Daytimes were a trial. He had been behind the wheel for approximately five or six hours, with only a brief adjournment at around one o’clock to demolish (apathetically) a pitifully dishevelled sandwich. Ham and cheese on white, the lunchtime equivalent of dralon, or hessian wallpaper, or magnolia. An uninspiring recipe which serves to highlight Britain’s lowly global ranking in the top-of-the-pops of lunchtime fare, and a depressingly prophetic symbol of what his life was to become…he just didn’t know it yet.
The sky overhead was painted an ominous hue, heavy with threatening overtones of grey. You could tell it really wanted to chuck it down, but it was all just meteorological bravado; the worst that could be expected was that which was currently being provided...a light dismal drizzle. This was Britain after all, even the weather presented with a stiff upper lip, so a light smattering of rain was, dare I say it, de rigeur.
As usual he drove with haste, the speed with which he finished his round dictating the time at which he could head home. Mid-afternoon usually signalled the commencement of real life; when he would transform from the bleary-eyed, long-haired degenerate with a face that displayed a hazy, distant demeanour, to an energetic, engaging and some might even say amusing, not-so-young man. Whether he was any of those things was down to personal opinion but that’s how he saw himself on his own time. Right now, however, he was fulfilling the expectations that most people had of him; that he would turn up late and operate as a feckless, slightly unkempt, unambitious individual. But there was so much more substance behind that vacant gaze...that’s what he told himself anyway. If only he could be arsed to retrieve it.
In reality, he really was no different to anyone else, it’s just that enduring hour after hour of sitting on the motorway could send anyone into a catatonic state. And that’s exactly how he found himself today. In a catatonic state. The incessant whirring from the windscreen wipers, the audible barrage in his right ear from a slightly open window, the vibration translated from the road through the oversized, near-horizontally mounted steering wheel, all worked together in harmony. In addition, the constant, tuneless whine from the two-point four litre Volkswagen engine (being driven foot-flat at a steady seventy-five) was at such a torturous pitch it could render even the most stable mind medically insane. Individually, each element was an aberration. Combined, however, they created a cacophony so intense that it could cause all senses to gradually shut down; the delivery driver’s equivalent of the hypnotist’s pocket watch.
He wrestled with the radio in an attempt to tune in to a talk radio station, anything that would assist in keeping him engaged in something and focused on the road ahead. Smoke from a Marlboro Light filled the cab. It hung motionless for a while before gradually making its way upwards, the small gap in the driver’s window acting like a bottleneck, where it accelerated exponentially before being sucked out as if by a huge, heavenly vacuum cleaner. He could feel his eyelids growing heavier, his brain gradually succumbing to the mesmerising effects of his environment. He was conscious enough to make the motorway exit and had begun the long descent down the steep slip road to the roundabout below. The van, a hefty three and a half tonne Type two VW LT35, barreled relentlessly forward, hurtling at full throttle towards the row of cars stopped at the roundabout. He was drifting, slipping gently towards unconsciousness.
Approximately halfway down the exit ramp he felt a psychological jolt, a warning, a voice in his brain screaming at him to wake up. He awoke with a start, immediately wide-eyed, his head suddenly jerking upright from its slumped state. The van was approaching the cars ahead at a speed which looked to render any attempt of arrest completely unachievable. Instinctively he stamped on the brake with his right foot, an action that he carried out with such force that he found himself in a near standing position in order to apply the maximum amount of pressure possible. The rain had covered the tarmac just enough to create a suitably greasy surface, reducing tyre grip significantly. A factor which, combined with the fact that the van had an extremely low payload and was running at its lightest, meant that conditions were perfect for the skid of the century. Predictably, the van locked up almost immediately, sending it careering, now uncontrollably along its trajectory like a fallen speed skater.
His initial panic was overcome with an overwhelming desire to brace; his arms outstretched, locked into position with his hands firmly gripping the wheel. The world began to move in slow motion, as if accompanied by some appropriately artistic classical music before rapidly switching into fast forward a couple of seconds prior to impact. And then slow motion again. The front bumper of the VW crunching hard into the back of the estate car in front. Crumple zones working their hardest to minimise the impact. Inside the cab, his head flew forward, stopping nano-millimetres short of the steering wheel, whilst a lit cigarette now free from its cradle between his fingers, collided with an empty ham and cheese sandwich packet in mid air like two astronauts maneuvering about the international space station. The force of the impact pushed the car in front into the subsequent car, which in turn hit the next, which in turn…you get the picture. A string of one and a half tonne dominoes.
And then all was still. A heaped wreck of twisted metal, smoke and silence. Fortunately, the prolonged skid had scrubbed off enough speed to ensure it wasn’t a total tragedy. He stared motionless through the front window at the devastation, the trusty LT35 miraculously still running as the occupants of the carnage spread out before him started to vacate their mangled chariots. The air was filled with raised voices as he opened the door and began climbing down to the asphalt. Angry barbs and bewildering questions came at him from all sides. It was a lot to take in, especially as he had been awakened so abruptly from his much needed five second power nap. But this was no time for avoiding responsibility, so he thought it best to approach it head on. “Look, I’m sorry, I couldn’t stop. If you call the office, I’m sure they’ll be able to sort this out for you. They’ll give you all the relevant insurance details. The number’s on the side.” he said, barely breaking breath. And with that he turned, climbed back up into the cab, backed up (pulling what was left of the bumper away from the car in front), maneuvered skilfully around the destruction, and was gone.
Barely an hour later he pulled up outside the depot to a waiting throng of sarcastic claps and shaking heads. “You alright? We’ve had a few angry people on the phone…maybe you should go and see the gaffer in his office?”, suggested a half sympathetic voice as he stepped down from the cab. The VW had been through the mill, it’s once proud, utilitarian visage now wearing the battle scars of its entanglement with the back of a Vauxhall Carlton estate. He walked solemnly through the waiting crowd and through the door to meet his reckoning.
The boss sat behind a light wooden desk, a short, balding Scotsman with a ruddy face and a complicated name. There was an uncomfortable pause as the two men sat there scoping each other out before the silence was broken by a question; a question tainted with a predictable inevitability.
“This job’s not really working out for you is it son?” It was said in a decisive but almost understanding tone, although the fact his face was contorted into a pained grimace gave a suggestion of his true sentiment.
“No, I guess not.” he replied in solemn resignation.
“Well, if you weren’t driving the van, what would you want to be doing?”
And there it was. The realisation that this conversation was about to take an unanticipated direction. He assumed that if he answered correctly, he may in fact set himself up with permanent employment which could upset the balance of his comfortable, work-shy existence.
He sat in silence for a moment contemplating his response. The amount of knowledge he harboured about what went on in business you could fit on a postage stamp, so he really had no idea what he would want to do. The only thing he was sure about was that he didn’t want to work in sales; sales staff had to work on a Saturday. He found the fact that this guy was asking him the question with an intimation that he may in some way be able to help, almost farcical, so he treated it with a degree of humorous incredulity, deciding the best approach was to methodically work his way through the alphabet. A….A, A, A…..
“Accountant…I want to be an accountant.” The words fell from his mouth like a comedian’s response to an unwanted heckle.
“Ok. There’s a vacancy in the accounts department. Get a suit on and turn up first thing Monday morning and we’ll see how you get on.”
And thus, his fate was sealed. His life set to evolve from the gourmet banquet of those coveted halcyon days, to the monotonous ham and cheese sandwich of everyday life; the words of a benevolent boss marking the start of his great career transposition.
