Computer Dating

Digging through some old files marked "work in progress" and I found this story from 2005. I suspect the plan was to polish it a bit more and send it off for publication in some magazine's Coffee Break Fiction section. Having scanned over it, it does indeed need some editing, but here it is anyway.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 E-mails, e-mails, emails. I hate returning to the office after holiday. Hundreds of e-mails clogging my in-box make it even worse. It’s Monday morning and my holiday seems so long ago already.

I’m glad I had the foresight to block my diary before I departed for the golden sands of Corfu. So, I have no meetings today, which means I can take my time looking through my e-mails, putting off the reality of work until tomorrow.

Clutching my mouse like it’s an alien rodent, I click on the first memo and glance over the opening sentence for any relevance. The words are on the screen but I just can’t read them. All I see is a pale reflection on the monitor staring back. Didn’t I have a tan a few minutes ago?

I sigh but no-one rushes over with tickets for the next flight out of here and back to the lazy sun-blessed life I had got used to.

Evidently, I am not ready to deal with even the most basic of tasks, so I decide to search for personal memos and any funnies.

Thinking about the last funny email I got brings a hint of a smile to my lips. It wasn’t so much the content that made me smile, rather who sent it; The office new boy, Adrian. Fresh out of university and a welcome breeze in a stuffy office monopolised by early thirty-something women, like me.

Funny e-mails in the office were unheard of until Adrian joined a couple of months ago. 

It is also nice to have a bit of male eye candy around the place.  Perhaps there are 

some perks to this job after all.

‘I bet you’re missing him already.’

The words disrupted my thoughts. I turn to see my boss, Sandy, perched on the edge of my desk.

‘Who?’ I ask, fearing what the gossip mill has churned out in my absence, ‘Your holiday romance!’

‘Oh.’ Breathing a sigh of relief I say, ‘Mr Non-existent, you mean.’

Sandy is clutching a thick wedge of paper and I realise the small talk is leading to something. 

‘That’s a lot of paper,” I venture. “Not intended for me, I hope.’

Sandy glances at the pile in her hands and back to me, a grimace evident.

‘Afraid so. Sorry to do this to you on your first day back, but I need this collating in a spreadsheet for tomorrow’s board meeting.’

My already deflated spirits sink further and I can’t postpone reality any further.

‘I’ll need to take the team laptop to work on it at home tonight.’

‘That’s fine. Adrian has got it at the moment. You can collect it from him later.’

With any luck Sandy didn’t sense my heart jump at the mention of his name. 

‘I bet he’s using it to find some funnies on the internet,’ I say.

Sandy smiles and walks away, leaving me with a wad of paperwork and 

trying to interpret the meaning behind her smile. Sandy was recently divorced and certainly had a soft spot for Adrian. How else would he get away with searching the net so much at work!

I get home and all I want to do is curl up and fall asleep, but the pile of paperwork is too big to ignore.

“Oh well,” I announce as I heave the laptop on to my desk, “let’s get started.”

The task is easier than I let on to Sandy because I’ve done it many times before, and it’s finished in half an hour. 

After saving the file I decide to see what other files are on the laptop. Noticing a folder called “Adrian’s Stuff” curiosity gets the better of me and I open it. 

The screen displays a dozen files and I suspect I have found the latest batch of funny e-mails. I can’t help treating myself to a sneak peak at one or two, so I check through the names to see what takes my fancy. My eyes freeze on a file curiously titled “Jan, you must see this.”

Taken aback, I start to contemplate all names similar to my own: Jane; Jen; June? John?

Despite my apprehension I click on the file, and after a long pause the file opens. Nothing. Well, nothing except for a single line of text that I recognise to be a link to an internet page. Though I don’t know what I hoped it would be, I’m disappointed. A voice in my head stops me rolling the cursor towards the exit button, telling me to click on the link otherwise it will bug me forever if I don’t. The voice is right; I’m easily antagonised by such things. 

