Morning Chat at the 101 Bus Stop.


"Ah howya Elsie - how are ya dis morning?"

"Ah jaysus howya Betty. Let me sit down furst. Ah, that's better. This feckin bag is killin me bleedin back."

"Wha have ya in it? Bloody rocks or wha?"

"Ya know - the usual shite I need every day. Ya know how Bertie gets when ya don't have all the shite with ya every day."

"He's a bleedin fecker, he is. D'ya sleep ok?"

"Nah - the feckin dog was barkin half de night."

"And wha was he bleedin barkin at?"

"I haven't a bloody clue - probably de wall or something stewpid."

"We used to have a dag dat used te bark at the wind. Now he was s stewpid arsewipe!"

"Now dat's a feckin lie."

"No! Honestly he did!"

"Ah yer pullin me leg Betty. No living ting could be dat bad."

"Well de dag was in our family, and ya know how tick some of me clan are."

"Dat's very true Betty. No sign of the creepy crawlie fecker heer dis morning?"

"No sign at all. I tink he has a nice face dough."

"D'ya tink so? It looks mouldie te me. Like a slapped arse if ya ask me."

"Ah c'mon Elsie - he's not dat bad. He's just a quiet sole. He wouldn't hurt a little fly."

"Still makes me skin crawl."

"Wha ya got fer yer lunch?"

"I made it last night. Didn't want dat fecker of mine robbin them dis morning."

"I got a ham and cheese one and a corned beef one. Wha ya got?"

"Egg and mayo and cheese."

"Euggh! Mayo! Dat's not yer usual sambo combo. I'm not swapping with ya fer defo now."

"Aragowaan! Ya know I lurve corned beef!"

"Der's mayonaisse on dem. No feckin way."

"Suit yerself. I just thought. Ah well, I knew ya like egg, dat's all."

"Ah fer feck's sake, go on den. Feckin guilt trip at eight in de morning."

"Yer a star Elsie Brennan. Yer savin me from the shite they serve at lunchtime in my place."

"It's hardly dat bad, is it?"

"I wouldn't feed it to a pig. It's slop. Proper slop."

"Really?"

"Really really. It looks de colour of a Chernobyl shite."

"Ah stop Betty. I can taste me porridge all over again."

"Value fer money der den - yer gettin te eat it twice!"

"Ha ha! Yer gas Betty. I tink I see me bus coming heer."

"And I tink I see mine behind it too. Look who's coming running fer yer bus now!"

"Ah jaysus lay off him Elsie. He's alright."

"Seeya later so missus. And no snoggin yer boyfriend at de back of de bus - ya don't want him moving yer fillings dis early in de morning!"

"Feck off you! Seeya later!"

Tom hits table.

The taking of this drug does NOT have side effects. Anyone who tells you different is a bloody liar - with eleventeen fingers and three thumbs. I smell methane - and it's not a fart, before you get smart.

I've not dropped the kids off at the pool today. My back feels like a small Thai woman needs to run up and down it for a while. But my middle arm does hurt from milking the dog on the miniature animal farm.

I was riding the multi-coloured horse when Tom entered the room wearing the pink long sleeved loincloth. I thought it looked beautiful on him, accentuating his eyes. It matched his scooter. Not the red one, obviously.

Jimmy shouted something mad like "I wanted the fridge with the ice-cube dispenser dickhead!"

That man is crazy. He eats worms from his farm. Imagine breeding those fuckers. You can cut their heads off and they still live.

Tom twirled across the floor. Like a ballerina. On skates. In Maryland. Except he weighed 220 pounds. I noticed how fat his toes were. Cheesy sausages.

He clobbered into four tables, knocking over three games of chess that never seem to end.

Especially the rich hairdressing kind. Those fuckers don't know when to quit. Hair dryer in hand, I am God. Look at my shop and it's witty name. Fuck off bro - your name is a tank with leather trousers on. So 1980's. And it's muffler has an auntie who sells her pepper to the nearest farmer with black and green cows.

He stumbles toward me with those blue/green/yellow/turquoise eyes. He yells, wanting everyone to hear. He hits the table in frustration.

"Why the fuck did you sell my grey bin? You bastard! And what about my left boob? I loved that more than my right. Sorry rightie."

"I did it to save your soul dude. Now the left orange felange with the green teapot can fly again."

Argument over. Tom is happy. I talk sense.

Now when does that wardrobe that opens the alternate universe open again?

Strike Power.

Tension was brewing. Raised voices, clenched fists started the morning, and it was nothing to do with the heat of the factory. The hum of large laundry washers dulling the morning mist outside, intensified the mood.

The little issue had become the straw breaking the camels’ back. The shop floor workers were divided. This minor issue had potential repercussions. Production coming to a halt was in no one’s interest.

Action had to be taken.

The workers felt they had been backed into a corner. Management had taken decisive action before and weren’t afraid to make the uncomfortable choices. The ordinary worker felt this was a looming push factor. Their way of saying “Your opinion doesn’t matter.”

The shop stewards huddled together and debated the inaction by their direct boss, Mr. Clancy.

The general consensus was that Clancy was going too far. His attitude to it was bordering on unwitting. Why were they being forced to work under these draconian rules? How could they come to work with this percolating over them, every single day?

