Crusher

It was a bit early for someone to be banging on the front door. I hurried down the stairs, hair still dripping from the shower, and turned the latch.

“Sorry, son, locked myself out,” said Dad, shivering as he stepped in. He’d been out in his slippers, I noticed. I wondered why, until I saw the TV trade mag folded in his hand, and my heart sank.

Dad looked pretty rough. His pale blue eyes were red-rimmed and his fair hair was standing up in spikes that weren’t dishevelled or trendy, but made him look like he’d slept in a doorway. I’d heard him come home late last night and stumble around trying not to make a noise, crashing into the furniture and cursing under his breath. But he’d got up the same time he always did, while I was out running, and the breakfast he’d made was still warm on the table: old eggs, thin salty bacon and instant coffee, white. I’d nab a glass of orange juice
when I got to work, though the most orange thing about the stuff we sold was its colour.

“Bollocks,” said my dad, squinting through his crooked glasses at the magazine’s first inside page. That hadn’t taken long.

“What’s up?”

“Bill Winchester’s got a second series of that time-travelling cop show. Jammy sod.”

“
Future Perfect
?”

My dad gave a look as if I was being disloyal.

“Never seen it.” I shrugged. “I’ve heard of it, that’s all.”

“Me and Bill worked together years ago, on
Henby General
.”

“Yeah, you said.” But he didn’t say it very often.

Dad had been big in the early nineties. For a while he was everyone’s favourite twinkly-eyed Irish actor—he’d even won an award for
Best Newcomer
. The bronze statuette still stood on the mantelpiece, gathering ironic dust. From then on it had all been downhill. He didn’t keep the statuette on display out of nostalgia or vanity—it was there to fuel his envy. Envy keeps you hungry, Dad would say, which I’d never understood, because I was hungry all the time and I’d never got to like it. But all Dad’s old acting mates were doing better than him. If it had been true that every time a friend succeeds a
little part of you dies, by now my dad would have been a really ripe zombie.

He saw himself as a passionate, committed and challenging performer. Directors soon got to see him as temperamental, pig-headed and impossible to work with. The jobs had already started to dry up when he met my mother, and his last role had been years ago, eating imaginary pizza on a desert island in a commercial, for insurance, I think … it might have been for pizzas, or desert islands. He never officially retired, but he grew a beard and stopped going to auditions and quit pestering his agent for work.

He wasn’t going to wait for the phone to ring, he said. He was going to make his own luck. He was going to write a TV epic so gripping and authentic that producers would be ripping each other’s throats out to make it, and he’d write a really good part for himself, so they’d have to cast him. Not the lead, of course—he had to be realistic, he said. The lead could go to one of his more famous old mates, to help get the show commissioned. He had it all worked out. He’d had it all worked out for years now, and it never seemed to happen.

“Don’t sweat it, Dad. You always say success is the best revenge.”

“Yeah, but I might be wrong,” said Dad. “Maybe the
best revenge is cutting someone’s head off with a rusty saw. Maybe I should try that instead.”

I carried our empty plates out to the kitchen to wash up.

“So what are you doing today?” I said, more out of politeness than interest.

“Working,” he said.

Dad used the term loosely. A lot of his work seemed to consist of staring out the window. He had read every book on writing screenplays the local library could scrape together, and he was always quoting aphorisms and mottos about inspiration and perspiration and pants being applied to the seat of a chair, and he always wrote ten pages a day. The only problem was, next day he’d tear up nine of them. Some days he’d go traipsing round London doing “research,” and the notes and jottings and cuttings would pile up on the dining table beside his laptop, and over dinner he’d try to tell me about his latest story idea, but I’d stopped listening long ago.

“You wouldn’t believe the stuff I heard last night,” said Dad. “London gangland is like the court of Caligula—they’re all stabbing each other in the back. That’s the real drama, and it’s right under our noses, and nobody ever wants to hear about it.” Then why the hell are you writing about it? I thought. But I didn’t say
it. The best thing about Dad was his eternal optimism. Someday, with a lot of effort and a little luck, he’d be rich and famous, and we wouldn’t have to scrape by on his shrinking royalty payments and my minimum wage from Max Snax.

“You want me to bring something back for dinner?” I said.

