This was for an assignment for a creative writing course I did. This was my original idea, but I soon realised I wouldn't be able to fit it into the 1,000-word limit, so I changed tack. That version can be read here.
But I wanted to continue with my first idea, and this is the result.
THE man checks his watch and grins. Same time, same place, every day. He pushes the street cleaning machine up the dropped curb and onto the pavement, stopping in exactly the same spot outside McDonald's as every other morning. He switches the machine off and locks its wheels in place. He checks the heavy-duty black plastic bag; it's half full, just as it should be at this point in his morning routine. He pulls off his gloves and tucks them into his belt before yanking open the heavy glass door and entering the restaurant.
At the counter he orders the same thing he does every morning: bacon and egg mcmuffin with fries and a large black coffee. He waits the few moments it takes for the order to be prepared and then carries it over to his usual table. He settles into the yellow moulded chair, his food and drink carefully arranged in front of him. He starts, as ever, with the coffee. First stirring in three sugars, he takes a sip of the hot, black liquid. The sweet, insipid taste floods his mouth as he swallows, relishing the slight burning sensation at the back of his throat. He unwraps the muffin and takes a large bite. He chews enthusiastically, shoves a few of the fries into his mouth. The muffin is demolished in two more bites and he turns his attention to the fries, finishing them with the same efficiency. He wriggles his ample backside against the smooth, cool plastic of the seat and holds his cardboard coffee cup in both hands.
His colleagues on the council cleaning team can't understand his love for McDonald's, the cheap fast food and watery coffee, or his pleasure at the ritual repeated every morning, but he doesn't care – it's his routine and he's going to stick to it. He smacks his lips as he drains the last of his drink and congratulates himself on a job well done. Gathering up the detritus from his breakfast to be tipped into the bin on his way out, he returns to his cleaning machine on the street.
Big Sam they call him at the council and he knows they laugh at him behind his back because of his routine, but he doesn’t care. Order is important.
***
Sam checks his watch. He grins – he’s done it again. Same time, same place, same ritual. The girl behind the McDonald’s counter smiles at him; she’s already started on his order. He pays for his food with the exact change, and takes his tray to his usual spot.
Sam freezes. He blinks hard and, balancing the tray with one fist, rubs his hand across his eyes. But when he opens his eyes the interloper is still there. A boy sitting, no slouching, in Sam’s seat. The seat that he always sits in. The boy can’t be older than 15, wearing a hoodie and jeans that must be at least three sizes too big. He’s shovelling fries into his mouth, chewing loudly.
Sam doesn’t know what to do. In all the years he’s been coming here this has never happened. He waits. That kid should be on his way to school, Sam thinks, outraged. But the boy shows no sign of moving. Seconds stretch to minutes and Sam’s food is getting cold. He will have to sit down and eat. But where? He manoeuvres to a table close to the invader and sits down.
He tucks into his breakfast, but finds he can’t enjoy it. He eats quickly, glaring at the teenager in his seat. But it makes no difference. The boy doesn’t even notice. Sam abandons the remains of his meal on the tray and leaves the restaurant.
***
The display on his digital wristwatch informs Sam that, as ever, he’s arrived at McDonald’s at exactly the right time. But for once he doesn’t feel like congratulating himself. Instead he’s apprehensive – what if that awful teenage boy is in his spot again?
He cautiously enters the restaurant, forcing himself to look only at the counter. He doesn’t want to crane his neck around and see his seat already occupied. He’s determined that he’ll behave exactly as he has done in all the years he’s been coming to this McDonald’s on the Lewisham high street. The person behind the counter has changed, he notices. This doesn’t concern him – the ephemeral nature of the staff is, paradoxically, one of the many constants about McDonald’s that Sam finds so reassuring.
Sam orders his usual meal and as the server passes the loaded tray, Sam takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. It’ll be all right, he reassures himself. He turns towards the seat, his seat, and there he is, the invader, the cat among Sam’s well-ordered ranks of pigeons. Sam is horrified. This time, he decides, this time he isn’t just going to put up with it.
He marches to the table and hauls his bulk into a seat on the opposite side to the boy; the wrong side, it feels strange and Sam thinks he doesn’t quite fit, like there’s slightly less space on this side of the table. The boy frowns.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Granddad?” He asks, his belligerent tone masking his shock.
“This is my table,” says Sam. “I always sit here.”
“Not today, you don’t.”
Sam ignores him and starts to eat. “How old are you, anyway? Shouldn’t you be at school?” He asks after a while.
The boy shrugs. “No point, innit. What does school get you?”
“An education. A proper job.” Sam indicates his green council-supplied overalls: “You don’t want to spend your life wearing these, do you?”
The truth is Sam loves his job. He believes he’s doing good – keeping the borough clean and nice. But he knows that most people look down on him. He didn’t finish school, didn’t get any qualifications and if he regrets that now he knows it’s too late for him. But this kid is just starting out.
