Swim Until You Can't See Land (38 page)

I pull the MP3 player out of my jacket pocket and the nagging feeling goes away. The tip on the tip of my tongue stops tipping. With the headphones folded up, the whole thing is no bigger than my wallet, so I stick it in the back pocket of my jeans and head along to the staffroom for a mug of tea.

'Morning, David,' Laura says to me as I pass her in the corridor on the way back to the shop floor.

I nod in reply. Why can't she call me Davie like everyone else? David sounds so formal.

I kick open the door for the shop floor. It's heavy and mirrored and it swings back and hits me on the shoulder before I have time to get through. Tea spills all over the floor, which has just been buffed by the cleaners. I swirl the tea around with the sole of my baseball boot, can't be arsed going back to get a paper towel.

Eminem's blaring out of the ceiling speakers. Louise from upstairs in the classical section must have got to the CD player first. That's what I get for stopping to make a brew. It's not that I don't like Eminem, I just don't want to listen to him at full blast first thing in the morning. Louise claims that it wakes her up but it just makes my brain hurt.

What would the customers think if they knew? That nice wee lassie who sells them their Beethoven and their Russell Watson is actually into very loud rap music.

I'd rather settle into the day at a more gentle pace, float my way through to morning break on a wave of Lambchop, gradually climbing through Malcolm Middleton, before building to a Lemonheads crescendo. Nothing louder than Evan Dando's sweet voice.

No rap.

No death metal.

No new metal.

Definitely no dance music.

Derek's into his dance music and I'm thankful that Louise beat him to the CD player. Moby and Air are about as dancey as I go.

That's what dance music should be like. That Frightened Rabbit cover of Set You Free. Have you not heard it? It's amazing. Shows you how good dance music can be if it's slowed right down, played with guitars and no longer resembles dance music.

Man, what a mood I'm in today. That's what four hours sleep does to you and a promise to your wee brother. I'm fucking knackered. I hide out under the staircase leading down from the main floor. Sip my tea. Try to wake myself up. It's a bit darker under here. I can't handle the full glare of the strip-light. Even the red t-shirt I'm forced to wear is too bright for me just now. I pretend I'm sorting through the boxes of DVDs we've got stashed under here. The cardboard trays are tearing at the edges from the weight of being piled on top of one another. I sit on the edge of one but don't allow it to hold my full weight in case there's a DVD avalanche.

Lose yourself.

I decide to get myself organised so I'm next in line for the CD player. Position myself in a prime location. I can't let Derek get there before me with his dance pish. Plus I can kill the next twenty minutes or so looking for something decent to put on while Eminem finishes. I'm supposed to be doing stock counts and replenishing the shelves before we open at nine, but after being here for so long I've perfected the art of looking like I'm working when I'm actually doing fuck all.

I hate this job, but it's all I'm good for really.

We think it would be best if you took some time out, and then came back and repeated the year when you're feeling better.

At nine the shop opens and I'm joined on the shop floor by Martha. She's in her usual flared jeans and tatty Doc Marten boots.

'Hey,' she says to me, 'what's up?'

'Not much,' I reply. 'Fancy finishing this stock count for me? I'm supposed to have twenty-three copies of
The Shawshank Redemption
on DVD, but I can only find five.'

'Sure,' she replies, reaching for the piece of paper I'm holding.

The light catches her hair, shimmers purple.

'Have you dyed your hair?'

'Yeah,' she replies, 'I felt like a change. What do you think? Nobody else has noticed.'

She looks pleased and loops a piece of hair around her pen while she studies the report I've given her.

'What colour do you call that?'

'Deep Midnight Plum,' she laughs. 'Guess what I did though? I'm such a numpty. I was rinsing my hair over the bath and I dropped my phone in.'

'Is it knackered?'

'Yeah,' she shakes her head, 'but I'm hopeful. I used the hairdryer on it last night and I've left it on the radiator. Fingers crossed. I can't afford a new one.'

CAN MARTHA PHONE THE STOCKROOM PLEASE, MARTHA PHONE THE STOCKROOM.