“Nah,” said Dad. “I’ll probably go down the shops later.” He wouldn’t go into the shops, I knew, until he’d checked the skips outside for ready meals chucked out after their sell-by date. He’d serve them up with a sermon about the evils of the consumer society and the wastage it produced. I used to think, if wastage keeps us in dinners, I’m all for it.

“You know where the spare keys are?” asked Dad as I laced up my trainers.

“Hanging up,” I said. “Rough night?”

“Never mind,” said Dad. “Mine will turn up.”

“I’ll see you later, yeah?” I rose to go, expecting his routine grunted goodbye, but he put the magazine down and looked at me.

“Finn?” he said. “We’re all right, aren’t we? You and me?”

All right? How were we all right? I was an illiterate dropout with no GCSEs stuck in a dead-end job, and he was an ex-nobody who spent his days writing a script
that would never be finished and that no one would ever want to read anyway.

“Yeah, Dad, sure. I have to go.”

“See ya,” said Dad.

I pulled the door shut behind me, jogged a short distance to warm up, then started to run.

“Yeah, I want the Texas Chicken Special, no salad, no sauce, none of that.”

“What, just chicken and bread?”

“Yeah.”

He was about five foot tall and five foot round the middle, and I could see why. I always used to wonder how guys like Mr. Spherical kept their trousers up—were their belts stapled to their stomachs? Anyway, without the sauce it wasn’t a Texas Chicken Special, it was just fried chicken in pappy white bread, but I wasn’t there to quibble with the customers about what the stuff was called, I was there to sell it to them. And smile. And say thank you. “Smiles and thanks—money in the bank!” Andy used to recite that at our weekly pep talks. He was fond of morale-boosting slogans, and thought he had a knack for coining them, but his own were even crappier than the ones on the Max Snax staff training videos.

I punched the order into the programmed till and
handed Mr. Spherical his change. Jerry in the kitchen slid the foil-wrapped package into the chute while I filled a litre beaker with half a litre of ice followed by half a litre of fizzy aerated syrup, wondering for the thousandth time how anyone could consider this chemically reconstituted muck to be food, and how I’d ended up selling it. I pushed the thoughts aside for the thousandth time, but they kept flopping back into my mind, like an annoying greasy fringe you can’t cut off getting into your eyes. And it was only bloody Monday.

Hands on automatic, mind anywhere else but here, bish, bosh, sandwich, regulation single paper napkin, drink, tray, deep breath, stab at a smile, recite the fast-food blessing: “Thank you, sir, and enjoy—have a great day.” The tubby punter grunted, turned and waddled off to the door, turned round again and bumped out backwards, into the bright April morning that I was pissing away behind this overheated counter in this sweaty polyester shirt.

“Yo, Maguire!” hissed Jerry from the kitchen. “Thanking time is wanking time!” Not quite the approved formula, but he had the Max Snax high-pitched, hysterical delivery down pat. I didn’t mind Jerry. He was almost bearable, as long as you didn’t try having an actual conversation with him. You couldn’t look him in the eye, anyway—either he had curvature of the spine or he
spent too much time bent over computer porn, jerking off. Andy wouldn’t let him serve the customers, insisting that I gave a better impression of Max Snax. If I did, it was because I ran ten kilometres a day and never ate anything we sold, but I didn’t say that to Andy. I flicked Jerry a cheery middle finger. He sniggered and ducked back towards the fryers, while I cursed myself.

How could I have forgotten about the CCTV? Andy had cameras all over the joint, concealed under little black plastic domes, most of them pointed at the staff rather than the punters. I used to wonder why Andy had gone into catering, when he didn’t like people. He disliked the punters on a casual basis, but he made a full-time job of despising the staff. That was why he stayed in his office all day, watching us all through CCTV monitors. He wanted to check we weren’t stealing the fries or sneaking off to the bogs to smoke a spliff, but he wouldn’t join us on the floor to do that. Instead, he would sit poised in front of his six fuzzy monitors, waiting until he spotted an infraction of one of the hundreds of “suggestions” that made up the Max Snax Code of Conduct. Then his office door would silently open, and Andy would emerge like a nervous hermit crab scavenging the ocean floor for whatever it is hermit crabs eat. And now, as I had dreaded, his door was opening. I was about to get a three-minute lecture
on proper behaviour for customer-facing operatives, which did not include obscene hand gestures to the kitchen staff.