Great if you want to disappear into the shadows with a fella or young wan. Not ideal if you are trying to locate the last of your passengers for the trip home. Imagine searching for plumes of breath in doorways in the artic air. 53 seats. All but 3 filled. The kebabish was empty. Shutters slapping down. The bus smelled like a strawberry air freshener. A cloud of vape steaming windows. Jack dialled and re-dialled the missing men. Two arrived together, holding each other upright. Starched white shirts now beer and ketchup-stained trophies. They got a hero's cheer on the bus steps. Then an answered phone.
"Not going."
"She's some yoke".
"Tis grand. I'll ring the Ma."
"Good luck!"
And they were off. Lurching along through too many traffic lights and roundabouts. The pukers, forewarned, sat up front. It only took two stops saturating the hard-shoulder with vomit or worse in the frost to make it back to the rendezvous at Tesco. Once there, parents gathered to retrieve blanched or blushing teenagers, harsh words held until inside warm cars.
Jack and the driver set to work for treasure. A carrier bag of e-cigarettes. One hundred and seventy three euros in lost money down/ between seats. Eighteen assorted and unopened beer cans. Only two good phones.
Then the hard work. Latex gloves. Then a mop and bucket and drum of water from the luggage bay underneath. Wipes and bleach. Finished, Jack handed Miko the two hundred as promised. He was sure Miko had pocketed some of the detritus hidden between seats as they cleaned, as a tip. No way would the bus owner know about the extra 'trip'. Jack, sober as any entrepreneur should be, sat on the kerb as the bus left and did his calculations. The electronic items? Three to four hundred in the Chinese-run second-hand place. Eight hundred from the bus. His Dad would give him fifteen for the beer.
Five trips this year and three more before school was over forever. So he didn't get to be drunk and enjoy the night? A little bit of cleaning was okay too if the counting was anything to go by. Besides, it wasn't as if a rummy of a Dad and an unseen Mother would bankroll business college. Nope, it was up to him.
Inside was a car crash. Half of Jack's pals were drunk from the bus trip to town. His girlfriend spent the first half hour pulling and yanking her red dress to undo the puritanical efforts her mother had set it with. "Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god!",seemed to be her default phrase. High pitched when sighting a friend in the crowd, grunted while dress-adjusting. It was already past midnight. Judging by the garish scenes unfolding in front of him, Jack knew the night had already been a roaring success. His friends danced, courted, necked shots and cavorted like only uninhibited youth can. Everyone shone with perspiration and inebriation. Success.
The old town is full of narrow lanes and rat-runs. Great if you want to disappear into the shadows with a fella or young wan. Not ideal if you are trying to locate the last of your passengers for the trip home. Imagine searching for plumes of breath in doorways in the artic air. 53 seats. All but 3 filled. The kebabish was empty. Shutters slapping down. The bus smelled like a strawberry air freshener. A cloud of vape steaming windows. Jack dialled and re-dialled the missing men. Two arrived together, holding each other upright. Starched white shirts now beer and ketchup-stained trophies. They got a hero's cheer on the bus steps. Then an answered phone.
"Not going."
"She's some yoke".
"Tis grand. I'll ring the Ma."
"Good luck!"
And they were off. Lurching along through too many traffic lights and roundabouts. The pukers, forewarned, sat up front. It only took two stops saturating the hard-shoulder with vomit or worse in the frost to make it back to the rendezvous at Tesco. Once there, parents gathered to retrieve blanched or blushing teenagers, harsh words held until inside warm cars.
Jack and the driver set to work for treasure. A carrier bag of e-cigarettes. One hundred and seventy three euros in lost money down/ between seats. Eighteen assorted and unopened beer cans. Only two good phones.
Then the hard work. Latex gloves. Then a mop and bucket and drum of water from the luggage bay underneath. Wipes and bleach. Finished, Jack handed Miko the two hundred as promised. He was sure Miko had pocketed some of the detritus hidden between seats as they cleaned, as a tip. No way would the bus owner know about the extra 'trip'. Jack, sober as any entrepreneur should be, sat on the kerb as the bus left and did his calculations. The electronic items? Three to four hundred in the Chinese-run second-hand place. Eight hundred from the bus. His Dad would give him fifteen for the beer.
Five trips this year and three more before school was over forever. So he didn't get to be drunk and enjoy the night? A little bit of cleaning was okay too if the counting was anything to go by. Besides, it wasn't as if a rummy of a Dad and an unseen Mother would bankroll business college. Nope, it was up to him.
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