Miller in Love?
(cont from page 1)
Now, however, Miller was approaching the age of wisdom, well, 40 anyway, and his lust for the retard was a mystery to him. She was not unattractive he supposed, rather plain really, but not objectionable. She didn’t drool or do weird things with her face and hands that some people with retarded tendencies do sometimes. Still, she was rather homely, her watery gray eyes never quite focused on any single object, a permanent smile on her face that was the tell-tell sign that maybe not all colors were in the crayon box. She was probably in her late twenties, but it was hard to tell, as she didn’t seem to have any real age on her face or hands. Her hands, this thought excited Miller, it was her hands he had first noticed about her. When she was handing him change from his pound coin for the "SUN". Her hands were smooth and unlined and soft and they reminded him of something, but he was unable to resurrect the memory fully, leaving only some kind of half taste of a memory.
Today though, today Miller would walk into the Qik Stop and buy the "SUN" and not lust after Emmy. He would hand her his pound coin, and take the paper and change and immediately begin to peruse the newspaper with sincere concentration. Perhaps on the way out the automatic door he will casually check out the page three girl "Zoe 19 from Lancashire" and admire her unretarded breasts and have a healthy reaction thus eliminating the bothersome lust for Emmaline.
Miller felt his hands becoming sweaty as he dug in his pocket for his pound coin, the sun suddenly oppressive on his neck. He wanted to be ready to pay quickly and not fumble around at the check out counter. Maybe she would be impressed with his quickness in paying. Perhaps she would think, "Oh my, the man in the funny tee shirt sure does pay quickly, perhaps I will let him kiss me on the lips’. Miller caught himself in this thought and immediately considered just going to another newsagent. But he was already walking through the swishing automatic door as he thought this thought and now it was just too late. Emmy would see him turn around and walk back out the door if he left now, perhaps even being caught in the automatic door as it began to slide shut after he had entered and thereby doubling his embarrassment.
No, he was here now, caught under the fluorescent lights, committed. He just needed to act really cool and get his paper and maybe a drink or some gum or something to show that he is really not just a one dimensional man, that he has many interests. Not only a "SUN" newspaper reader but a gum chewer too and maybe an orange juice drinker as well, Miller selected carefully. He let his eyes slip casually up the counter past the candies, past the newspapers to where Emmy stood. She was staring vacantly at the Lotto sign, her thoughts unknowable to him. Her hands lay motionless on the counter in all their smooth soft glory. Miller was relieved and upset that she was paying absolutely no attention to him at all. This man with a big red "S" on his tee-shirt and rapidly disappearing hair had not even entered her consciousness.
After selecting his gum carefully, he grabbed the newspaper and placed them both before her on the counter like an offering. She briefly focused on him and smiled her Mona Lisa smile and began to press buttons on the register, cocking her head to the right as if to concentrate. Miller could smell the lavender soap she used this morning on her scrubbed flesh and watched her hands like birds flutter around the machine. "Sixty three pence" she announced triumphantly. He fumbled his pound coin, dropping it on the counter it bounced embarrassingly and rolled in a big circle as she tried in vain to catch it. They both reached for the tumbling coin and in doing so he touched her left hand. He felt his crotch immediately begin to inflate. "Oh..um so sorry uh" he managed to sputter, feeling like the retard all of a sudden. "S’ok" as she finally flattened the coin and picked it up. "Got it." She counted out his change and dropped it into to his open hand as he stood patiently smiling a smile that felt like it had been spray painted on.
"Thankyou and have a good day" he stated clearly and a little too loudly as he put the newspaper under his arm and pocketed his change and gum. "Have a good day?" he whispered to himself on the way out of the automatic door, where did that come from? I never say that, it sounds so feckless. I’m feckless now, rolling the word around his mouth, he had never supposed himself to be feckless, but in the presence of Emmaline he had just become this word. He was so disconcerted he even forgot to look at the page three girl on the way out of the store as he had pictured himself doing. It wasn’t Zoe from Lancashire anyway; it would be "Nicola 22 from Weston Super Mare" today. Zoe was having an emergency root canal on the day of the photo shoot and was unable to attend, much to the appreciation of her dentist who mumbled under his mask "Great tits, but she doesn’t take care of her teeth."
