The Lonely Walk: Chapter Eight

Jif drifted in and out of sleep. He could feel himself laughing, even though he didn't know what he was laughing at. He took another swig of absinthe; the burning sensation came back, as did his smile. Iffy was asleep again and hadn't moved. And the sunlight beamed its way into the car, illuminating his face. He still didn't flinch; deep sleep.
"Iffy," called Jif, waving the bottle, "treat yourself!" He clutched the bottle to his chest and tried to hold himself, not sure where his left hand was in the seat. "You never had, like, a proper beer." Iffy still wasn't reacting. Jif was wondering whether Iffy was dead or if he was dreaming. "Iffy," he called. Still no response.
Jif felt a frown on his face as the car slowed down. He peered through the glass and saw he was pulling up outside Lime.Inc. He was home again, but he wasn't happy. He felt the loneliness return in his body. Even with the sunshine, he still felt cold and unhappy.
Jif felt a slight dip in the car and a slam of a car door. The chauffeur came back into view and reached for the door. The door lock clunked. A swoosh of cold air flew into the car along with the sound of regular traffic. A squeak from Jif's left told him that Iffy was moving and awake.
The chauffeur didn't say anything; he just kept smiling. The limo was Lime.Inc's property, but it probably had another job to do somewhere else, just as Jif had to pack up and leave. He took a deep sigh and swooped his foot out of the footwell, onto the sidewalk outside. They stood up outside and paced towards the black gate, with the sound of Iffy scuttling behind him. The car door slammed shut behind him, and the clip-clop of the chauffeur's shoes echoed in Jif's mind.
"Panget," called Jif, his throat feeling like sandpaper. He stuck out his right hand and chimed the bottle against the irons bars several times to make a dull ringing noise. The gate swung open, and Jif stepped forward into the chamber. He was going over the same laborious process that left him feeling terribly lonely. The gate slammed shut behind him, and the gate in front swiftly opened. He took two steps forward out of the cage and spun round to the gate, which slammed shut again. The same process was repeated for Iffy, and he waited for him to come through. Side by side both men walked into the building; Jif didn't want to walk on his own.
"Hello, boys," mumbled Mitzvah from behind the desk without looking up. Jif took another swig from the bottle as he paced to the elevator. It was open and ready for use. Iffy snuck into the corner and pressed the button. The doors slid shut, and the car moved up. After ten seconds, it pinged on the third floor, opening the doors. As one, the men stepped out, but Iffy suddenly stepped sideways and stood up against the wall. Jif hesitated but said nothing, clutching both arms to his chest, defensive.
He walked by himself along the beige corridor to his bedroom, and the loneness filled every inch of him. Closing the door of the bedroom, he downed the last of the absinthe and spun the empty bottle towards a paper bin under one of the windows. It missed and chimed in the carpeted floor. He eased himself down on the Bratz duvet, rested his head on the pillow, and closed his eyes. He could feel his brain rotate, not sideways, but backwards. It had been a while since he was drunk.
He started thinking about Yuzuyu. She now went to school by herself; the year before, she always clung to Jif like a baby to its father. He felt like a father too. She went to school at the Boston Japanese School. It was a two-story building in Chinatown. Strange, as it was Japanese and everyone around it was Chinese. But pupils all over went there. There were white Americans, blacks, Latinos, even Iraqis. It wasn't just a school for the Japanese; it was a place to learn about the Japs. It certainly helped Jif learn his wife's language-a little better.
He loved that uniform. Sailor-style white blouse, red cravat, short dark blue skirt. Such a short skirt. So feminine!
Then he thought about himself. Hull, the Orchard Park Estate.

He'd lived in Humberside all his life. And he hated the place. Nobody knew anything about politics; when he made a joke about the prime minister, none of his friends knew who the PM was!
He'd tried getting into politics, but no one was interested or supportive. In desperation, he went on a suicide mission, standing in the middle of town with a loud-hailer, preaching about human rights and the corruptness of parliament. He tried to make himself as the alternative PM, even though he was nineteen, and fat.
He was either ignored or spat on. His old foe, Roshan Peking, threw a bottle at him. Children would tell him to shut up because he was boring.
He promised new jobs, better public services, lower taxes, and "make everythin', like, wonderful!" But he wasn't against immigration.
That was his downfall because the residents, and his own parents, believed that immigrants were taking all the jobs in Hull. But Jif saw immigrants in a different light. The girls and women in his area were rough and unfeminine. The migrants were a lot softer. He had a spot for them. And that cost him. At any rate, in his area, politics was a dead end.
The local supermarket in his town was a branch of Tesco's. At first, it was the only employer that showed any interest in him. When his attempts of being a member of parliament or running for council failed, Tesco always took him back in. He started out as a trolley boy and didn't move up. But someone there liked him because a new store was opening in Watford, Hertfordshire. His manager asked if he wanted to work fifty miles from home, for extra pay. He accepted.
Tesco's Watford was huge! Four acres of car park space! Wearing solid shoes and a yellow fluorescent jacket, he had to scour this whole area.
His job was simple: pick up the stray trolleys in the car park and stack them into a line in the pedestrian walkway. Another guy operating a three-wheeled remote cart would connect the trolleys to the machine and drive the trolley train up to the shop front.
Few people talked. And he was regularly yelled at by yobs and general customers. It regularly rained, and he would sweat heavily under his work jacket. But one day he saw couple in the car park, struggling with a baby basket. He knew straightaway that they wanted the cage trolley.
"Would you like the specialist trolley?" he asked the black man.
"Uh, yes, please, if you have any," replied the father.
Jif ran off to a trolley park and pulled out the cage trolley he'd seen earlier that day. The couple gave Jif a terrific smile as they took it from him. The man slipped Jif a business card. His name was Vincent Bird.

Jif drifted, from his sleep, to just lying with his eyes closed. He didn't just hate himself; he had no one to turn to. He had his wife, and he loved her, and she loved him, but the fact that she was a minor, and incontinent, left him feeling nervous. He wanted to have sex with her but knew full well it was wrong with a girl her age. So he felt restricted.
Charlie wasn't just a friend; he was his project. A man has to keep himself busy. Once he had taught Yuzuyu English, he found himself someone else to help. He could see himself in Charlie, and the fact that he was always picked on by Naomi further emphasised that. But it also gave him someone to hate! If Naomi hit Charlie, he would further hate her. And make sure Charlie had the fighting chance he deserved.
But Charlie wasn't the dorm manager for fun; he was on a mission, as Jif found out soon after his first meeting.