Brief Encounter with a Lorry

Friday morning on my way to work I pedal like mad. Lights are on. Gloves are on. Helmet is on. Rain proof body suit – free us from the mental pictures – is on. I’m twenty minutes away from my destination. I turn right and ride down a heavily parked road. Not much room for passing traffic.

The medication has kicked in. I am a happy chipmunk, chewing gum, humming an ancient U2 song (why oh why oh why?!?) and noticing a lorry that is coming my way. It doesn’t slow down. Surely the driver must have seen my lights. Or my helmet. Or my full body suit. Come on, The International Space Station can see me, that’s how much I light up!

But the driver apparently hasn’t seen me so two seconds away from me he speeds up and he swerves away from a couple of parked cars and although I push all the way to the curb, I’ll be mince meat in a second.

Everything is dark. My lights are off. I can hear somebody scream. I wish I had no hearing. The screaming continues. Shut up shut up shut up shut up. I can smell blood. Sweet smell. I can taste blood as well. More screaming.

Paramedic: I know you’re in pain, but could you stop screaming for a second? We’re all going deaf here.

I want to say that I agree. Shut up, whoever it is. Then I feel a tap on my left shoulder.

Paramedic: Please stop screaming!

Oh. I pipe down. If this is all about death, I don’t understand why I haven’t had my two minutes of fun reel to reel time. Aren’t I supposed to relive all the good times I’ve had over the years before I snuff it? But I haven’t seen any pictures of UniCorn or my bike. Not even Spidey or Matt. I had hoped I would see J-Man as well.

Paramedic: We need some help to lift her into the ambulance.
Spectator1: Oh, my back injury is acting up again.
Spectator2: Sorry, I have to…and then something…but if I had time…
Paramedic: This sucks!

One of the paramedics stays with me in the ambulance. I try chatting him up but he ignores all my questions. Instead he prods and pokes me as if I’m a pin cushion. He has great eyes, though. I smile.

Paramedic: God, you’ll need to see a dentist when all this is over.

Not exactly what you would like a man to notice about you so I close my mouth and eyes. Three seconds later I vomit all over myself – that’s another thing you shouldn’t do in front of a man. Sound advice from MumNext.

After a pit stop, the ambulance is on the road again and I’ve been put in a comfy hospital bed. A doctor enters the room and along with him are Spidey and UniCorn.

Doctor: What day is it?
FridayNext: Friday.
Doctor: What’s your name?
FridayNext: Friday.
Doctor: She doesn’t make any sense!
Spidey: It really is her name.
Doctor: Oh. And this is your helmet?
FridayNext: It’s not green. It’s red.
Doctor: Your helmet is red.
FridayNext: Quite.
Doctor: So this is indeed your red helmet?
FridayNext: If it’s not green, then yes.
Doctor: Oh my god, I think she has a brain tumour.
Spidey: Don’t worry about it. This is how she normally is.
FridayNext: I love you.
Doctor: All my patients say that.
FridayNext: What’s your name?
Doctor: Doctor.
FridayNext: Doctor J-Man?
Doctor: Sorry?
UniCorn: Thank you, doctor. This could be an endless conversation. We’ll take it from here.
Spidey: Thanks.
Doctor: Anytime.
FridayNext: Call me? My mobile number is 616…
UniCorn: Spidey, where’s Matt?
Spidey: He’s on his way.
UniCorn: *sighing* Fri, Fri, Fri!
FridayNext: If you add potatoes, you’ll get chips!
Spidey: Her sense of humour is so off!
UniCorn: I can’t tell if she’s on the mend or getting worse.
FridayNext: J-Man. What a silly name he’s got. Can I have another vowel, please?

So while I’m heavily sedated I dream about Ken. He’s J-Man’s older brother. At least he looks like his older brother. And if you squint, he’s kind of dreamy in a tasteless way. Not flashy or trendy or incredibly insanely gorgeously fabulously stunningly amazingly wonderfully spectacularly handsome and charming like J-Man. But he’s probably 8-15 years older than J-Man which brings him closer to my age bracket.

Ken runs the local supermarket. I haven’t memorised his schedule. Yet. He’s rarely available when I come in after work. Days and weeks go by without me seeing him or thinking about him. Then he pops up in one of the aisles or sits in one of the check outs. One day I walked into a woman who was queuing because I was staring at Ken at the check out. She scolded me and I apologised. Ken had absolutely no idea what was going on.

I remember him now because I’ve seen him twice this week. One afternoon he was speeding around the aisles but I didn’t notice him until I waited in the check out line. I stood there, waiting for my groceries. In my sweat-through rainproof body suit and my red helmet and running nose and smeared makeup. Hi hon. Notice me? Of course not. But he noticed a couple of friends of his and he ran towards them, face lit up in a wonderful smile and eyes twinkled. And I stood next to these friends and he had no idea that I existed at all.

Two days later I was standing in line again. It’s numbingly boring and usually I put on conga lines in my mind. It’s my virtual soundtrack and it’s good for any purpose really. So conga lines. And Ken is called to one of the check out lines. He comes running. Oh the man can run. He helps his colleague and then leaves the scene. I am beyond any decency so I twist and turn my head in his direction. Conga lines are still on. Another minute or so passes. Then Ken returns. Oh and does he make an entry or what! He jumps over a metal hedge, opens a check out and invites customers over.

I play it cool – for once – and follow the queue over to him. Two customers in front of me, then one customer in front of me. My turn.
Hi.
Hi hi hi.
Hello.
Can I snog you?
Bear my children.
I love you!
Then I remember that he’s not J-Man. I can’t recycle the lines I’ve already worked on J-Man. That would be sacrilege.

The customer in front of me is hogging my time with Ken. He forgot that he should also have some blah blah blah. And blah blah. I send him my evil eye but he’s completely indifferent. Ken is as service minded as ever. He never small talks with customers but keeps the line going with swift and quick movements. So the few seconds I finally have with him is utterly interrupted by that brute of a man who has no idea that either J-Man or Ken is to be my coming husband and father of my numerous children.

While the man yammers on about his groceries, I notice Ken’s dirty fingers and nails. I see that his hands are not as big as J-Man’s. And what is that yellow bracelet all about? At first I think it’s a “I went to a great party yesterday and there were trendy DJs (J-Man) and bartenders (Ace) and I smoked and coked and sniffed” ticket-bracelet. Until I suddenly remember that this is something that Gorgeous Gyllenhaal also wears. So it’s bound to be for something healthy and it dawns on me that it’s about cancer and Lance Armstrong (he bikes!) and illness and survival, etc.

So Ken may be a bit dirty around the nails but he’s got social conscience and he makes a statement and he’s really got lovely eyes.

And thinking about Ken I also wonder whether good looking men can get away with doing a crappy effort at their jobs. Apparently Ken can because since he took over the supermarket, it’s gone downhill when it comes to service and stock. I haven’t complained yet. I did the last time the supermarket took a plunge that was not nearly as bad as the present fall.

Matt: Hey, are you awake?
FridayNext: Matt?
Matt: Who’s Ken?
FridayNext: Ken? Oh, the supermarket guy. Remember?
Matt: Yeah, the incompetent one.
FridayNext: I’m bored.
Matt: You can come home tomorrow.
FridayNext: This kinda screwed up our fun packed weekend.
Matt: Well, there’s always next weekend.
FridayNext: Honey, I’m gonna hang out with Uni next Saturday.
Matt: Why?!
FridayNext: Sweetie.
Matt: Okay.