Mind The Gap, a short story by heidi. Times viewed: 359
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- Intro: Jack's caught between a rock and a hard place, what should he do?
- Jack scuffed his feet along the pavement looking for something to kick. Recently conversations with his parents made him feel like this, all kind of welled up like a bursting dam. He’d slammed out of the house cursing and tripping over the cat. He was sorry now of course – not about what he’d said to his parents, but about not being kinder to the cat.
He was on his way to see his girlfriend. Elly was always a good bet when he wanted to get stuff off his chest. She had a knack of riling and stirring until he knew without a shadow of doubt that he was the most righteous man alive and his parents, not fit to lick his boots. Yep, she knew where the sun shone all right. He really loved her, though sometimes thought she was on the skittish side; he didn’t like the way she looked at his mate Fizz. And she was always going on about female rights and sauce for the gander – sometimes he just worried about what kind of sauce she was after.
Night was settling now like a cold blanket over the estate and stars twinkled overhead like Christmas lights. Jack broke into a jog, rucksack slouching like a bag of potatoes on his back, badly adjusted straps grooving into his shoulders. He just kept going, eyes glued to a track on the pavement marked out by fag ends and chewing gum.
In his peripheral vision, at the edges of the pavement, Jack could see stacks of rubbish, or rather “recyclables” awaiting the fortnightly collection; crates of cans, cardboard, and bottles, waiting to become part of the Boeing 737 that they had narrowly missed being part of in their last incarnation. He liked the idea that nowadays even inanimate objects had a stab at immortality. Did it mean that if you came back as, say, a can of beans you’d done something really bad in a previous life, maybe been a machine gun in Iraq, or a switchblade in the Bronx? Cosmic punishment was a great idea, especially if it meant that the big shots were brought down a peg or two.
Shit! He was tripping over something. An indignant yowl confirmed it was his cat, Toffee, again. The animal gave him a filthy look and stalked off with a swish of the tail. It was the same look Elly gave him when she wanted him to feel guilty. Like Toffee, she enjoyed getting under his feet then acting all offended when he accidentally kicked her, metaphorically speaking of course. Like the time when she insisted on coming along to his “boys only” night, then complained that he’d ignored her all evening. How the hell did she expect him to save the world on the Nintendo, drink lager, and mess around with the lads, whilst paying her non-stop attention? Now the guys made clucking noises when they saw him and excuses when he suggested another lads’ night in. Street cred was a distant memory.
Despite everything he forgave her. Elly was an irresistible force of nature – better to bend before her like a palm tree in the wind. It was worth it. Just thinking about her sent electric jolts through him awakening erogenous zones he never knew he had. Jack slowed down to a walk and breathed in and out slowly. He needed to dispel this lustful feeling that typically interfered with his ability to think straight. Circumstances demanded positive action, not sexual sidetracking.
Recently sex with Elly had required expert planning. Since they had both decided to take a “gap” year from uni, they had landed back at their parents with no likely openings for “hanky panky” (as his dad would say) at either home. Elly’s house was particularly difficult. Even the unlikely event of her parents shuffling off to bed early didn’t guarantee anything. Too much chance of mother padding down in her slippers, “just making sure I didn’t leave the iron on love.” or dad poking his head round the door, “would you like a nice cup of coffee before you go Jack?” Jack nodding inanely, hoping dad wouldn’t notice his hands splayed over the receding bulge in his trousers. Yep they were a tricky pair, coming back all the time like the living dead. It was difficult to believe that these shadowy, apologetic people had spawned a girl like Elly.
Jack knew he couldn’t face another frustrated night on that sofa, watching old seventies sitcoms with the wrinklies whilst sexual desire and boredom short-circuited his brain. Trouble was, he and Elly had become so used to doing their own thing at university, renewed parental interference was doubly painful to bear. In fact this gap year had turned out to be a backward step in every way. It was supposed to have been a time for re-evaluation instead it had turned into a “tail-between- the-legs” experience giving the oldies carte-blanch to criticise and carp.
Jack’s father had practically choked on his chips when he’d told him his plan to take a year out; it’d been bad timing – his father hated having his food interrupted.
“Gap year!” he’d exploded, “What’s a gap year when it’s at home?”
Jack’s explanation was like bellows on the flames,
“Well if you think I’m going to pay for you whilst you make up yer mind whether or not yer doin’ the right thing, you’ve got another thing coming!”
“But Dad there’s more to life than money. Elly and I just need time to see the bigger picture…” Jack innocently waved another red rag in his father’s face.
“What Elly too!” his face was livid, “I thought at least she had her head screwed on right. Don’t say she’s got a screw loose an’ all.”