The boy shifts uncomfortably in the plastic seat, recalling the argument with his dad. The old man was a loser, and the boy tried to tell himself that he didn’t really care.
“What’s your name, anyway?” Sam asked. “I’m Big Sam.”
Sam’s voice pulls the boy from his reverie. “Oh, yeah. Paul.”
Sam nods as if he somehow expected this answer. He turns his attention to his breakfast and for a while silence rules.
And then Paul begins to speak. He’s not even sure why, but this quiet, big man instills a kind of trust. “It was my dad, weren’t it? He said school’s no good for the likes of me. Said I’d never amount to nothing anyway, so’s I might as well not go.”
There’s a catch in Paul’s voice as he talks, and Sam briefly glances at him; the boy doesn’t notice, he’s staring down at the scratched plastic table. He reminds Sam of a frightened puppy and the big man knows that he’ll have to be careful not to scare the boy off. Sam hasn’t got kids of his own, but his sister Jemima had four strong boys and Sam had always been good with them.
Sam thinks of his own pa, how he was no more than 18 years old when he’d given up everyone and everything he knew to get on a leaky ship to London. That journey from the West Indies almost killed him, he always said, The only thing that kept him alive was determination; Winston knew that he was meant for better things than death at sea. He would make it to Great Britain and make a life there.
Winston found a home in Lewisham and there he met tall, beautiful Ghanian Wanda, whom he courted and married and who gave him two children. But Wanda failed to flourish in cold, wet London and every year there seemed to be less of her, until eventually she was just gone.
Sam wonders what Winston would say right now. Winston, who had always told his children that they could be whatever they wanted, who had worked three jobs to give his kids the best start in life he could, and who had dropped dead of a heart attack at 50. He was simply exhausted, the doctors said. Winston would never have allowed the words ‘never amount to anything’ pass his lips, especially not where his children were concerned.
“Well, it seems to me,” Sam said, slowly and thoughtfully, “that maybe your pa’s jealous.”
Paul opens his mouth, ready to defend any perceived slights to his family, but he realises there were none. He thinks on what Sam said. “Why would he be jealous of me?”
“He sees that you got all kindsa opportunities he never had. He’ll be worried that some day you’ll just leave him behind.”
Paul pulls a face. He’s not convinced; far as he can tell it’s the other way round: his dad’s the one leaving him behind, him and his mum. But what if Big Sam has a point, Paul wonders. His dad always said he didn’t have much time for education, but maybe the truth was that education had never had much time for him.
Sam thinks he can almost see the thoughts whirring behind Paul’s eyes. He doesn’t know why he cares about this kid who has now ruined his breakfast two days on the run. But for some reason he does. Somehow it matters to get just this one boy back into school where maybe he can make something of his life.
“My old pa always said people could be anything they wanted to, so long as they tried hard enough.
Paul laughs. “Yeah? So how come you ended up sweeping the streets?”
There’s a silence as Big Sam turns his head to stare hard at the boy. “Maybe I didn’t try hard enough,” he says.
Paul frowns. He feels like he’s been tricked somehow, but he’s not sure how. He thinks over Sam’s words; they make sense. But he still can’t shake the feeling that he’s somehow having the wool pulled. The boy gets up to leave, sliding his skinny bum along the slippery seat. He doesn’t say goodbye, but as he passes Sam, the older man mutters “See you tomorrow?” Paul nods.
The next day Sam finds himself hurrying on his round just a bit. He arrives at McDonald’s before 9am and cranes his neck to see if Paul is at what he’s already thinking of as ‘their’ table. The boy is there and Sam realises he’s pleased, and he doesn’t at all mind that he’s early.
Paul picks disinterestedly at his fries, his eyes darting towards the door every few seconds. He clocks Sam and the corners of his mouth turn up, until he catches himself and carefully puts his expression back into neutral.
Sam takes his food to the table, sits down and starts to eat. At first they sit in silence, but then: “Did you go?” Sam asks.
Paul shrugs his left shoulder. “Stuff to do,” he says. Sam nods his understanding, as if this truncated reason explains everything. “What ‘bout today?”
That shoulder rises again, almost touches the boy’s ear. It’s a gesture of defiance, but Sam sees the doubt in Paul’s eyes. He reckons he’s got the boy. Paul’s scared, though he’d never admit it, but the seed that Big Sam planted yesterday has taken root: school might not be such a bad idea. But Sam realises it’s today or never. If Paul procrastinates any longer he’ll talk himself out of it. Today is vital.
Sam leans back in his seat, stretches his long arms and with exaggerated movements looks at his watch. “Still plenty of time,” he says. A ghost of a smile appears on Paul’s face. The boy gets to his feet. “Fries are cold,” he says by way of explanation. He abandons his rubbish on the table, despite the many signs asking customers to use the bins. He doesn’t say goodbye, just takes his leave.
Big Sam’s mouth stretches into a grin that seems to cover his whole face. He’s proud – of himself and Paul. He’s already looking forward to seeing the boy the following day.
