Christmas Eve at the Yellow Shop

Christmas Eve at the Yellow Shop

 

Before I’ve even opened the door, before I’ve had the chance to stick the kettle on, switch the lights on, and put my Give A Shit face on, he’s rung. The fucking area manager. His end of year bonus in the balance, no doubt. Telling me to stick the Christmas CD on. To ring him if I need help. Fuck that. I’ve made my own Christmas CD and that is going on instead. The office one that he wants me to play is all the usual shit you can hear in any other shop. Shaky. Slade. The Pogues. Nothing wrong with them. It’s just they’re inescapable. My CD is more self-satisfied I know but fuck it, I have to show I’ve got some cultural cachet somewhere. The Fall, Aimee Mann, Nat King Cole.

Someone might ask me hey what song is this playing, and I’ll say it’s Just Like Christmas by Low and if I’m lucky the person asking me will look a bit like Scarlett Johansson and fall in love with me there and then. We’ll get a nice house near my daughter’s place and I’ll write a best-selling book and eventually Scarlett will die in a terrible car accident, hanging on through weeks of life support and blood transfusions before finally giving in seconds before I make it to her bedside to say goodbye. Everyone will say how brave I am, how dignified.

I will never love again.

It isn’t going to happen of course but it’s Christmas and even your humble off-license lackey needs a little fantasy. Besides, no one ever bought an extra bottle of third-rate champagne on the back of hearing Mariah Carey.

Key in the door, the shutters opening. A wet and icy wind telling my kidneys just how festive I feel. Lock the door behind me. Stick the lights on. Put the cash in the till. Put the heating on. Go to the kitchen. Kettle on. Customers banging the door already. The bastard phone ringing. One minute past nine and they want to come into your grotty grotto. Fuck off. I’m making a brew.

Busiest day of the year and already I’m wondering how to do as little as possible. There’s not quite enough room for a chair between the till and the Jägermeister. So, you’re stood up the whole shift. It’s deliberate, isn’t it? Another act of cruelty from The Man. God forbid you’re never less than 100 percent ready for retail action. At an angle between the shuttered fag racks and the counter, it is possible to lean with your heels tight against the base of the Cigarette Prison. I spend my days here, at an angle of 40 degrees to my waist and then leaning across the counter. I look like twenty to three on an old clock. 

The recession has hit this town hard if the number of off licenses are any indicator. Used to be three in the town centre. Now we’re the last. Not because we’re the best, by any fucking stretch, but we’re dead centre of town. In between the chemists and the bookies. There must be people here who walk along this street and put on a bet that doesn’t win, then come in here for some booze to numb that disappointment and finally pop in to the chemists for antidepressants to make them feel better about the first two.  

I mean, it can’t be just me. 

On goes the CD and I open the doors. Christmas Eve at the Yellow Shop. My daughter gave it that name. She’s only five. It’s got a big yellow frontage. Alcohol is sunshine. Or something. It doesn’t look like sunshine when you’re opening the door at nine and our morning regulars are in for their Frosty Jack or their economy vodka. It doesn’t feel like yellow then. Not that sunny yellow anyway. More like the smudged yellow of a 50-a-day man’s fingers. The yellow of Pissed Billy’s face when he’s tutting at you for not opening till five past because you’ve overslept. That’s not a sunny yellow. That’s not sunny at all. 

Been working here five years. Five years. I spend most of my time sitting in the storeroom out back, pretending I’m dealing with a delivery when I’m really eating a nicked Twix and reading a good book. 

Pissed Billy is gone. Time for a sip of tea. I nick a Twix. It’s ten past nine and this is the one day of the year I’ll be properly busy. Still, I’ve positioned the one chair, they’ll let you sit down out the back on your break, in such a way that I can see the shop door in the angled mirror and the CCTV if I missed them coming in. It’s a good life, this, when it’s quiet. The only thing I like better than reading is watching people and imagining their lives.

You can tell what kind of time people are having from the way they act in a shop like this.   I’m not talking about my regulars. Scratch card Sue. Boring Frank. Dr. Wilson with his nightly use of the 3 bottles for a tenner offer on the Cab Sav. Anyone can hazard a guess at those people’s lives. No, I’m talking about the irregulars, the people who just pop in once a year. The end of year drinkers. Today is the day I meet them all.