II.
Finally back at his flat, Miller resisted the urge to immediately masturbate to visions of Emmaline naked behind the counter of the Qik Stop, as he had done the previous two mornings. No, he would not do that this morning; instead he would watch some television and read his paper. Yes, that’s what he would do, turning on the television, immediately he sat on his faux leather couch and furiously masturbated to visions of Emmaline dancing to the theme song of the "Good Morning" program. So much for self control as he sighed and finished himself not quite timing the vision with the music as the music ended a little prematurely and he had to listen to the skinny bloke talk about their guest chef and some American star pushing a movie about a cartoon character he had never heard of, while he closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on the feeling of Emmalines hand when they both passionately reached for the errant pound coin. Reveling in that shared moment.
It occurred to Miller about half way through the "Good Morning Program", as the skinny bloke was describing the importance of having your testicles checked with a very fit blonde woman doctor that he had never seen Emmaline anywhere except behind the Qik Stop counter. He had of course imagined her in several different scenarios but he was unable to separate her, even in his fantasies, from the Qik Stop. Yesterday afternoon, while lying on his faux leather couch, a table fan blowing hot air in his face, Miller had worked out quite an intricate fantasy about Emmaline, involving East End robbers. He being the hero of course and in so doing reaping the rewards of the conqueror. Revisiting his previous afternoons’ fantasy just about inspired him to masturbate again, but he was not really rested from his first session so he thought he might put it off until lunchtime anyway.
Miller had expected this infatuation with Emmaline to pass, much like the matter of the "Traffic Warden Lady" who was the object of his lust a couple of months ago.
Traffic Warden Lady’s’ dark blue uniform with matching skirt and sensible black shoes always looked sharp, with her matching blue cap and long black hair carefully stuffed beneath it. Her roundish face always very officious and her ticket pad and pen always poised to punish those who would park in places against the law. Traffic Warden Ladies’ excessive use of bright red lipstick and endearing habit of pursing her full, possibly Italian, lips could still spark a little fire in Miller even now. He would watch her through his ground floor windows, as she would tour purposely along his street approximately 9:40 am every weekday morning. He would peer through his windows following her progress. She disappeared suddenly, and so his lust for her disappeared as suddenly.
Emmaline, though, has become different matter. She would not stop visiting his fantasies and sweaty dreams and he could not bring himself to stop his morning visits to the Qik Stop. They were both caught in a tangle of want, longing and desire. Miller had to admit, disappointingly, the tangle was exclusively on his part, because despite his visit every morning to the Qik Stop, she had yet to acknowledge him in any real way. Now, it seemed to him, Miller was approaching the impossible position of asking a retarded woman for a date. If she said yes, then he would have to admit he was pursuing a retarded woman, if only to himself, but if she said no then that would mean that he had been rejected by a retarded woman. Miller tried to get his head around this idea. He supposed he would actually have to risk talking to her and knowing something about her before they could participate in sexual congress with periods of mutual masturbation, hopefully with oral sex thrown in and that would be mostly on her part he assumed.
A man of action Miller decided that he would attempt meaningful conversation that very next morning. Approximately two weeks, not counting weekends, as she didn’t work then, ten Sun newspapers and wide variety of different chewing gums, diet sodas and light bulbs later, Miller made contact.
III.
This particular morning, Miller was unable to make his usual trip to the Qik Stop. He had a doctors’ appointment with his GP. Miller was being treated for job related stress. He was quite sensitive to job related stress and would have attacks usually after two months or so of whatever career he had embarked upon.