He mopped up his egg angrily with his bread and butter. Finally, with his plate clean, he mumbled,
“Well all I can say is youse need yer heads examined the pair of you. Gap year indeed!” His jowls wobbled with disbelief, “Gap year! The only gap I can see is the gap as wide as the Grand Canyon between yer ears.”
Jack had been deflated. Truth was his dad adored Elly, thought she was a real, “little smasher” actually. He had thought that his father would accept his decision if Elly was involved to.
Jack wouldn’t have minded but his father had a lot more to say on the matter. A battle of attrition began with his father banging on about when was he going to get a job, or at least a job seekers’ allowance. And what was wrong with the sport’s course he was doing at Loughborough anyway? Why did he think he was so special and why didn’t he just get on with it like the rest of the world? All the while Jack’s mother hovered sadly and ambivalently in the background. She said little but Jack suspected that had his dad dropped down dead with a coronary, (not such a far-fetched idea given his hot temper), his mum, once over the shock, would have stepped into the breach.
The weeks passed without much change. His dad continued to simmer with the occasional boiling over whilst Jack tried to ignore him. When things got too hot for comfort at home, Jack would go to see Elly. Sometimes they would go to the park so they could get some peace and quiet. He would tell her about his dad’s latest onslaught, and she would give him lessons in how to handle parents. Later, if she was in the mood, and he didn’t say the wrong thing, he might get his leg over.
Elly was a doer not a talker: sure she was persuasive, she could probably argue Germaine Greer under the table, but mostly she enjoyed putting ideas into action. She was a girl on a mission. When she wasn’t saving the whale or making food parcels for kids in Ethiopia she was organizing rallies against global warming. Her idea of a weekend away was a protest march against, well anything really. “Against” was Elly’s middle name, and she always had a rucksack packed, complete with sleeping bag, leaning against the hallway wall in case of emergencies. Jack had spent many a sleep-deprived night with her curled up on pavements outside vivisection laboratories, or camped in fields outside battery farms. And then there was that lovely week they’d spent mud wallowing outside Greenham Common…
This was how they’d planned to spend their gap year, doing really “meaningful” things. Getting a job had not been part of the game plan – that was before reality in the shape of his father and lack of hard cash had burst his bubble.
Jack’s feet had taken him automatically to the neat little terraced house where his girlfriend lived. In a moment, when he rang the doorbell, he would be past the point of no return. Suddenly he realised he couldn’t face the parents. He’d had enough of “parents”: his father whingeing on about “getting off your ass and finding a job”, his mum doing her abused puppy-dog impersonation. They were both mad in their own way. Yesterday his father had slapped himself on the forehead,
“Tell me son, is the word “mug” printed here? Cos it sure as hell feels like it.” That was when Jack had flung the army recruitment brochures at his dad whilst his mother had sobbed quietly in the corner, glancing up at him now and then with red-rimmed eyes.
The brochures had “appeared” a few days earlier. His dad had slung them casually onto the kitchen table and said in an off-hand way,
“Just thought you might like to take a look. No pressure son.”
“Where did they come from?” he’d asked suspiciously.
“Oh, through the letter box. Must be doing a recruitment drive or something.”
“Yeah, right” Jack had thought, hackles rising. There was a wad of blurb on the table, big enough to stuff a mattress. If they were delivering all that to every house, well…put it this way, he hadn’t seen any ten ton trucks round here lately, or Father Christmas’ sleigh either. Jack had his own theories of how the brochures had got here and they mostly pointed to his father. Parents were so two-faced.
Jack decided to go round the back way to Elly’s. It meant a scramble through the playing fields and there were a lot of weirdos round there at this time of night, but, what the hell, he could run. Used to beat the hell out of all the kids back in primary school, and at the comp too until he’d met Elly. She’d convinced him that competitiveness was the sign of a feeble ego,
“You don’t have to prove anything you know. Sometimes you have to just be. You know, just exist – it’s so liberating.”
Recently though he’d secretly taken up running again. He loved to go early in the morning and share the park with the birds. Whenever he was in turmoil he found the exercise relaxing, the repetitive pound of his trainers on the soft turf sort of numbed his brain. He didn’t think he was breaking any of Elly’s rules since he wasn’t actually racing anyone.
Jack broke into a run, ignoring the heavy swing of the rucksack against his shoulders. He was a strapping lad who’d had no trouble getting into sport’s college despite the poor grades he’d achieved in the more academic subjects he’d taken at “A” level. His rugby credentials were excellent: legs like tree trunks; washboard stomach; and Charles Atlas shoulders. Naturally Elly had been indignant about his choice of course, “bit of a no-brainer isn’t it?” But he’d stood up to her for once,
“What’s the problem? Sport’s all about teamwork and organization, like your rallies. Thought you’d approve.”
