AMMONIAC - Extract

His locker was always filled with partially empty bottles of morphine. He worked the salad bar. I think I was meant to replace him. He may have been dying, but I can’t remember. Passing the torch.

7

Anuj came through with some work on the loading bay at the London Hilton on Park Lane. I lasted three hours. I didn’t even get the £44 I was owed as you had to work with them long enough to pay off the incurred uniform debt that apparently set the company back £60. The head of the crew was a fat scrote called George. The third thing he said to me was that he had a three year ban from Millwall, which impressed me as it must have taken a real creative effort. In the 60’s when the police got around to confiscating weapons, Millwall supporters started pissing on rolled up and folded newspapers. The end result would be a hardened cosh, that could be either filled with coins and wrapped around a fist or just used as is. It came to be known as the Millwall brick. Broadsheet newspapers were larger and therefore made the best tool. At some point, the police caught on and started getting suspicious of yobs nonchalantly strolling through with copies of the Guardian. I called him Millwall Paul. We were handling the load in for some corporate event and had begun unloading lorries at 4 am. The shift pattern could be anywhere from 2-6 hours depending on the job. This meant that you could start one job at 2 am to 4 am, go home and do whatever, then be back for another job 8 to 10. The uniform that I had invested in was two sizes too big — that was all they had, said Milwall Paul. I was constantly told that they were all a great bunch of mates and that there was a big emphasis on being a team player. I looked around at the other younger guys of various ethnic backgrounds ,who would only converse with one another in grunts and a head tilt to the general direction of where the load needed putting down. As we were pulling various huge hard cases of sound equipment from a lorry and wheeling it inside the loading bay, Millwall Paul mentioned that most of the lads he tended to hire would never last long. He seemed genuinely hurt. He just couldn’t figure out why.  

   ‘What kind of cunts just don’t turn up to their shift?’ I said in disgust, as we wheeled a large two man case.

‘That’s bad form man, you make a commitment and you stick it out, you don’t just not turn up with no word and leave others to pick up your slack.’ I didn’t know why I said slack. I knew then that I would inevitably, at some point, join the ranks of workshy flakes that wasted his time and left him with no closure or civilised goodbye. I imagined the breakup. ‘Don’t do this,’ I saw Millwall Paul’s lip quiver, his eyes growing strained and red as he fought back the tears in front of the other lads.

‘Please don’t make this any harder than it already is.’ 

The cargo was no longer between us, I was Humphrey Bogart; a stone cold heart breaker. 

‘I have to go. YOU have to let me go. I wasn’t destined for this. I’d be lying to myself if I stayed here, lifting and pushing around loads all day with you. It wouldn’t be fair to you. You deserve someone who wants to be here.’ 

‘Why do they always leave?’ his voice broke. 

‘For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.’

I was pulled out of this intrusive psychodrama by the real Millwall Paul. 

‘PUT IT ON THE FUCKIN LIFT CAREFULLY.’

After finishing unloading, the cargo the crew was provided with breakfast in the back of the function room of the hotel. Metal tray stodgy cold heat lamp thick white fat bacon rolls. I told them I was going out for a cigarette and never came back. 

A few hours later I was sitting in the Joiners trying to recruit someone to day drink with me. I was repeatedly told: ‘It’s 11 am on a Tuesday, no I can’t come for one’. This was madness. There were eight million people in this city and I couldn’t seem to find one to put up with me for a couple of hours. Whatever happened to no man left behind? It only dawned on me after several pints that I wouldn’t be paid for that morning stint. I couldn’t afford to stay in here any longer. Being skint often didn’t feel like living — you just couldn’t do anything. It bothered me in films when down and outs would still be able to drink in dive bars. How did they afford that? It didn’t make any sense to me. Life felt like a waiting room, or a bus stop. Just some sort of beautiful inconvenience. The first place I had ever worked was at a Harvester at the Brighton marina when I was 18 years old. There was one sickly bloke who showed me the ropes. For some reason, half of his intestines had been removed. His locker was filled with empty and partially empty bottles of morphine. He worked the salad bar. I think I was meant to replace him. He may have been dying, but I can’t remember. Passing the torch. My only responsibility was to replenish the salad bar with various pastas from industrial tubs that were made in the sink under a blistering tap. There were also vats of oily split dressings and crispy onions and all that. I would stand at the side and every ten minutes would have to slop more of it out into this refrigerated trough. I got a bollocking for using the ovens as mirrors to do my hair in. 

I left the pub and went across the road to a caf called Rock Steady Eddie’s. It was an American diner looking sort of place, with the usual paraphernalia everywhere. The coffee was 90p. I sat by the door. Buses would come past every two minutes, and block any light from entering the place. There were signs saying “No Filming” and “As of the 24th of August 2015 credit is obsolete”. I sat and wondered who had gotten fry ups on tick and how many they must have had before it was considered taking the piss. Everyone else in there seemed to either be an ambulance driver, a scaffolder or visibly mentally disabled.  

   ‘...Unless you got a wonky eye Steve,’ said some scaffolder from a plastic chair.

‘You look like the one whose cross eyed!’

‘Don’t cause any trouble Steve!’ warned the man on the table. Steve was clearly mental and was given a fair amount of leeway. I went back to my phone which had a voicemail. I dialled and pressed one, and waited. Voicemails were never good news.

   ‘Good afternoon, this is George from Definitive Crew,’ came a deflated voice. 

‘Fuck’, I said aloud and quickly hung up. I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to find any entertainment in Millwall Paul screaming down the phone at me. I leaned back in my chair and reflected; I really had to stop closing so many doors for myself. I could now never frequent as a guest at the London Park Lane Hilton without the off chance of being bundled into a van and having ten shades of shite kicked out of me by a man, deemed by Millwall, as someone who takes it a bit too far.