Nerves flood my stomach as the laptop starts connecting to the internet and negative thoughts start to swirl around my mind. What if it’s a computer virus; or an internet scam; maybe Adrian is trying to steal my identity. Or worse still, he could’ve obtained some embarrassing pictures of me. 

That’s it. He’s got hold of the one of me in a belly dancing costume. What was I thinking? I’ll never live it down, and Adrian is making sure of that.

On the internet page in front of me a message pops up to tell me I have downloaded some software. Great. Now I’m really in trouble at work if it turns out to be something seedy.

An egg-timer rotates in front of my eyes. I blink to focus because I have been 

staring at the screen intently.

I’m almost squinting by the time the spinning egg-timer stops. In an instant it is replaced by a video; a large bed occupies the screen but there is no-one there. 

Despite my predicament I can’t help thinking the owner of the bed needed lessons in folding sheets.  Didn’t his mother ever…. his mother? How could I tell it was a he? But I knew. It was Adrian.

What am I to do? I’m looking at the bed of a young man about 10 years younger than me via an internet link he may or may have intended me to find.

I hear myself call softy, ‘Adrian.’

He probably won’t hear that but I haven’t the courage to call any louder.

‘Jan? Is that you?’

The speaker resonates with his voice and he sounds so close to me, yet he’s not even on the screen. Correct that. He’s walking in wearing a headset.

‘Y…yes,’ my voice falters at first as I fumble for words. ‘You’re a sight for sore eyes.’

Jesus. That sounded full on. I meant because of eye strain, and perhaps the fear of viruses and fake smutty Britney Spears downloads. 

‘I could say the same, but I can’t see you.’

Adrian is now sat down on the edge of his bed and I remember the glass of 

wine in my hand. A large swig hits my taste buds and reminds me why wine is for sipping.

‘So, what do you want to see?’ Adrian asks.

He is always so confident, but right now he looks more nervous than I feel.

 His words sink in and my interpretation of them makes me feel even more nervous.

‘Pardon?’

‘What do you want to see?’ he repeats.

‘Erm… I’m not that kind of girl.’ 

Yes I am! The voice deep inside returns, bursts from my mouth and shrieks, ‘take off your shirt.’

Adrian seems taken aback by my blurted request. I doubt he’s ever read 

Bridgette Jones. 

Adrian clears his throat; ‘I was asking you out to see a movie.’

My cheeks flush and I’m glad he can’t see me right now. But perhaps he can sense my acute embarrassment and a wry smile curls the corners of his lips.

To my surprise (and delight!) Adrian removes his shirt anyway.

Tossing it aside he asks, ‘do you want a sneak preview?’

I realise I haven’t said yes to going out, but I’m enjoying the performance so far!

Late Night Seduction

Arms propped on the desk, a little finger at the edge of his left nostril, Terry gazed at the computer screen, eyes glazed and sore. He blinked, eyelids scratched at dry red eyeballs.
"Click here for action", the big flashing red button beckoned.
Terry brushed his crotch, pushing down the bump of trouser material.
Fixated on the moving images, Terry knew he was addicted but could not draw himself away.
"Come on you beauty," Terry said out loud, but quiet enough that his wife in the next room would not hear.
Dirty didn't even begin to describe how he felt. He needed this late night fix, it was as simple as that.
He had tried to break the addiction. Gone cold turkey a few times but he kept on coming back, lured in by the merest of thoughts, or the prevalence of website adverts based on his internet history.
As the images flashed across the screen Terry heart raced with excitement, anticipation and fear. His finger hovered over the mouse buttons. Things were getting interesting on screen, an orgy of limbs tangled and on-cue Terry clicked the button.
"Go on, stick it in!" Terry urged, feeling a surge of adrenaline within.
Climatic screams faintly burst from the low-volume screen.
Just then Terry felt a hand on his shoulder.
"Oh love, you promised you wouldn't anymore," said Jean, pinching at his tense shoulders.
"But Jeanie, I've just won a grand. Cashed out just after United scored the equaliser!"

