“How was your meal?” asks Tom, smiling.

“The fries were soggy, the burger only half-cooked, and there was no fizz in my drink. I couldn’t eat’um. Gimme my money back.”

“I’m so sorry. I’ll check with the manager.” As Tom turns he notices that other than a single catsup-drenched fry, both the woman’s plate and cup are empty.

He sighs. This week, with the new cook still struggling, it seems all he’s done is give refunds. But like Tom, the guy needs his job.

With that, he simply can’t hit the till, so he instead scoops the last few bills and sorry bit of change from his tip jar. Shrugging, he returns to the woman’s table. “I hope this makes up for your experience.”

With a huff, mostly for show, she grabs the money and shoots out the door.

When Tom’s “real” job cut back hours, he had to find a second one to make ends meet. Though the pay was horrid, Burger Barn was the only job that fit his hours.

It’s not until an hour and a half past his shift’s end that he’s able to finally hang up his apron. Beaten down, he slips out the door, crossing the parking lot to the Safeway. He still needs something for Thanksgiving, so he picks up a small turkey breast and a can of green beans.

Maybe next year they’ll have a real Thanksgiving.

“$14.37,” says the checker.

It’s then he remembers giving away his tip money. Which had been meant for Thanksgiving dinner. He slides in his debit card, but the nasty beep of “Denied” confirms his fears: his account is just as empty as his wallet.

“Sorry.” With the weight of everyone’s eyes upon him, he heads out for the bus stop.

When the 9:05 finally arrives at 9:50, it’s standing room only, leaving him to squeeze his way into a spot in the middle aisle for the long ride home.

“Home” for now is a shoddy apartment building on the east side. Besides meeting his budget, it was the only place with a ground floor unit, something he needs for Celia. As he nears the apartment, he remembers to be thankful that tomorrow will not be another like today. Thanksgiving is one of his few days off.


He opens to the door to the excited shout of “Daddy” as Celia rolls her wheelchair over for a hug. He winks at Mrs. Danner, who stands smiling in the kitchenette.

“Lucky man, you.”

“I get paid Friday, so I’ll pay you—“

“Nonsense. I should be paying you to stay with this angel.” Pointing at the counter, she says, “I guess a group of folks at the Safeway saw what you went through tonight. Practically crying, they dropped off a turkey, mashed potatoes, and some rolls. But...here’s the really good news – the foundation called. They’re going to fund Celia’s operation. This little girl might be walking by spring.” Moving closer, she joins their hug. “Happy Thanksgiving, my friends.” ​

Your hair in that loose bun, like always, a fallen strand on the dark wool of your collar. From a specific distance I see you. My memory swirls like a difficult wind. I should be Leonardo DiCaprio in a cashmere overcoat come to sweep you off your booted heels. You are wearing boots. Keep my hair on, as my mother often tells me. You hate her, remember?

I could write a letter, well the one I’m always composing, only you will chuck it in the bin, unread, unloved. Maybe you will wrinkle your nose, like you do, and shred it between your slender fingers.

Ada Lovelace Park. Hey, they went and renamed it, in all their received wisdom. An online campaign. You must have thrown your agitated hat into that ether…

Ada Lovelace Park. The children should be here with me.

I’m attending the groups, up and running again, with other men in chains or might as well be, huh? One of them said the woman grieves during the relationship, while the man doesn’t even realise, then it’s too late, bro… the idiot grieves long after the horse has bolted. So, we are The Lost Fathers, saddled up again, Hoo-ha! seeking justice, that’s what we tell each other. Or is it emotional rescue? As we struggle through the quagmire of regret, guilt. Grown men missing out on the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny. Still paying through the nose, read ‘em and weep. One guy hired a private detective, I think it was his cousin or something. Supposed to keep things in the room, you know? Did I tell you this already? Does it matter?

Here I am. Watching you. Like the old song. What a joke. My mother doesn’t know.

And of course, he is taller than me. How so much like you to meet at the bandstand. Ochre coloured leaves underfoot.

Another strand falls and… if he… If he should tuck it behind your ear….
​

Life passed me by the other day. It was full of old dogs' children and watermelon wine, rolling in the air on the summer evenings. We'd take snaps and get out of line. But winter came too fast, freezing my dreams, like this old photograph. I found your note too late. If you had only said something, if only I'd known, we could have run away together. But you picked a beautiful hill to die on, where the sun sets overlooking the river at our old make-out tree. I found out after you'd gone I was with child. He looks like you. He has your eyes, your mischievous grin.