This last bout of job related stress occurred during his tenure as a customer service representative at the Sunglass Shack on Edgeware Road. It was a great job at first. He enjoyed looking at all the sunglasses lined with precision along the walls of the shop. The extra bright fluorescent lights and bright orange carpet lent the shop a festive holiday kind of feeling. He could talk with authority on the subject of UV rays and the advantages of one pair of sunglasses as opposed to another pair of sunglasses.
The stress had begun when his then manager, Todd, from Ealing, began to complain about his tardiness for shop opening, followed by more complaints about the fact that Miller seemed to miss just about every motivational meeting that Todd had prepared for him and the other two customer service representatives, Davey from Australia and Anuska from somewhere Nordic. Todd was a man "on his way up" and he felt it was important to have regular motivational talks with his people. He would even provide them with coffee from the local Starbucks to sweeten the deal. Unfortunately Todd had the personality of cardboard and his speeches tended to be compilation of psycho-babble and snippets of things he read from the "Sunday Times" Financial Section. The combination of these two were mind numbing and even the free caffeine (cafe latte for Miller) could not keep Miller awake.
Thereafter Miller found ways of avoiding the speeches much to Todd’s displeasure. Then Todd began to criticize Millers dress sense, and instituted a dress code involving shirts with collars and non-jean pants as well as a requirement for socks. Finally, and most harrowing, there was the incident of the missing leather sunglasses carrying case. Miller was not responsible for the missing leather sunglasses carrying case. It had gone missing and remained so. While Todd never directly accused Miller of taking it, Miller could feel Todd’s bright green eyes on his back, a silent accusation. This made the situation intolerable to Miller. The pressure of not being accused began to affect him deeply, and he finally had to take job related stress leave.
This took place about six months ago and Miller had been collecting benefits since. In order for him to continue recovering from his job related stress he had to have regular appointments with his NHS GP, a certain Dr. Ahab.
Ahab was not his proper name of course, its just that Miller found his name had too many consonants and too hard to pronounce. Miller would show up at the designated time and sit on the uncomfortable sagging metal chair, smelling hospital smells, while Dr. Ahab would ask him a variety of questions relating to his disorder. Miller would usually just stare at the stained tiled floor nodding, his ass becoming numb, and mumble half coherent answers to Dr. Ahabs queries. This seemed to please Dr. Ahab, who had studied at the New Delhi Medical School and was 133rd in his class, greatly. He would nod and pull his earlobes and say "We are making great progress here Meeler." Miller would collect the required paperwork and take it to his local benefits office where they would nod and mumble the half coherent questions and pretend to listen to his half coherent answers that would allow Miller to continue to his recovery from the stress experienced at the Sunglasses Shack.
So it was well into the sunny afternoon by the time Miller arrived at the Qik Stop.
Emmaline was not behind the counter, it was her mother (perhaps) or maybe really older sister or aunt, and in any case it certainly wasn’t her. Maybe she just worked the morning shift or maybe she took the day off or maybe something has happened to her. Millers mind raced with a vast array of different scenarios including car accidents, robberies, handsome French gigolos and food poisoning. He had expected to see her in her rightful place.
To mask his confusion Miller walked over to the laundry soap section and stared intently at the "Ariel" and wondered why it had to be bio-degradable when it was still soap either way and no plant would want soap on it even if it was bio-degradable. Thoughtfully placing his finger on his chin he quickly glanced around the store, as if she would quietly sneak to her spot behind the counter. She didn’t and Miller stopped looking slyly around and decided to just buy something and leave and think about this situation. Emmy must have a life other than the Qik Stop.
IV.
Back in the bright sunshine with his bag containing the Bio-Degradable Ariel and another light bulb Miller headed back toward home. Along the five minute walk he decided that two PM in was not too early for a pint.