Threat

Sam watched every day without fail.

From his vantage point Sam could see the whole street, watch every person every step of the way.

The postman always arrived by 1pm, and 28 days had passed since Sam’s insurance complaint. Sam was patient but time had run out. The Ombudsman beckoned.

Temporary shoes

"These are my temporary shoes," chimed Bernard, with a swish of a hand towards his footwear.
Polly regarded Bernard's shoes, then his face, then the shoes once more. Words didn't often fail Polly Waterson, and they wouldn't now.
After a momentary pause she bent down to Bernard's level and said, "they suit you, Bernard, they really do. But why are you wearing temporary shoes?"
Bernard looked at her like she was daft. Perhaps she was, Bernard contemplated.
"Becoz of our Carly's baby. That's why they are temporary."
Bernard smiled politely. Explaining stuff to old people was hard.
"Oh, I see," Polly mused, unsatisfied with the partial picture.
Perhaps there was gossip to be had. Polly was good with gossip, but extracting it from this particular 6 year old might require some cunning.
"And how is Carly?"
"Same as before. But not fat, what with the baby coming out of her bottom."
Bernard didn't want to go in to detail really, but he figured although Ms Waterson didn't have any babies of her own she probably knew where they came from. Thinking about bottoms, he stiffled a snigger.
"And the baby?" asked Polly.
"I don't know. It's a girl."
Bernard was starting to regret showing off his temporary shoes now. All these questions. It was like being in the head master's office after he accidentally punched Peter for being a moron.
"Look," Bernard said as he wiggled his feet around in the shoes.
Polly grimaced through a smile, and decided a different tactic.
"And your parents, I bet they're excited about the new baby," Polly asked, looking behind Bernard to see if Anna or Karl, Bernard's parents, were nearby.
"Dunno. Dad's collecting Carly from the hospital and Mum 'as gone shopping. Aunty Rita's looking after me."
"Ah, to get something nice for her grand-daughter?" asked Polly. She was hoping to end the conversation soon, deciding there was no gossip to be had at 17 Beach Road.
"No, for me," Bernard said.
Polly was stumped. No gossip, no sign of a baby to snoop at. Just a little boy seemingly pleased with his temporary shoes, and she didn't even know why he was wearing those. No more beating about the bush, Polly opted for a straight question.
"What's mummy buying you at the shops?"
"New Shoes," Bernard beamed. "Carly's baby water broke over mine and they were wrecked, so that's why I'm wearing temporary shoes. Bye!"
With that Bernard clumped towards his front door in his Dad's size 10 shoes, temporarily stopping to negotiate the front step in his temporary footwear.

The Chimple

The Chimple

"Why is that Chimpanzee called The Chimple”?
Asked the girl, her nose obscured by a pimple.
“Why my dear it is so very simple,”
Replied her Grandfather, his mind still nimble.

“You see, The Chimple swing in a rope tyre thing
And The Chimple dance, jiggle and prance.

If you can call it song, The Chimple sing.
The Chimple try anything once, given chance.

“The Chimple eat bananas all day long.
Watched by a crowd, The Chimple do no wrong.
Throw a party and The Chimple drink tea
And in a funny hat The Chimple look like me!”

“Ah I see” said The Chimple watching Girl.

Yet thoughts of The Chimple made her head swirl.
“But how will I recall what The Chimple do?
I’d like to know, so please tell me so,
Because he’s my highlight in the zoo”

Well, the name of The Chimple is quite clear,
So remember this simple rule, my dear.

Swing, dance, jiggle, prance, sing song once then cheer.
Banana, part-tea, funny hat, The Chimple do all year!”

Fallen Idol

The muddied football, stuck in a slick of dirt, stared up at me. Go on. Kick me, you old fart. I want to kick it so bloody hard, so desperately need to kick it.

A magnetic field keeps me rigid on the park bench. The ball, neither repelled nor attracted by the force stays in the mud.