Derek's voice pages Martha through the speaker on the telephone. I watch her as she leans against the counter to phone him back; her feet are turned inwards and her jeans drag on the floor, the fraying hem catching the dust. Her lips glimmer with lip gloss and she plays with her tongue stud, rolling it left and right, left and right, along her bottom lip.

'Honestly,' she says, and her face lights up. I catch a glint from her tongue stud and I feel that little jump in my tummy.

Her leg pressed against his and he knew it was on purpose. He began to stroke her knee and then her hand was next to his and she ran her fingers round and round on the back of his hand.

Ring a ring a roses, a pocket full of posies.

Davie watched her mouth as she sucked the vodka and orange through a straw. He wanted to kiss her so badly. Her mouth was a strange shape, like a heart, like Molly Ringwald's mouth. She tasted of vodka and orange. Atishoo, atishoo, we all fall down.

Davie dropped the orange juice.

'Hey, they've finally got
My So Called Life
in on DVD,' she says to me, putting down the phone. 'I've been waiting ages for it, I'm just away up to get a copy.'

She jogs across the shop floor and takes the steps two at a time.

'Back soon,' she leans her head over the banister, so that her hair falls in front of her upside-down face.

Deep Midnight Plum.

We all fall down.

I wave at her and glance around the almost empty shop. There's a group of lads in school uniform over in the games section so I wander over to see what they're up to.

'Excuse me, are you a virgin?' one of them asks me.

The rest burst out laughing. Wee prick looks about twelve, freckled face with the sort of cheeky expression that Robbie Williams has. The kind you just want to punch. He obviously went to the same school of comedy as the twats from the queue last night. As if I've never heard that one before. Wee shites should be at school.

Your arm's a mess, that wasn't me, was it?

Nah, it's just a Chinese burn.

Who gave you that?

I'm pish at confrontation, even if it is only schoolboys, but these guys have really pissed me off.

'Aye. They don't let you work in Virgin if you've had sex before. It's one of the interview questions.'

They look at me and I try to keep it together, but I hate the way I can't control my body in situations like this. My hands are shaking and my lungs suck inandoutinandoutinandout. Even when I feel brave in my head, my body betrays me. They're just a bunch of fucking schoolkids too, what's wrong with me?

'Go and ask anyone who works here,' I say, 'we're all virgins.'

'Prick,' the Robbie look-alike says, and the lads push and shove each other as they walk away. Robbie runs a hand along one of the shelves, knocking DVDs onto the floor.

I let them go.

I'm Scottish, I'm meant to be a fucking hardman, like Begbie or Braveheart. It's in my blood. Why can't I do it? Why am I always such a fucking pussy? You can't be Scottish and male and sensitive, it's just not on. We show affection through abuse, that's the way things are. Except for me. Me and.

He was so sensitive. Made him an easy target.

Man, I hate this fucking job.

A shop would be an alright place to work if you took away the customers.

The stupid questions:

Have you got that film with the American man in it?

Can I buy that film I saw at the cinema last night?

Where's the castle?

The weird regulars:

Dirty Old Porn Man.

Woman who loves Taggart DVDs.

B.O. Problem Man.

Stopping you with a big list of things to find for them, just as you're about to go for your break.

Picking stuff up and then dumping it in a completely random area of the shop.

Trying to get a refund for some shitty, scratched CD that's been out of stock for the last twelve years.

Keep the customer satisfied.

Usually I just let the crap you get from wee shites like that wash over me. I don't care enough about my job to get involved, but today I let them get to me. I'm still tired and I've got Lewis in my head. They remind me.

The shop's boiling and I can feel sweat running down my back between my shoulder blades and gathering in the waistband of my boxers. I fan myself using my t-shirt and pick up the DVDs from where they're now lying on the floor.

'It's warm down here, isn't it? I don't know how you stand it,' some old boy says to me.

'Aye, the air-conditioning's knackered.'

'It's lost you a customer.'

'No bother, you're lucky you can leave.'

The old boy laughs.

'You're lucky you've stopped growing,' he says as he wanders off. 'It's so subterranean. No daylight.'

I nod at him. Fucking weirdo. He passes Martha on the stairs as he leaves. She's looking at something at the far end of the shop. I follow her gaze, but she's higher up than me. I don't know what she's seeing. Shoplifter?