When it's time I want to be put here on this hill by our old tree. I can just make out our names; you carved them back in the first spring. I look to the sky as this is the last time I'll do so. The stars are as beautiful as they were the first time.
​

The symphony of the self-service is an intricate audio collage of ambient beeps. Maggie sighs, stealing sneaky peeks into the wire baskets of strangers as lonesome Friday night consumers hurriedly stuff their goods into crackling plastic bags that are already in danger of splitting. Microwave meals for one jostle for space in-between duos of scented loo roll and bogof four packs of dented lager as the single loaf of sliced white refuses to scan once again.
The strained faces are left with little choice but to ignore one another as Maggie’s turn to purchase finally arrives. Stepping up she shudders at the sight of the blurred touch screen, smeared with the grease of the previous user’s sticky mitts, her own outstretched digit trembling as it initiates her retail experience.
She rolls the bottle of own brand whisky past the flickering glow of the lasers red eye, depositing it with a thump on the shelf to her left, blinking as the monitor suddenly flashes a menacing sentence in blazing orange capitals.
APPROVAL REQUIRED.
Well, thinks Maggie, hasn’t that always been the case?
A slight tap upon the shoulder and Maggie spins, nose to nose with a frowning male, fresh-faced enough to be her offspring. A laminated plastic badge upon the youth’s lapel proudly boasts the legend ASSISTANT MANAGER; the shoulders of his mud-coloured uniform lightly garnished with a Christmassy sprinkle of dandruff.
The young man gives Maggie the once over with a beady eye. Apparently satisfied she is of an appropriate age, he slips past her, approaching the machine with a confident strut. A flurry of fingers taps out a complex code, authorising the transaction. Job done he is about to retreat when he glimpses the rest of Maggie’s shopping.
Six blue cardboard packets, all identical, are lurking at the very bottom of her carrier.
“Sorry Madam,” he says, gesturing towards the tiny rectangular boxes, “Company policy, but I am afraid you can only buy those one at a time…”
Maggie swallows, miniature beads of salty sweat springing into existence upon her creased brow.
“Oh, I see. Sorry.”
He leans in, scooping up five of the boxes, then disappears down an aisle.
Only one remains.
As Maggie pays, feeding notes and loose change into the greedy machine, she slowly calculates the number of shops she will pass during her slow journey home.
It should be enough.
Shuffling through pneumatic doors, the high street heaves with cackling gangs of drinkers, all en route to the next watering hole. Glass shatters somewhere in the distance, making Maggie flinch.
“Someone’s on a mission!”
The statement is punctuated with a throaty exclamation mark of a laugh. Maggie’s expression shifts, instant recognition bringing a grin to her lips, as familiar fleshy tattooed arms swamp her.
“Girlfriend, say ya ain’t busy! We gotta a lotta catching up to do!”
“That… That’d be great” whispers Maggie, wondering if angels ever realise what they are.
“Let’s head to mine for a drink… Ya can finish ya shopping another ​

I am Herbert H. Haskins and I am unequivocally dead. Ripped-to-shreds dead as an amateur con artist trying to sham a truck load of bananas from an agitated Bolivian Gorilla.

Immediately following this horrific incident, my soul levitated from my body leaving behind the flesh that was still screaming for mercy.

Floating…I encountered an iridescent light accompanied by a peppy voice saying, “Purgatory in two hours.”

That peppy voice materialized as a thirtyish, friendly, red-haired woman who chatted me up about both “Purg” and her own emerging music career. She explained: “Purgatory is a lively place, and I personally suggest you explore the Contract Department and also inquire about our ‘Purgatory-to-Heaven Work Program.’”

Fast forward six months, Alice and I were relating exceptionally well, having lunch each day. Distracted, I was neglecting my duties as the Purgatory gardener and this wasn’t the time to flake out the week before the Agricultural Inspectors were going to pay a Yearly visit.

Pondering my conundrum, I decided that my only recourse to stay in good standing here in Purgatory was to get a one-day pass to visit Hell. Yes, Hell. H as in Hottest.

My desperate plan was to go there to barter for their magic fruit and vegetable seeds that can grow a complete garden in one day. Indeed, Hell uses those magic seeds because “sin is a great nutrient.”