A small team of boys, all no more than 12 years old, study me from a distance. They must be the owners of the ball. Moments pass and still they keep their position, like the moon in unchanging orbit.

I notice the football kits they wear; flashy nylon outfits with sponsorship emblazoned across the midriff. There wasn’t anything like that in my day. One of the lads, dressed in the blue of Chelsea approaches.

He looks terrified of me. Here am I, an elderly gent, drinking (whisky) peacefully on a park bench on my own. I should be the one fretting.

‘Excuse me?’ the boy says.

I wish I had kicked the blasted football back to them now. I don’t respond, hoping he’ll go away, but I know what’s coming.

‘Can I have your autograph?’

Christ. You kick a ball for a few years and 60 years later and the public still own you.

Angie

Written in December 2003, the short story, Angie, was written as a writing assignment. I've put it under the coffee break fiction section, but to be honest I'm tempted to create another section entitled "humour/offbeat".
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Absolutely stunning, darling," Angela said to the rear-view mirror as she applied the finishing touches to her make-up. She badly wanted to prove to her daddy that she could pay her way, and so she was desperate to make a good impression on her first day at Lemmi’s Parlour.
A quick splash of CK1 and she was ready. Angela picked up her Gucci handbag and got out of her gold Audi TT.
A short walk down Clarkson Road gave her precious moments to think about her job, though she found herself pondering why an up market beautician would be located in an area like this. Angela had seen places like this on television, but she wasn’t aware Chester incorporated its own down-town Bronx.
Angela observed the street numbers as she teetered along on china blue shoes that complemented her eyes and ensemble perfectly. 175. 177. 179. 181. 181? There must be some mistake, thought Angela as she checked and rechecked the job centre’s advice slip. The name above the shop enforced the grim reality. Lemmy’s Tattoo and Piercing Parlour.
“You must be Angie, eh lass” said a burly pony-tailed man approaching her.
Immediately Angela reached for her pepper spray. Too late. Lemmy (one of his arm tattoos gave his name away) grabbed her wrist and dragged Angela into the shop.
"Sylv," Lemmy yelled. "Your new assistant, Angie, is ‘ere."
"Actually, my name is Angela, and I’m afraid there’s been a terrible mistake.
You see, I…"
"Flamin’ ‘eck!" exclaimed Sylv. "You’re a bit tarted up for this job, aintcha."
Angela approached Sylv, thinking it might be easier to explain to her, when she caught a whiff of Sylv’s perfume. Or to more precise, bog water. Angela imagined Sylv bought it by the gallon from a garage forecourt. She didn’t mean to, but Angela couldn’t help squirming under the nasal attack.
"What’s up with you?" Sylv asked.
"I’m sorry. Your perfume is very," Angela searched for a subtle yet accurate word, "overpowering."
"Ta very much."
"Sylv," the coarse syllable scratched at Angela’s throat. "As you can see from my attire," Angela’s manicured nails indicated her pristine Prada suit, "I’m not cut out for work at a tattoo parlour. The job centre intended to allocate my services to a beauty parlour."
"More’s the pity," Lemmy said.
Angela prickled at the colloquial use of the Queen’s English, and turned to Lemmy in time to see him pick some wax from his ear and brush it across his yellow teeth. She could not believe how unreservedly disgusting Lemmy was.
How typical of a greasy low life oath, Angela thought. He’s probably a biker and listens to heavy metal. Oh yes, his Metallica t-shirt confirms that.
She felt angry towards the job centre, but also very scared of what Lemmy and Sylv could do to her, and she had an unerring distrust of anyone in leather trousers.
Lemmy took several slow steps towards Angela. She noticed a stand-up fan rotating behind him just as his body odour washed over her.
She had only smelt a similar stench at a restaurant whilst on holiday in Hong Kong, however this smell was ten times stronger, and her delicate senses were telling her to be sick.
"Y’see Angie. We need someone today because it’s the first week of University, and we always get a rush of students coming in."
If she thought his body smelt bad, she could almost taste the dog dirt stinking from his mouth.
Angela thought about her predicament. At least this greaser is conceding a mistake has been made, and if I agree to suffer a day’s work here then I may get out here alive, she resolved. I guess Princess Diana had to put up with worse things when she went to Somalia, and besides, my girlfriends will lap up this story for months.
"I’ll work for you today only, and on one condition."
"What’s that then Angie?" asked Sylv.
"Call me Angela."
"Fair enough, Angela." Lemmy emphasised her name, showing a yellow toothy grin as he did. "You’ll be ‘elping Sylv with piercings. You done any before?"
"Oh, you mean earrings? No, I have not, but if you show me your handiwork I’m sure I could give it a whirl, just as long as I don’t damage my nails."
A strange smirk came across Lemmy’s face as he asked, "so, you want to see an example?"
"Yes please."
"Okay," Lemmy laughed and promptly dropped his trousers to expose an intimate piercing.
Sylv and Lemmy laughed raucously and even more so when Angela exclaimed, "Oh my giddy aunt" and fainted in a heap.