'Hey, there's that girl you fancy,' she says hitting me on the arm with a DVD of
My So Called Life.

'What girl?' I glance over to where Martha's looking; I thought me and that subterranean guy were the only two down here.

'Her.' Martha points towards the magazines.

'I do not,' I reply, grabbing Martha's arm. 'Stop pointing.'

'Come on, it's so obvious. You're always hovering around her.'

'Get lost.'

I can feel my cheeks warm. If I licked my finger and touched my face, steam would hiss off.

'Ha, you're getting a beamer.'

'Go away, you.'

Martha's right, but I'm not going to admit it. How come girls are so bloody smart all the time? I thought I was being quite subtle about it all.

The girl's completely out of my league so it's not like anything's ever going to happen. She comes in every Monday and checks out the new releases. Never usually buys anything, but it's been enough for me to notice her.

She's fucking gorgeous for one thing. Her haircut is scruffy; reminds me of Chrissie Hynde. And if I'm comparing her to pop stars, then her arse is as pert as Kylie's. She's always wearing this brown leather jacket; vintage looking with creases and rips in it. I imagine slipping my hands inside it and pulling her towards me. Close.

I usually do go and hover about next to her, try to build up the courage to say hi, but Martha's got me sussed now. I do the next best thing and hang around the tills where I can get a good view of her.

I watch her as she picks up a magazine and comes towards me. What the fuck? What is she doing? She never buys anything. I look around. Can I leave, run away before she gets here? No, too late now. She's almost here. Shit, I'm going to have to speak to her. I feel my face flush and my chest tighten. She walks towards me holding the magazine and it all goes slightly Wayne's World-esque. That scene with Garth and the girl and Jimi Hendrix playing on the jukebox.

Foxy lady.

She's in slow motion, hair blowing behind her as she struts towards me, lips pouting; I'm Garth, uber-geek, about to be blown backwards by the force of her foxiness.

She hands me the magazine and I scan the barcode.

'That's two pounds twenty please,' I say.

'There you go. I like your watch,' she replies, handing over a pile of coins.

I don't even count them, just drop them in the till.

One finger, one thumb, one finger, one thumb. Stay calm. Stay calm.

My hands are sweaty and I wipe them on my jeans, hiding them underneath the till tray so she won't see.

She smiles at me. There's a gap between her teeth. Fuck, it's sexy. Who'd have thought a dental disfiguration could cause so many dirty thoughts. Up close her eyelids are darkened with kohl and her blue eyes sparkle through the black smudges like stars. I'm smitten.

Her accent is American or Canadian; I can't tell the difference. And she likes my watch. It's taken a few seconds for this fact to register. The inside of my head is a waterfall, thoughts crashing and breaking. Too much white, foamy noise for me to be able to concentrate.

Come on, Davie, stop acting like a tit. One finger, one thumb, one finger, one thumb.

Alfie, can I borrow your watch? Mine's stopped.

He's not getting it back now. He doesn't need a watch anyway. He lives in his own time zone.

'Thanks,' I say.

'No problem,' she smiles again, her voice is a drawl. Prawblem. Man, those teeth.

'Eh… would you like a bag,' I wave a carrier at her.

'Nah, it's cool. Save the planet and all that, huh?' She shrugs.

'Okay, cool, see you then.'

'See you,' she leans in and reads my name badge, 'David.'

Her perfume breezes over me; it combs the inside of my head and fizzes in the wash of muddled thoughts like sherbet.

My name in her accent sounds so cool. Exotic. I picture us going out. Hey, this is my girlfriend. MY girlfriend. MINE. My GIRLFRIEND.

She turns and walks away. I watch her as she disappears up the stairs. Follow her arse as it sways from side to side. Hypnotised by that swinging motion.

'Tongue in, Davie.' Martha's shaking her head at me from the opposite end of the counter. She blows a kiss towards the stairs and puts her hands over her heart.

I flick her the v's.

She holds her hand up to her forehead in an 'L' shape.

Loser!

I retaliate using both hands to form a 'W'.

Whatever!

Woteva!

What if…

We all fall down.

Martha does that thing out of
Friends
, where she bangs her fists together.