One in now. Studying the form on the shelves. Quarter past nine in the morning and he’s consulting the merlots. Anyone spending more than five minutes looking at our wine has either got money problems or thinks they’re an expert on wine. I’ve done a wine course and it’s a piece of piss. By piece of piss, I mean I haven’t done a course but my boss thinks I have and I’m supposed to wear a badge that says, “Ask me About Wine!” but the badge is in landfill somewhere being ignored by a seagull.  

Say someone comes in, it’s nearly always a bloke and you know the type, they’re looking at the top shelf stuff, the expensive stuff, which has never made any sense to me because if they fall, they smash. Put the cheap stuff up top, surely. But I’m not the manager so top shelf stuff is top priced.   Anyway, back to your bloke who thinks he knows about wine or wants to imply, via sighing and umming and pretending to read the bottles thoroughly, that he does. Time to earn my money. 

“Can I help you sir?” 

“Mm. I’m after a bold red, I think. I’m having some family and friends over for dinner on Boxing Day. And we’re having INSERT SOMETHING LUDICROUSLY EXPENSIVE for dinner. And I was looking for something to compliment this.” 

Now, what I do here, is this. I agree with this cunt’s choice, but only to an extent. Then I move over to a shelf that I know to be empty.  

“Aah,” I say, “we don’t have, erm let me just check whether or not I’ve got this other wine in the back.” 

I go out the back and I have another mouthful of Twix, while I kick an empty box about for effect. Then I look up to the wall where I’ve sellotaped a biro chart I’ve made – Foods down one side and types of wine or spirit that go with it.   This prick is having veal. I mean, where do people buy this stuff? 

Anyway, there it is on my chart. I’ve written, whatever the customer says, suggest the opposite and say that veal means you can be quite versatile. So I pick up a bottle of the most expensive white wine we sell.  Deep breath. Back into the arena. 

“Sorry, I was so long. Yes, the thing of course (the of course here flatters the customer, lets them know that you appreciate their expertise, and that the knowledge you’re about to impart is not news to them) is veal is so versatile. I suggested this particular bottle to a customer a couple of weeks back and they popped back in to thank me a few days later. Obviously the red you have there is a good solid choice. But…” 

They always buy both bottles. Fuck em. Isn’t veal the one where they kill it soon as it’s born? The deer, isn’t it? Something like that. What’s foie gras? That’s on my list. That’s something horrible too. 

Anyway, I like to imagine these people’s lives and evenings. It’s very rare I imagine something nice for these people because why should I? Honestly, everyone should do Working Behind A Till instead of National Service. Two years in a shop, it would transform the country.  

Two Bottles of Wine with Veal Man? Well, I imagine he works in something terribly important to do with Money. And he’s probably younger than he looks. He looks about 50 but I reckon he’s late thirties. He’s probably got a wife who likes her expensive things more than she likes him. And they’re inviting over friends for dinner to “catch up” and “remember the old days.” And each of these two couples will secretly resent the other couple for being, in their minds, much happier and much more successful than they are. And they’ll have had veal with broccoli and Expensive Potatoes. And they’ll be playing some Miles Davis or something quietly in the background because he’s got a book called What Music Goes Well with Expensive Food. Something like that. And they’ll drink the wine. And the guy says, “veal is so versatile, you can have either red or white with it.” And they’ll all nod, like they knew this already. And the men will end up talking about house prices, and the women about schools in the area because you know the clock is ticking. It’ll be the dullest evening in the history of the world, but everyone will hug and kiss and Make Plans to Do it Again Soon when it’s over. They’ll exchange presents. Books by Jamie or Nigel, no doubt. And then both couples will have a row at bedtime. 

Here comes another punter. It’s raining so he’ll dawdle but he already knows what he wants. He’s looking for the chiller. There it is mate, in the fucking corner, it’s not Big Tescos. And he’s so clearly a cider man but the drink has an image problem. You can dress it up all you like but cider is hooligan juice in many people’s eyes. If he’s drinking cider, he’s probably in for some fags too. Also, a Diversionary Purchase, as I call them.  

The diversionary purchase is designed to make the humble shop assistant swiftly recalculate the mental image you may have drawn up of the person buying a Suicidal Amount of Sherry or Two Bottles of Tramp Piss. Luckily, retailers are aware of these instincts. And so, this December, we have a small amount of “Christmas DVD’s.” – films you can buy for a couple of quid to pretend to watch when really you’re just going home to get absolutely fucked. Or there’s the boxes of chocolates. Or there’s our World of Christmas Snacks, supposedly snacks from around the world but really it’s just beef jerky propped up against the Quavers and Wispas. Tinsel sellotaped all around it. Ho ho ho.