Anyway she didn’t moan again. Perhaps she could see the benefits of him keeping strong and athletic; she liked a bit of muscle. And he liked every square inch of her: her little heart shaped face, her cute snub nose, her glossy dark hair and her laser-bright eyes. But it was her pneumatic boobs, proudly independent of push-up bras and chicken fillets that had won him over. Elly often teased him about his fascination with them,
“What’s so great about them? I mean what have they got that say my elbows haven’t? I’m jealous. Think you like my tits more than me.”
Thing was, in his head, they were Elly; he couldn’t quite make the separation. He didn’t want to think about it too much though– it kind of killed the magic. However in his more rational moments Jack had to admit that most of his recent ideas had been hormonally formed, honed and perfected at Elly’s altar, presided over by those amazing breasts.
It was dark and scary in the playing fields. There was a smell of wet leaves, dead things and dog-shit. Jack felt unspeakable squelching through his Sketcher’s. Shrubs and trees brushed against him dripping water from the afternoon’s rain. He hoped he wouldn’t be too damp and smelly by the time he got to her but he was glad of the detour. The exercise empowered him and helped make sense of recent events.
Yesterday evening, after the mother of all arguments, he’d packed his bag. He’d raced round his room like a maniac, swearing at the lack of clean underwear, claiming his toothbrush from the bathroom slime, and bequeathing his beloved “Gameboy” to his little sister Jess. Jess had stood awkwardly at his doorway, “What’s up brov?” “Not a lot sis.” – their usual dysfunctional routine that held so much meaning. After he gave her the “Gameboy” she’d squealed and held him in a chimpanzee hug, burying her head into his neck. After about five minutes he’d unwrapped her arms and put her back on the floor. She’d started to fold his T-shirts – “Nietzche was right,” “Che Guevera rocks,” “Jesus was wrong”– the cartoon strip of his life – until he’d shooed her away.
With Jess gone he’d rolled back his sleeve to examine the tattoo on his right bicep; there was Elly’s name italicised on a scroll, held aloft by doves. His mate Fizz had put him up to it. It had hurt like hell but he’d been glad. The ordeal proved that he was serious about her; he didn’t even care when it had gone septic two days later and he’d had to take antibiotics that had made him nauseous for a week. Elly was worth it.
Elly had naturally disapproved of the tattoo, misunderstanding its meaning. She saw it as a sort of branding – her ownership of him or visa-versa.
“All property’s theft you know. And you know we’re two people, we can’t own each other. You know that don’t you?”
Jack didn’t have an answer. He suspected that not everything needed an intellectual explanation like Elly wanted. The tattoo had felt right; now it would always be part of him just as she was. For him it had been a more natural way of showing his love than bringing her flowers for instance. Christ though, it was difficult living up to her expectations, exhilarating too of course.
That’s why he’d made that call to her this evening. Why he’d borrowed Jess’s mobile and hidden in the bathroom, running water into the sink so the parents couldn’t hear him. Afterwards he’d charged out of the house, telling his parents to “go to hell” and “I hope you’re bloody satisfied” before tripping over the cat, and stumbling out of the front gate.
Now he was here, in Elly’s back garden, lurking like a burglar, only he had his bag of booty already. He took off the rucksack and stowed it under a bush, then he scaled up the drainpipe at the side of the house until he reached her window. Jack felt the elixir of anticipation as he scraped quietly against the glass. It was romantic, like Romeo and Juliet. His heart leapt as the window creaked open, and she leant out to gather him in.
It was only as he dropped onto her Ikea rug, standing at the crossroads of his life with her, that something hit him like a sledgehammer – there was a gap between them, a secret. How the hell was he going to tell her the truth? The gap widened as he hesitated under her expectant gaze. Impulse took you to unexpected places. Earlier today in the recruitment office everything had seemed so obvious – now standing rabbit-like in Elly’s full-beam, he wasn’t so sure. He straightened his back and puffed out his chest. But she, smilingly, wrapped her arms tight round his waist and buried her head in his chest. Her fragrant, sleek hair brushed against his face. Suddenly he wanted to lose himself in sensuality, forget what he had to tell her. She would find out soon in any case.
Instead he prised her from him, keeping his body upright and still. She backed away, eyes wide open as if she had just realised. He would tell her now. Tell her that he wouldn’t be going back to uni with her next September, or joining any more of her bleeding-heart campaigns. If she loved him she would understand. Today he’d signed up for the army.
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