The trip was instantaneous through a special portal. Upon arrival, we met in their chilly Agricultural Room with a fiftyish-looking cowboy named Jeremiah.
He raved about the magic seeds. Not wasting time, I offered him a truck load of Purgatory’s coveted rotten fruits and vegetables—because “indecision isn’t good for produce.” In exchange, of course, for the magic seeds. Jeremiah’s eyes twinkled as I brought the produce that was sent to Hell.

I was shocked to see Alice sitting in the waiting room, head in her lap, sobbing loudly. I immediately went over to her.

“What’s wrong, Alice? I hate to see you this way….”
“I’ve been framed,” said Alice.” The Devil, she explained, was being vindictive. She had repulsed his many sexual advances. “The scary tail, the burnt-egg smell, the weird skin color—I didn’t want that anywhere near me!”

Alice was put on house arrest in a dormitory in Hell.
I felt guilty thinking it, but, selfishly, I saw myself working on Hell’s Garden crew, being with her. How could a relationship under those circumstances possibly fail?

So, I signed a contract to work in Hell for eternity as a gardening supervisor.

The lawyers got us off because we acted out of goodness by repulsing the Devil—who can’t punish us. It’s a loophole in the Division of Dominions over sinners, “hot places” and archangels. There are lots of loopholes in actuality and the Devil has eternity to discover them.

Alice and I married, of course, and are living in the always-exciting Creative District of Purgatory, known for its writers, artists, musicians like Alice, and others of a romantic bent.
​

I've been a target for the bullies all my life. At almost 2 metres tall and built in proportion, I'm that big guy that's blocking your view of the stage, the one that you seem to be dodging first one way then the other to get around. Most of all, though, I'm that big bad monster that everybody wants to see get given his comeuppance.
 
From my earliest days at school, I was the one that everyone went after. People used to throw things at me, or call me names, then run away before I could do anything back. Not that I wanted to do anything back, because Mummy taught me not to rise to the bait but to turn the other cheek instead. More importantly, if I hit anyone back, I'd get into more trouble from the teachers because... I'd be seen as the big guy throwing my weight about.
 
Around that time, there were a couple of gangs in my local neighbourhood, the Phillies and the Izzies. You had to be in one or the other or else they'd both go after you. I was in the Phillies, and one day the two gangs agreed to meet for their weekly gang fight. At least that's what I thought would happen, because that's what normally happened. But then the two leaders got their heads together and decided it would be more fun to see what would happen if wee Davie of the Izzies took on... Guess Who? By that stage everyone in both gangs had worked out that I was a big pussycat and wouldn't harm a fly. But could I be riled into doing something to protect the honour of the Phillies?
 
So suddenly I found myself all on my own facing wee Davie, armed only with a baseball bat that I'd no intention whatsoever of using. I was just hoping to use my long reach to keep him away, perhaps take his own baseball bat off him. But then he did two things that threw me. First: no baseball bat, only a catapult and a collection of stones. Second: he was stark naked! I mean, what was I to do?
 
Wee Davie didn't hang around. He took aim with his catapult and clocked me straight in the head with the first stone, a cheap shot. Instinctively, I knew what to do: fall down and pretend I was dead. Davie was so busy celebrating with his pals, and the gangs were so busy fighting anyway (as expected) that nobody noticed me get up and slink off. Contrary to rumours, nobody "cut my head off" – Davie didn't even have a knife with him! (Check it out.)
 
But as for me, I had to disappear. The shame of being brought down by wee Davie was too great. I changed my appearance by shaving my head, and moved to a new town. And I changed my name, although I kept the first couple of letters for old time's sake.

Today it’s somebody’s birthday.

It’s an anniversary. That comes the same day every year, further and further away from the actual day of birth. And for how many years; how many years are we given? Even when people die, their birthdays continue. And when children arrive, there are even more birthdays and even more people to celebrate with. Friends’ and families’ birthdays add to this until the calendar’s full.

I’ve had a few birthdays beyond The Big One. These kind are too many to count on fingers or have candles on a cake. But I can moreorless tell you which houses they were spent in.

House no.1, my childhood home, I had 35 birthdays in, not counting my 21st when I was away in America.

House 2 was my ‘stepping stone’. My husband-to-be-although-I-didn’t-know-it-at-the-time and I had our first date there.