The Nail and Barrel was just around the corner and it was always semi-dark and very cool. Pushing his way through the door the familiar smell of beer and cigarettes combined with the musty odor of the ancient blood red carpet greeted him. He went to his regular spot on the right side of the bar just before the last seat, happy that no one was sitting in it. This was his favorite stool for a variety of reasons, being close to the loo, with a view to the front door so he would be able to see anyone walking in and also the bartender tended to hang out on that side of the bar as it was where the he would sneak his cigarette breaks thus reducing any amount of time it might take to order another pint. J.R. was the afternoon bartender. Tall and thin, with short brown hair and always dressed in black polo and black jeans, he could be counted on to either keep you company or leave you alone and with a sixth sense as to which you would prefer. He spoke with a London accent but was in fact from somewhere in Ireland, but not the part that is always mad. The Nail and Barrel was a fairly new bar, being only 40 or 50 years old. It did work at being older with its fake brassy antiques and posters of dead boxers and pictures of blurry landscapes artfully decorating the flocked papered walls.
The chalkboard on the other side of the bar bragged about how great the Plowman sandwich was and the lunch time deal for 3 pounds. The bar itself was heavy and dark, marked and scratched from the endless glasses, change, elbows and tears that that made their way across it for so many years. Along the edge of the bar were small brass nameplates reserving the stool position for people who would never order another round. At Millers stool was the plaque that read "This spot reserved for Andrew Key". Andrew Key had never come in to claim this stool from Miller, so Miller assumed Andrew was drinking his Guinness with St. Peter and would not be requiring his usual seat. Miller wondered idly if he could also have a nameplate for someone to read after he was gone but decided not too ask as it seemed presumptuous as he had only been coming here for the last ten years or so.
J.R. enquired as to Miller’s health and general well being, Miller responded in kind and lit a fag. Blowing smoke at the fake ceiling beams and posing in what he thought would be a thoughtful look he ordered the Stella Artois. This was not really his favorite beer but it was a good price and it was Belgium, thus the added attraction of being imported made it the selection of the day. J.R. pulled on the beer pump filling the glass to the brim and expertly sliding it over to Miller, Miller likewise slid his 1 pound 80 pence to J.R., and the deal done the beer could be drunk in good faith.
"Cheers" muttered Miller taking a sip and simultaneously scanning the pub. One suit in the corner who stayed too long after lunch, his tie pulled down and his face flush he stared into his Cell Phone. In the far left booth a hairy young man in ripped jeans, with a violin case at his knee speaking earnestly to a young lady with a hoop in her nose and a wide blonde streak in her otherwise jet black hair at the back booth. Miller strained to listen to their conversation but they were just too far away and could only catch snatches of conversation involving the word Fekking, Miller realized the hairy man was probably not of English origin, possibly from a former Communist block country with that pronunciation.
The problem of the disappearance of Emmy had returned. His mind turned the question over and over. He had not considered that Emmy might have other things to do. This was somewhat alarming. What if she already had a boyfriend? Someone who was even now stroking her soft hands as she made him meat pies for his lunch? What if had taken her to Brighton for the week! She would be in a small yellow bikini and laughing a high clear laugh, not even wondering if Miller had come in this morning for his paper and gum. Miller took another sip of his beer and considered other possibilities. What if she was lying in the hospital needing a new kidney? How would this affect his mornings? She would probably actually need two kidneys as a person could live with only one. If it was her liver she could be in luck as ones liver can actually grow back if the bad part is cut out. Or was that the bladder? Miller tried to remember what that BBC Radio 4 conversation was about. While searching his memory Steve-O walked in from the bright sunshine and sat next to Miller.