It had been infusing for some time now, January to be exact.

It all began with the closure of the big plant in Cork. It had forced some of the workers to relocate to the capital, Dublin, but they just wanted to remain employed. Accents, habits and working ways caused friction as both sets of workers mingled. County loyalties were not the only thing dividing the shop floor.

The Cork plant also brought their own shop steward, who in turn became the general workers representative. Tim Power had to quickly endear himself to the capital workers, who eyed him with suspicion.

Speaking on everyone’s behalf would be a step in the right direction. Avoiding the fermenting problem would show he was a man to be trusted. Getting them a fair deal.

Tim put his mug down and fixed his tie. He couldn’t bear to go in without looking professional. He wanted to show Clancy he meant business. Whispered voices sneaked out from between the machines as Tim strode purposefully across the cemented shop floor. This was no storm in a teacup.

Tim climbed the seven steps to the mezzanine office of JJ Clancy. He knocked before entering. He was beckoned in.

“Well Timmy! How are things? What can I do you for?”

“Eh, this is, a signed petition from all the workers on the shop floor.”

“About what?”

“About, what constitutes part of our, breaks.”

“What are ya on about? Breaks haven’t changed.”

“I’m gonna have to read this to you to make it all, like official and stuff. We, the workers of TC would like to enter into negotiations vis-à-vis what is part of our break. We feel that we are at a crossroads here. We just want what’s best for all.”

“I’m sorry, Timmy, but what are ya talking about?”

“We’re prepared to serve strike action notice over this, such is the emotion Mr Clancy. This has been steeping for some time now.”

“You’ve lost me and annoyed me in a very short space of time Timmy.”

“You know full well what affects the workers the most!”

“Don’t raise your voice to me Tim Power. I’ll feckin’ strike the shit round the back of your head if you don’t get to the bloody point!”

“In this day and age, we would equal opportunity – this is 1981 after all.”

“What are ya rattling on about Power?”

“We believe it is our equal right to have more than one than one choice.”

“Choice of what?”

“Considering that almost half the workforce are from down south, we just want like, fairness and equality for all.”

“Timmy! What do you want?”

“The choice of either Lyon’s or Barry’s tea. The effect of drinking Lyon’s tea is having a detrimental affect on the southerners. Morale just isn’t there because of it. Lyon’s is a capital tea. The southerners want their Barry’s tea!”

“How about I make a trip to the supermarket at lunchtime and I’ll buy two different boxes of tea. Does that solve your problem?”

“Eh, yeah. Just make sure it’s not the loose tea. They hate that.”

“Grand stuff. Is there something else ya want?”

“Do you mind if I shout and roar for another few seconds at you? Just so it looks like I’m telling you what’s what. For morale, like.”

“Get the feck out of me office Power.”

I bequeath of thee punk.

The sun glistened off the black tarmac and heat visibly rose from the one hundred degree heat. Bill stepped out of his vehicle and adjusted his Aviator sunglasses to exclude the strong midday Miami sun.

Tiny little geckos along the sidewalk avoided his stride, as he neared the door of the convenience store.
Bill wiped his sweaty brow as the whoosh of frigid cold air greeted his entrance. The electronic bell above the automatic door rang.

Pausing to adapting to different lighting, he glanced around checking for the soft drink fridges. Situated at the back of the store, Bill walked purposefully toward them, eager for something cold and refreshing.

He was so concerned about quenching his thirst that he did not see or spot the unusual circumstances surrounding him. Glazed expressions and confused stares wondered if he had a death wish.

Even the gunman seemed perplexed at Bill's audacity.

Everyone stood motionless, wondering what might happen next.

The cashier behind the long wooden counter shook, with a mixture of fear and anger. Three customers - two women and one very overweight man - who had stood in line to be served, now nervously waited for what came next.

The man held a six pack of beer. They all stood with wobbly dispositions - half clutching items they wished to purchase and with their arms halfway in the air.

The gunman waved his gun to and fro reasserting his command of the situation. Everyone shivered at his sudden anxiety, fearing his next jerky movement might be their last moment in this life.

They all weren't sure what Bill was doing. What was taking him so long?

Sixty seconds passed. Bill didn't reappear.

The young stringy gunman got more nervous, wondering where Bill had wandered off to.

Sweat began to trickle down the back of the cashier - even though she was directly beneath the duct of the air conditioner.  The chubby man couldn't keep control of the items he held in his arms - glistening beads of water from the beer made one of the bottles slip to the floor and smash open.

The gunman raced toward him and stuck his Glock under the ample chins of the poor man. He whispered to him not to drop anything further or he would shoot him up through his brain.

Panicking, the gunman ordered the cashier to continue emptying the till. He couldn't wait for the weird guy at the fridges to reappear. Where was he anyway?

The bustle of the broken bottle gave Bill enough time and distraction that hid his advance.

Bill was undercover at the moment. He had also a particular penchant for English literature. That's where he was going right before he walked into the store. To his second appreciation class of John Milton, the poet.

Moving deftly along the aisles he skipped toward the shaky drug riddled weaving gunman. The beer skittering to the floor gave him time to creep right behind him as he rose his own gun.

"I bequeath of you punk - resign your firearm to the floor before I send your soul toward hell and the fiery depths."