In house 3, our first proper home together, I celebrated my son’s first birthday and my daughter’s first birthday and so on until I celebrated my 40th. My third child was just 4 months old; I was the same age as my mother was when she’d had me. We hired out a wine cellar at the same hotel as our wedding night.

We stayed in house 4 for seven years, but not long enough to celebrate any significant birthdays.

House 5 saw my son celebrate his 13th and me my 50th. I waited 50 years for my first ever music Festival. We wore wellies. We squelched in the mud like ecstatic Gloucestershire Old Spots. We splashed in puddles. I was finally fabulous at 50! To mark this I’d had grand ideas of a huge party in a sizeable garden. I wanted a Mad Hatter’s Tea Party, of course I did, complete with hats and costumes and tablecloth over a neverending table, and champagne and pots of tea and cream and scones.

“Mad Hatter?”

You might well ask. My son had entered, and won, a competition to ‘Alice In Wonderland’ at The Royal Opera House. His winning ticket got us to the ballet a few weeks after the ‘alternative’ play of the same name; I’d been chosen from the audience, to attend The Tea Party on stage, and wear a Mad Hat. And a jacket. So the idea was born.



Some are born Leos, some Aquarians, some in the Year of the Sheep or Goat or Dog. Milestones, all. Happy Birthdays sung in how many languages, to birthday girls and boys the world over.

Not all get gifts. Some just get cards. Not all get a card.

I didn’t get the neverending table. I didn’t get the party. I didn’t get tea and scones. But I did get a cake. The Mad Hatter’s hat, in 3D, complete with iced 10/6’ note. Everything comes at a price.

We are now in House 6.

Today it’s somebody’s birthday.
​

“Yessssss…. He has liked our selfie, but hasn’t commented yet.”
“HE? Is there a HE?”
“Ooooooh… this is so exciting.”
“Hallo, missy. Who’s the HE? Do I know him?”
“Uhm… what did you say? Didn’t quiet catch that”.
“If I know this HE-person.”
“I don’t think so. Someone I knew while studying.”
“A nurse as well?”
“No, something to do with foreign languages, if I recall correctly.”
“An old flame?”
“You might say that.”
“What happened?”
“Frankly, nothing much. He was about to graduate and we kinda lost contact. Way then there was no internet or cellphones and we didn’t exactly live in each other’s neigbourhood.”
“But now, there is. Internet, I mean.”
“Indeed.”
“And now you guys are having contact after… how many years?”
“Ssssst, I’m afraid to count, I start feeling like an old woman now.”
“Come on, tell me.”
“There is not much to tell. You know, I haven’t séén him back yet, just some chating.”
“Would you like to?”
“I don’t know. On his profile, I saw he has two kids, but appearantly is not in a relationship.”
“So, what are you waiting for?”
“Maybe I’m not…”
“That’s why you were so cheerful when he liked the selfie.”
“Hahahaha… come one, let’s do some warming up and then I’ll beat you on court.”
“Ok, but put off your cellphone till after the game – otherwise you’ll keep wacthing it till HE has commented.”

§§§
“Hey, ladies, the game is still on, I see.”
“Yes, missy isn’t really concentrated.”
“Hush… do you have to tell him?”
“Tell me what?”
“Nothing, darling, I was just kidding. Say, this is the third set and we ran out of water. Would you mind getting us two bottles in the clubhouse?”
“Sure.”
“Thanks, your a love.”
“I love you too, darling.”

§§§

“Geeh, that took you some time to fetch the water.”
“I know. There was an accident in the clubhouse. You remember the loose tile little Miss Safety – present here – made a least a dozen remarks about… well, some bloke stumbled over it. He fell and hit the ground. Badly, because he was heavily bleeding. The president’s wife even fainted seeing that amount of blood. So, we had some trouble with her as well.”
“Jeeez, I’ll have to assist. Quickly.”
“Don’t bother, we’ve called the ambulance. Listen, there they are.”
“Who was it?”
“Never seen the man and nobody seems to know him. How did the game end.”
“Miss Safety won.”
“….”
“What’s the matter?”
“HE sent a message – he’s coming to watch the game.”
“Who?”
“An old flame of hers.”
“Aha… That’s what all the secrecy was about. Show me, what does he look like?”
“Here’s a picture of him, couple of weeks old.”
“… uhm… I think I have some bad news. I’ve seen this man before… a couple of minutes ago.”
​