Sure enough, the man moves to the chiller, thinks about only purchasing a four pack but realises he’s going to have got through them pretty quickly and we’re shut tomorrow so he moves in for a second. A moment later he’s bought some beef jerky. The hat-trick looks like it could be on, he scours our small selection of films and then looks at me and goes “Shame, I’ve seen all of them.” Moments later he is out of the store convinced I haven’t already written a mini biography of him in my head.   

It gets progressively busier. The day goes reasonably quickly. I recommend scratch cards, whiskies and cigars as Christmas presents, I prove that I can bullshit on German brandy as quickly and as convincingly as I can on everything else in my life. I turn up the music and watch as the till fills to the point where I’ve got enough there to finally get the fuck out of here and start again.

Of course, it’s not my money and I’d probably end up in prison. But that would be a fresh start I suppose. Not so much wiping the slate clean as smashing it and hoping no one fashions a shiv out of it and kills me in Swansea nick. The phone rings. I don’t answer it. It’ll be someone who wants to know what time we close. Just get here. I’m busy. I know why people ring places to find out what time they’re shut. It’s because they can’t make decisions. I know what that’s like. Five years in this shop all because I can’t quit. To quit means having to try something new. Risk. Fear. The unknown. The job pays the bills. But nothing more. I could do more with my brain, I suppose. She knew that. And she made a decision when I wouldn’t.

Don’t ring the shop, just come over.

Just Like Christmas comes on and it’s a punch to the guts. I remember how it’s going to be tomorrow. I’ll drive over to the ex in the morning and we’ll do presents with our one gift to the universe. And it’ll be magical, and she’ll smile and my ex will pretend she’s impressed with the gifts I’ve bought and for a second there’ll be the smell of regret and possible change and redemption in the air and I’ll want to grab it and she’ll think about it and then we’ll remember who we really are deep down and then that sadness will permeate everything, even the taste of Christmas lunch. And my daughter will fall asleep on my lap watching Elf or something. And I’ll be sitting there wanting to go, wanting anything to not be there when she realises it’s time for me to go and she’ll be hurting and crying and somehow despite me not being the one who left, it’ll be my fault and all that regret and possible change will be over, just like Christmas.

There’s nothing I can do about any of that, of course. We go the way we must. The last of the regulars punctuate the long evening. Frank and Margaret and their dog in a basket. Mad Mike. Scratch card Sue fucking up her life, scrubbing away the silver dream in front of me till the counter looks like broken glitter. Even Pissed Billy manages a third and final visit, offering me a swig of the can he’s finishing. Swaying in front of me as he tries to remember what fags he smokes, and I know I shouldn’t but I pretend I don’t know and he finally remembers it’s Superkings and I give him a free lighter as a Christmas present.

As he moves away, he spots the DVDs. He picks one up and squints until he sees enough to make a decision.

“It’s A Wonderful Life!”

“It certainly is, Billy.”

“No, the film mun. The fucking best Christmas film ever. You seen it? Probably too old for you.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen it. It is good.”

“My mum, god bless her. She loved this film. Always made her cry.”

He pauses to take a sip from his can.”

He looks at me with tear-filled eyes and says “Me too.”

And in that precious tiny little moment Pissed Billy is elevated, transcendent and glorious, all his stories are revealed to me at once, tragic and untellable, a flash of pain and tenderness across his face and all our mutual Ghosts of Christmas Past are sat between us, forgiving and kind.

“Do you want the film, Billy? Only I’m closing up soon.”

“Nah butt. Fucking seen it.”

I laugh at the majesty of that fucking. Billy burps and says excuse me and almost leaves without his fags.

“Happy Christmas Billy.”

“Happy Christmas.”

I see him out the door and watch as he swerves his way round obstacles known only to him. I check the street for any last-minute shoppers, any Scarlett Johanssons, but there are none. I rinse my cup out in the sink and put the money in the safe. I put the Twix wrappers in my pocket and turn on the alarm. Thirty-five seconds to leave and lock the shop. I manage it, I always do but there’s a reluctance tonight. A hope for something I can’t quite put my finger on. Off go the lights. I just about get out on time and when I finally lock the shop, I realise what it is.