**** Update October 2012****
I've just looked at the stats of this blog and this post is the most popular of all posts! Whilst I think it is a great coffee break story, I was surprised.

Want to more coffee break fiction?

Back on the Market

Written in late 2004, Back on the Market is along the lines of the "women's fiction" that appears in weekly magazines. 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 

The ink on my divorce papers has been dry for less than a month and I don’t feel ready to move on. Yet here I am, getting ready to put myself on the market again. My friend Nigel has persuaded me to attend a nightclub he’s been frequenting recently to “put Richard Milligan back on the map.” His words. Nigel’s a good friend. 

He’s been through similar problems, except in his case there’s a kid involved. Messy, to say the least.

He’s been going on at me for months to attend this club with him but I decided to wait until the divorce was final. I can’t help feeling I’ve gone over the top with my appearance; new suit, shirt, tie, big bottle of CK1 and a trip to the barbers. 

Catching myself in the mirror my initial reaction is “very smart” but staring a little longer my opinion rapidly transcends to “desperate.” I’m nervous and sweaty. What if I can’t pull? I already look desperate and over-keen to impress; adding sweat and profuse nerves will really tip the odds against me. 

Okay, deep breath. I’m overreacting – I always do. Julie, my ex, cited this in the divorce proceedings; however I feel that finding Julie in bed with her boss was just cause for chucking a brick through the windscreen of his Porsche. Getting her fired from her job was cited too. 

The doorbell chimes and I let Nigel in. ‘Wow. You’re a little overdressed, Richie,’ Nigel says stood there in jeans and shirt, sports jacket and sneakers. 

‘Erm, I do like to make a good impression. Anyway, you told me to be smart and funny. I’ve boned up on a few if the jokes I remember from college.’ 

‘Forget them. Women like Frank Skinner funny, not Frank Carson. And when I said to be smart I meant intelligence.’ Nigel chuckled. 

My nerves were even more shredded now, and my faith in singles night at nightclubs is faltering fast. In my day we always wore suit and tie (okay – a Don Johnson grey-flecked suit with t-shirt, granddad shirt and a boot lace tie) and you couldn’t hear yourself above the music (Miami Sound Machine, ABC, New Edition etcetera – proper music.) So I’m a bit dubious about Nigel’s smart and funny approach. Experience tells me all I need is some good pick up lines. I guess things have changed a lot in the past two decades. 

‘What’s the women to men ratio at the club?’ I ask. ‘Pretty much 50:50. There are loads of fit women to talk to.’ 

‘We’re not going to a gym are we?’ I joked. 

‘That’s more like the humour you need to display!’ said Nigel. 

Nigel boasts he always chats up about 10 to 20 women at this place. At least the odds are encouraging. We order a taxi, sit down and have a drink while we wait. The alcohol helps me to relax and I start to feel more comfortable with the idea of clubbing at my age. After all, I’m not exactly over the hill and I like to think I’ve still got the moves too, though I suspect big box little box hand gestures are old hat now. One thing still bugged me about where we were going. 

