Jaz swung out the close and strode left along the deserted street. The old tenements had been smartened up or demolished to make way for the new order of housing, with your own front door and a postage stamp sized garden. What a waste of space! Who wanted to be bothered with grass and flowers? He lit up his second cigarette of the day. It would last him till he reached the entrance to the station where he would buy his usual ham and egg rolls and strong tea in a polystyrene mug. That would set him up for the day and help him get over the hangover. ‘Two sugars and milk as usual?’ the old woman behind the counter would ask as she always did, the daft old cow.

The hangover was worth it. Last night had been great in the Caledonian, or to give it its new name, the Highwayman. It had changed from being an old style pub of nicotine coloured walls, dark, ring-marked tables and a wooden floor that sprung with every step. It was now this new, shiny, black and white affair, with tiled floor and aluminium tables and chairs. ‘Monochrome’, he’d been told by one of his better-educated mates. But that was not important. It was still his local and with Kenny, Jamsie, Mark, Pete and Ricky he’d shouted himself hoarse at the wide screen telly showing the latest round of the World Cup. The pints had flowed and he’d smoked a whole packet of fags. Aye his head and throat were rough this morning.

His journey to work by the ‘Clockwork Orange’, that excuse for an underground, was just long enough. By the time he got off on the other side of the river the rolls were eaten and the tea drunk, the polystyrene mug crushed and flung on the floor along with the Metro. He’d read the headlines and the sports pages, was not interested in the rest and much of the paper was about events in Edinburgh anyway. No use to him. He’d no intention of going east. The Glasgow pubs and nightlife were good enough for him. That’s where his friends were.

It was 7.30 when he pushed open the door to the large hanger of a warehouse.‘Aye, wee man,’ he called over his shoulder to the elderly guardian of the door.‘What’s the boss got lined up for us the day? Is it the forklift or will I be humping boxes till knocking off time?’ ‘Wee man’ looked at his assistant. What had he called them? Oh, aye, ‘piercings’. In his ears, his nose, his eyebrows and even his nipples. Sleeves rolled up exposed arms covered in tattoos. Dragons, other mythical creatures, Scotland and of course his favourite football team. He remembered the time when he’d commented on the ripped jeans, thinking Jaz had been in an accident on the way to work. He’d got a sarcastic, almost pitying look and the riposte, ‘Get with it grand dad.’

But Jaz was a hard worker. He’d been in the stores since he’d left school. No qualifications to speak of. Foundation level in everything. No college course for him. He was strong despite his wiry appearance. He’d been secretly pleased when he was chosen for training on the forklift. He was now a fully qualified forklift truck operator. It was great trundling up and down the wide alleys. He lifted the pallets piled high with brown cardboard boxes. He moved them from the lorries in the delivery bay. He stacked them up on the shelves that reached to the very ceiling of this former industrial building. It was the same when the order sheets came down. He had to be quick off his mark and find the correct boxes for loading on to the lorries. Forward, forks under the pallet, lift, reverse, turn round, speed down the aisle, forward, lower, reverse, turn round, back up the aisle. He could turn his machine on a sixpence as he spun the wheel this way and that and pushed and pulled the levers. In no time the boxes were stacked in order on the tiers of shelves or the lorries loaded ready for the road. He spat on his hands and rubbed them together ready for the next order. King of the forklift. And he was as good with the smaller boxes, carrying four at a time, blue eyes and shaved head showing above, clambering up the metal ladders to place them in position and taking special care with those marked ‘fragile’ or with the ‘glass’ logo on the side.

The morning and afternoon tea breaks were taken outside no matter what the weather, rain, hail or shine. Outside, sitting on an upturned barrel where he could light up, cigarette cupped in his hand, taking a drag every few seconds till it was finished. Lunchtime would see him in the pub along the road, this time one of the older kind, the Highlander, left behind when the shipyards went. There was a ‘no alcohol’ rule in the store but he’d never been found out yet. A pint of heavy went well with his pie and chips and two cigarettes. He needed it after the dusty atmosphere to slake his thirst ready for afternoon shift.

By four, the day was over unless there was overtime. He liked the extra money the overtime gave him but he would rather finish and get away. Work was all right but there were other things to do in life. The underground was busier on the homeward journey but he was often left in a seat to himself, isolated. Young girls looked askance at him, almost as if they were afraid he would leap at them and ravage them. They shied away from his unkempt and now dirty appearance, as did the matrons going home after their town shopping, lips pursed and sniffing in a superior fashion at the sweaty smell rising from him. He would doze off dreaming of the night to come with his mates in the pub, playing pool, chatting up the girls and then possibly the club till the wee hours.

Plenty of time to get washed and changed and spruced up. He was a different man then! The females couldn’t resist him when he swaggered up to them, pint in hand, cigarette dangling and made a play for them. Who would it be tonight? Wee Janey with the blonde hair? Senga with the fantastic bum? Charlene with the legs up to her oxters? He really fancied wee Janey. He’d known her since way back when she was a skinny wee thing not worth a second look. But even before they left school she was changing, shaping up into a slim, smooth skinned, wee cracker. She worked in the local hairdressers. She had been to college to learn how to do all the latest styles and kept up to date from the magazines that her boss Betty bought for the girls to read in their tea break. She sometimes had to work late but tonight was not one of them. He might see her in the pub and ask her if she wanted to go to the club.

He came to with a jolt, dream over, leapt down on to the platform and up and out into the street. It was busier now. Men and women who had work were coming home, looking forward to their evening of drinking or Bingo, some women looking less towards their ‘other job’ of housework and children. Those who lived on the ‘Broo’ were hanging on the corner. The evening workers were beginning to set off, changing information with their other half as they passed them going the other way. Women were struggling under the weight of plastic bags the handles cutting into their palms. Kids were rolling in the dirt or kicking a ball from one side of the street to the other.

Some people had that weary and resigned look of those returning to something they would rather not face but had never plucked up the courage to leave. Was this what had happened to his mum all those years ago? Had it been his fault? Jaz marched through them, a nod here and there and made his way back to the close mouth.

He opened the security door and took the stairs two at a time. He rang the bell, four shorts and two long and pushed open the door into the lobby.

‘Is that you son?’ came the voice from the kitchen where the smell of soup and mince and tatties wafted.

‘Naw. It’s the bogyman,’ he shouted back as he entered the back room and lifted his gran right off her feet in a bear hug.

‘Ye daft wee sod. The dinner’s ready. Sit doon. You’ll be hungry after the day’s work Get this in ye before ye go oot wi’ yer pals.’

‘Thanks gran. Just what I need,’ and he placed a box of chocolates on the counter at the sink.

© Isobel MacDonald

Isobel MacDonald is a member of Lanark Writers.