Life in the slow lane

I had for the corner shop to get my paper. Mrs Slow is on the till. My heart sinks. The queue is already five people deep. I grab my paper and join the queue. It's painful to watch her doing everything in slow motion, slowly, methodically analysing each item carefully before presenting it to the bar code reader. Nothing happens. She turns the item round slowly. Still nothing. She pulls the item closer to herself to have a good look at it all round to find the bar code. She can't find it. Her hand is covering it. Eventually she finds it and thinking very carefully decides which way round to hold the item. The reader beeps. She then decides how she is going to place the scanned item in the bag. People in front of me are tapping their feet, shuffling and generally seething quietly. It takes what seems like hours to scan the four items. Then we get to the money. Decisions decisions what combination of coins would be most appropriate to give to the customer. She selects a few coins thinks better of it, drops them back in the till  and selects a few more, then counts them from one hand to the other and counts them again slowly into the waiting customers hand. We're done hooray"! Next. But no she has to enquire about the customers children. Internally I'm screaming, "For Gods sake..." The customer well aware of the queue behind her is trying to leave but Mrs Slow leans over the top of the till to impart more words of comfort and sympathy. Fi9nally she customer drags herself away from the pointless conversation and Mrs Slow steadies herself before looking up to the next customer who sprints forward as fast as possible throwing his two packets of chocolate and a can of drink onto the counter. his speed in unnecessary. it wont make any difference. it will still take ten minutes to scan three items. I muse that at this rate I'll have time to read all five sections of the paper, do the crossword and the soduko and still have time to return the paper to the shelf and leave before I get to pay. By now there are five more customers behind me. Mrs Slow looks up at the lengthening queue and places her hand under the counter and rings a bell for assistance. No one comes, they are all behind the mirror door laughing.
Eventually, just as I am losing the will to live, I arrive at the front of the queue. I give her the exact money £2.20. She counts it carefully, very carefully, there's four five pence pieces, I couldn't have made it harder for her. She looks up and nods I'm halfway to the door, "Excuse me." she calls, "would you like your receipt?"
"No." As I leave I see her carefully screwing up the receipt and looking for a bin to throw it in. I don't know if she found one.
I leave the shop my man is coming down he road to collect his breakfast I say "Mrs Slow is on the till."
He spins round "Polish shop then."
"You OK?"
"Never better." he replies, "it's all good."
These are not words I normally expect from him. Normally some sort of tragedy has happened in his life."Better go get breakfast then?" I venture.
"Yep Breakfast first then get cracking. I've got loads to do."
But I know  after his normal breakfast of four cans of super strong lager, his day will go to shit. But for now he's relatively chipper and full of the joys of spring even though it's autumn. It wont last.
I carry on home and settle down with my paper. My man walks past my window waving an opened can in one hand, the other three cans dangling from the plastic wrap down by his side. Breakfast is served. I settle back with the crossword "1a Diana giving emphasis when much troubled (10)" Yep that's what he's going to be soon when the beer runs out.

My man has family

My man isn't a particularly big guy, but he has no fear. Whether it's the alcohol or the drugs I don't know. He walks the streets with confidence. But trouble inevitably finds him. He wont back down. he wont look the other way, if someone gives him shit he'll deal it straight back at them and damn the consequences. He will disappear for a week or two and come back announcing his return from yet another hospital visit where they've patched him up again.
I once asked him why he keeps insisting on getting into fights. He gave me a hard stare as if I'd insulted him "You think I can't look after myself?" he snarled.
"Well you keep getting hurt."
"It's the other four you should worry about, this is nothing to what they got."
I then find out back in the day he was a semi pro boxer. He hasn't boxed in a ring in many years, not since the drugs and alcohol took over his life. So he has no worries about losing his licence, he lost that years ago. He lost a lot.
But despite living in a world of violent drug abusers and drunks, he is a gentle soul, very polite and well spoken, if you ignore the torrent of bad language that inhabits his mouth. He will hold open a door for a lady. He says "please" and "thank you", he will ask after your health despite himself looking like he's on his way to the crem with a made to measure cut price coffin crafted from old pallets. He will offer directions and advice to anyone, even offer me a can of his strong lager. I refuse equally politely, saying "It's a bit early for me."
I often wonder how he came to this. In one of our in depth conversations it transpired his brother is a millionaire living in a loft apartment just off Central Park in New York. He couldn't afford the apartment that actually overlooked Central Park, much to my mans amusement.
I ask him if his brother could help him out financially at all."My brother wouldn't piss on me if I was on fire.... wait... turn that round... I wouldn't piss on him if he was on fire. We don't speak. Never will again I don't suppose."
Well what's he doing in New York?"
"That's where the money is and his trophy wife. " then under his breath almost silently "bitch!" he looks about as if suddenly embarrassed, not wanting to look me in the eye "she fucked me over. The money grabbing gold digging cow. She's the one who turned my brother against me and took all the money for themselves, leaving me with nothing."
"What did they do?"
"It's not important I might tell you one day, I might not.  I'm going to the offy. You want me to get you anything?"
"No thanks I'm good."
He opens my door looks up and down the street and staggers out. He doesn't look back. He doesn't wave. He's already seen someone he needs to catch up with.

Cross dressing your ethnicity

My man walks in. He wearing a thobe, a long shirt favoured by Muslims, it has gold embroidery round the neck and cuffs. No collar. Brown open toed sandals peek out from below his shirt. He stands there silent swaying gently as if trying to take stock of the situation. He mouths a few words bu no words come out. I think he has finally lost it. Grabbing hold of the back of a chair, he steadies himself and tries to speak again. "I got myself arrested again. They've just let me out."
I'm past being shocked at this, my man and the police are on first name terms, he's one of their regulars, he has his own cell and they know he preferences for breakfast, except they don't serve his preference. Extra strong lager is not on the list.  Tea, coffee, toast yes but Tennents Super, no.
I had to ask. "What did you get arrested for this time?"
"I decked a guy." he is not his usual eloquent self, I'll need to dig it out of him.
"Why?"
"He didn't like my shirt."
"The shirt you're wearing now?"
"Yes." He rubs a hand across his unshaven chin then over his head as if bored. "I can wear what the fuck I like."
"Yes but...." I begin.
"He said I was disrespecting his religion by wearing this. I told him he was disrespecting his own religion by threatening me, he wouldn't leave it so I gave him a couple, one in the gut and as he went down another on his chin." he goes to demonstrate and has to quickly grab the back of the chair again, the swift one two was too much for him in his state. "I left him in the road" he continued, " and walked home. The old bill came knocking an I took a ride down to the nick."
"Are you being charged?"
"What do you think?"
"You got let off with a warning?"
"Booooom!"
"So matey boy didn't press charges then?"
"Apparently not, he called the police of course but then didn't press it."
"So why the shirt then?"
"Don't you start."
I dropped it. I guess we'll never know the secret of the thobe.
My man wanders off to find a proper breakfast in a ring pull can.