‘What type of music will they be playing tonight?’ I ask, hoping it’s not “jungle” as I don’t think I’ll be able to make-out to that. ‘It’s pretty much a case of requests all night. So you need to get in their first. They’ll play the whole “Best of Talk Talk” album if you want.’ 

‘That’s cool, but won’t it be too loud to chat?’ I must admit, if they were to play Talk Talk I’d dance my pants off all night anyway. 

‘Don’t worry about the music, Richie. Just focus on the ladies.’ 

The taxi arrives so we finish our drinks and leave my house. At Nigel’s request the taxi drops us off at Ginola’s Citybar. 

‘Good thinking,’ I say, recognising Nigel’s game plan. ‘Let’s sink a few more lagers here before hitting the club. After all, I’m not sure I can afford to re-mortgage just to pay nightclub prices.’ 

Nigel opens the door and we step in to the bar. 

‘Actually, we’re here already,‘ said Nigel. ‘What? You said we’re going to a singles night at a nightclub?’ 

‘I said we are going to a singles club. You interpreted that as a nightclub. I played along because I knew you wouldn’t go for this.’ 

 ‘And what exactly is “this”?’ 

‘Speed dating!’ I want to walk out right now, go home and play Talk Talk, and turn it up loud. 

‘Hang on a second. What about the music? You said there’d be request music.’ 

As I spoke I already knew the answer, but Nigel pointed towards the jukebox in the corner anyway. Resigned, I follow the clockwise rotation of table hopping around the bar, engaging each lady with polite chat. It doesn’t take them long to figure out I’m not enthused by the task. And it was a task. This isn’t dating, I tell myself and after 5 unsuccessful attempts I retreat to the safety of the bar. Perhaps switching to shorts or mixers might help. 

Sipping on a JD and C I look around the room and spy on Nigel. He seems to be in good form and it looks like he’s forgotten about his marital worries. 

‘Looking for someone?’ said a soft voice to my right. ‘Not really I was just seeing how my mate was getting on,’ I reply before slugging down the rest of my drink. I feel the need to cough but resist.  ‘Having a competition, eh?’ she asks.  

I sense a touch of vitriol. Perhaps it’s aimed at me because I haven’t turned to acknowledge her, or maybe she has burned once too many times.  

‘Well if we are, he’s winning,’ I respond. 

‘Do you come here often?’ 

This sounded like a chat up line and I was determined not to bite. ‘No. It was his idea to come.’

‘Whose?’ ‘His,’ I point accusingly at Nigel. 

‘Stinky Parkinson!’ she squeals, and I spin to see a brunette covering her mouth as she rocks in hysterics. 

 ‘Pardon?’ 

‘Oh, I’m sorry Richard. I didn’t mean to be rude about your friend. That was his nickname given to him at school.’ 

‘But I was at school with Nigel and I don’t remember that nickname, yet you know my name…’ 

 She’d stopped laughing, anticipating my next words, and catches me with her emerald eyes. 

 ‘….And I remember you, Mrs Keenan.’ 

‘Please, call me Suzie.’ Her smile lit up her face and it dawns on me she is only about 10 years older than me. 

‘Do you want to get out of here,’ I ask, surprising myself more than Suzie. I mean, she was a teacher at my high school. 

 ‘Definitely. It’s not really my scene.’ 

‘How about a nightclub?’ I suggested, hating the thought of it.

‘I’d rather sit in a pub and chat.’ 

‘That sounds good.’ 

So we leave Nigel “Stinky” Parkinson in a bar half populated by single men and women and walk to a nearby pub, and spend the evening catching up on old times. 

Not exactly the evening I expected, but Richard Milligan hopes to be taken off the market very quickly. Perhaps I’m over-reacting but I think I’m ready to move on.