Steve-O was about 5 foot 6 and very thin and somewhere in his late twenties. He kept his ginger hair cut short like he was a member of the British National Party and rolled his own cigarettes. He was wearing a green tee shirt with "Motley Crew" written on the front of it and an ancient concert schedule on the back; he wore faded black jogging pants and dirty trainers. As long as Miller had known him he was only interested in two subjects these being betting and beer. Steve-O greeted Miller and J.R., ordered his pint of Fosters, an Australian beer, opened his copy of "the Record", a betting newspaper. Steve-O looked up and spewed a string of meaningless figures at Miller somehow concerning the Rugby. Apparently Steve-O had a hot tip and had wagered some money on this game. Miller nodded wisely, agreeing with Steve-O that yes indeed that was quite a good bet and that Steve-O would be rolling in the money soon. Miller had no clue what was involved in betting as this was one of the few bad habits he didn’t have. Agreeing with Steve-O about his bets though was always the best way to get him to stop talking about betting. Therefore allowing them to talk about other subjects. Mostly the Prime Minister and what he is fekking up, what’s on the telly and women.
"That one at the Qikys, the daft bird, you know." Steve-O started, and then finished by making circular motions with his knobby finger around his ear.
Yes, Miller replied coolly, realizing he meant Emmy. "She’s going out with my mate Chris to the Feathers tonight". "Don’t know what he’s up to with that shite though, I mean she’s not all there is she mate." Steve-O finished as he took another sip of his beer.
The Feathers was a local pub. It was not actually called the Feathers anymore, it had been renamed ‘Tommy O Tools". Miller had not frequented this establishment since they started pretending they were an Irish theme pub last year in an effort to get American tourists to wander in. All the bartenders were Australian and the land lady was from some place near Portsmouth and anyway why would you want to go to an Irish Pub in England when you could go to all the Irish pubs in Ireland that you would want. There was a certain lack of geometry about the whole thing that Miller found disconcerting.
Miller had met Chris a few times when he would wander in with Steve-O. They worked together doing building and masonry things. Chris seemed a nice enough sort of fellow; He was impossibly fat and always wore a Manchester United shirt of one sort or another. Miller thought he must have quite a collection of them and amazingly in triple X sizes. The thought of Chris seeing Emmy sent a shock through Miller that he did not expect. Suddenly visions of Chris, Man-U shirt pulled up and displaying his huge gut standing over a prone Emmy, her eyes large with fear and shock while Chris swayed his dangerous bulk above her flashed through Millers mind. Miller would have to go to the Feathers, there was no other choice. A man of action, Miller only had one more pint and the Plowman sandwich and then a short beer then headed back to his flat.
Miller entered his flat, throwing the key on the small table next to the door.
The flat belonged to the local council and Miller had lived here for 10 years, since his first bout of work stress. It was small but neat. As he walked into the living room he made his customary inventory to ensure he had not been robbed. His 14 inch Sony TV sat in its place in the corner on the short black Ikea table, his one adventure into flat pack furniture. His ancient Panasonic stereo sat mute in the other corner of the living room on a stool he got from a trip to the Portabello market. Its’ small black speakers on the floor on either side of it. His collection of 15 CD’s, mostly greatest hits of various pop stars bought from the market stacked neatly under the stool. He walked over to it and put on BBC Radio 4, 93.5 FM. He enjoyed the endless drone of proper English. He didn’t really listen but felt he was somehow absorbing knowledge from the endless discussions of arcane subjects that only BBC Radio 4 people would be interested in.
The walls were painted beige, there were two framed landscapes centered on a wall each that were here when he moved in. On the other wall hung a Dream-Catcher thing with feathers that Miller had found outside his house by the rubbish one morning 6 years ago. It hung above his book shelf. This was filled with a wide variety of fiction and non fiction books bought from the local clearance book store. His window, framed with dark green curtains, looked out on the street. His furniture consisted of his faux leather couch and a salmon colored wing back chair, a white coffee table with an ashtray and yesterdays "Sun". All in all Miller was pleased with his flat. The kitchen had all the amenities a bachelor would need. There was his small round kitchen table with 4 chairs and a small refrigerator and stove. His newest purchase the used Microwave sat brightly white on the corner. Miller didn’t like cooking much but was a dab hand at microwaving just about anything. He walked into his bedroom, wondering what he would wear to the Feathers tonight.