Pay As You Go

 by Andrew “MulletProof” Graves

Fuck knows why but I can’t be bothered wi’ the ale tonight. Sometimes it just gets you like that. That’s when he comes at me. He’s got no chance though, cos the poor bogger’s even more lathered than our Burt, who I left in Yates’s not ‘alf hour ago. He trips over ‘is sen, and on ‘is way down I give ‘im a tasty one across the back of ‘is neck, which sends ‘im crashing into the pavement in a way that meks me wince.

I feel a bit sorry for ‘im then like. The daft bastard reckons I’ve been chatting up ‘is Mrs. Funny thing is I’ve been nowhere near ‘er. I was tempted like, right nice she was, blonde piece, short black skirt, stilettos and them tights as you can’t see through. Anyway this poor sod gets the wrong end of the stick and starts going on. I’m not in the mood so I walk away but this one int satisfied.

I look down at him, sitting up now, resting one hand on the filthy concrete and one hand on his bleeding lip. I offer him my hand then; and in ‘is confusion he teks it and stands unsteadily to ‘is feet. He’s wearing them faded, ripped on purpose jeans, which I can’t stand and a Hilfiger Tee-shirt and I honestly think the blow to the head has made him forget what he was doing in the first place, that and the eight pints o’ Stella he must have had to get in that state. I watch him stagger away past the Owd Angel and across the street toward the Broadway and Mansfield Road.

I’m about to walk on messen when I notice something glowing on the ground. The stupid sod ‘as dropped his phone. It’s a good un an all, iPhone, like I’ve been selling all week to them wi’ more money than sense. Bet its Pay As You Go, knowing that poor sod’s luck. Still, I say to myself, waste not, want not. I call in the Fleece on me way ‘ome, cos the scuffles’s gen me a right thirst.

Back in the shop on Monday I’m not in too bad a mood considerin’. Dexy, the store manager’s being a right mard arse though, reckons Head Office ‘as been having a go about sales and all that. He gets us all in the back room before we open and starts ranting and raving. He does it in that way managers do, so as not to single anyone out, but he can barley look me in the eye cos he knows no one sells like me. It’s Gary who should be worried. Bloody idiot couldn’t shift a contract if he tried, not that he ever did, the long streak of piss. Still he’s a good laugh of a Friday and that goes a long way in my book.

I’m just about to go for me dinner when I clock ‘im. It’s the half wit from Saturday night, in my shop. I try to nip away before he sees me, then he meks eye contact and I think I’m fucked. I already lied about me police record to get this job but another assault charge’ll do me no favours. He looks like the kind of bloke who’d press charges an all. Even if he’s not pressin’ charges, e’ll probably ‘ave sussed where is phone went. Well he’s had it there, cos the bastard’s already on eBay.

“Excuse me” He says

“Can I help you?” I smile at him, all nonchalant like.

“I’m interested in this phone”

He’s pointing at the display beside ‘im, only I’m too dazed to notice which handset he’s after. Then I twig. He’s got no idea who I am. He must ‘ave been even more pissed than I thought. I snap out of it quick, before he tumbles. Before he knows it I’ve stitched ‘im up with a contract he won’t thank me for in 6 months time, nice commission for me though.

For the second time in less than a week I stand there watchin’ the daft sod wander away. ‘Is lass is waiting outside, looking nearly as tidy as she did on Saturday. She gives him a peck on the lips, which are still cut and bruised and he wraps an arm round ‘er waist as if she’s about to blow away. Contract or not he’ll be Pay as You Go for the rest of his life. You can always tell a Pay As You Go, and it’s nowt to do wi’ phones neither. My dad was a Pay As You Go and still is, cracking on 60 and what’s he got to show for it, a terrace in Forest Fields? And his dad was the same before him, in the mines from 15 and pegs it two years after he retires, lungs so full of dust they could have refilled Sherwood Pit with it.

Pay As You Go? Fuck that. No contract’ll ever ave me either. I’m me own man and I’ll ‘ave life on my terms and conditions. They won’t have me.

And come Saturday night contract or not I’ll be the one that’s ‘olding her round the waist and elsewhere. Just by looking at her, you can tell she’s no Pay As You Go, yeah come Saturday night she’ll be signed up to my contract. 3 months? 6 Months? 12 months? She’ll be lucky.

Come Saturday night, though. Come Saturday night.

Joint winner of the Alan Sillitoe Short Story Competition