184: Change the world.
My first week on the float I got a bit of a kicking by kids who made off with a dozen eggs and two pints of semi-skimmed. My mate Stan was boxing as part of an aggression-management course, so I went down to check it out. I got into boxing and being down the gym from the off.
--Jimmy Connelly, The Calcium Kid
It was Jimmy's first day on the milkround. Unbelievable, that. Just six months ago he'd been out of luck, out of a job, and nearly out on the streets doing odd jobs for neighbours while his mum did... what she did. It was rough, really, and Jimmy'd been downhearted since his dad--
But here he was, nineteen and bouncing, dappered up in blue sweats, blue shirt, blue jacket -- blue everything, and staring up at Mr Bennet, who'd been reviewing procedure with him for the last twenty minutes. If Jimmy had to hear another bit about proper bottle-placing technique, he'd scream. Least he was getting free milk and eggs out of this. Save his mum a bit of dosh here and there.
"And don't forget to always say 'Good morning' if someone comes out to greet you. Likely they won't -- you're like a shadow in the dawn, Jimmy! -- but if they are up and about at this ghastly hour, make sure to say hullo!"
"Right, sir."
"Now, Jimmy," Mr Bennet continued. "I don't want to hear about any shenanigans out on your round. You're taking over for a very dear employee of Express Dairies, God rest his soul, and you've got to keep your operation up to the same sort of caliber that old Marty had his, understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"No shenanigans."
"No, sir, none at all."
Mr Bennet smiled, "Right! Think you're about ready to start, after all." Finally. "All the milk loaded properly onto your float?"
Jimmy stepped back, revealing about thirty minutes' worth of stacking; a few hundred litres altogether. "Yeah, they're all on, including the six dozen eggs."
"Good show, Jimmy. Tanks full? Windows polished?"
"Done and done, sir."
"Well, then. Looks like you can head off."
Jimmy hopped in the front of the float and turned the ignition as fast as it seemed humanly possible. "Thank you," he said.
"Just, remember, Jimmy." Jimmy stopped the flat in the garage so Mr Bennet could lean in, speaking low and serious. "I'm taking a leap into uncertainty for you, employing someone so young. Don't make me regret it."
Jimmy gulped, eyes wide. "No, sir."
Mr Bennet smiled and patted the hood. "Get on, then. Things to be done."
"Right, sir. Thank you, sir, I'll be back in an hour or so."
---
"Who the fuck're you?"
Jimmy turned to see who was yelling at him this time. Mr Fletcher'd already threatened him about staying away from his wife, and it'd taken Jimmy about three minutes of arguing to figure Vera was apparently halfway deaf in both ears. Couple that with crating in about sixteen litres of milk to the bakery, he'd had a long first morning. So being shouted at by a group of angry-looking blokes was a bit less of a surprise than expected.
"Jimmy Connelly, hullo. I'm taking over for Marty on this round." Jimmy brought the float to a stop and hopped off, not only to better chat with the kids, but also to drop off his last order for the day.
"You're the new Marty?" The leader (least Jimmy figured he was the leader) stuck up his chin to size Jimmy up. Jimmy'd had a bit of experience with this kind of thing few years ago, around when his dad'd been taken away,so he knew how to stick his ground. He'd since lost whatever fierceness he'd had, though. (Not that he'd had loads to begin with.) "Look a bit young, you do."
Rich, that, coming from someone who's probably all of twelve. Jimmy snorted a bit. "Yeah, but'm just as useful as he was, which's all that matters."
"Oh, brill. Guess we'll just be taking our pints, then."
Jimmy frowned, grabbing some eggs from the back. "Sorry?"
"Our pints, you gormless shit. Ones Marty promised us."
"I don't think so, sorry." Jimmy decided maybe speaking slowly'd help the convo out a bit. "Not really policy about here."
One of them stepped up to Jimmy's face, nearly on his tiptoes to look him in the chin. "Where's our milk, milkman?"
Jimmy's eyes narrowed. He'd had a long enough day already. This was a bit much to round it out with. "Where's your order, then?"
"Don't need a fuckin' order."
"Then you're not getting a pint. Simple as that."
With a bit of purpose in his carriage, Jimmy hopped off the float and went round to the back, lifting out the Lockley's order (two pints, two dozen eggs) and heading to their front door. He avoided eye contact best he could.
"Oy! Those're ours."
"No, they're not."
"They are, dirty plonker."
"Marty wouldn't have given you anything," Jimmy said, setting the order in front of the Lockley front door. "He probably just told you to bugger off."
"Ho, is that how's it'll be from now on, then? You telling us to 'bugger off'?"
Jimmy's hands made their way to his hips. "Yeah, yeah, that's how it'll be."
There was a grand period of silence wherein the flash of light that glinted across Jimmy's face from one of the kid's buckles could just as well've been bits of his life.
"Think we're about to personally fuck you up, that right?"
The rest of them laughed in particularly evil glee. Sure, Jimmy's whole body was pretty much protected by an extra layer of rock underneath, no doubting that. There was one particular part of his body, thought, that was free from special padding.
Jimmy, winded and knocked down on his knees like any large tree having suffered major structural damage, gasped in pain while, through watery eyes, he watched the little brats make off with the Lockleys' milk.
This, now. This was crap.
---
The next three mornings went much in a similar way, to Jimmy's dismay. If this kept up he wasn't going to have any children, much less be able to stay employed.
It was a slow night at the John Bull, so Jimmy didn't feel stupid about letting his forehead fall to the tabletop, defeated as he was. Think a milkround'd be an easy job to keep up, but no. Someone on was wailing Sinatra's "My Way" in the background and if that wasn't a portend of bad things to come, really. Jimmy couldn't've come up with a better one himself. And now, the end is near, shit. Jimmy was thoroughly and completely doomed.
"Cheers, Jimbo." Stan shrugged himself into the booth next to Jimmy. He pinged Jimmy's two-percent cuppa with the costume ring at his knuckle. "Got it warm today?"
A few of Jimmy's hairs got ripped from his head as he sat up. Bleeding sticky tabletop. "I'll never get through this, Stan. 'S hopeless."
"'S not hopeless, what'd you mean 's hopeless? You're Jimmy Connelly. Unbreakable, unshakeable, not a shade mistakable--"
"Shut it, Stan. 'm not in the mood."
"Oh, now. Not in the mood are we? Think I know why." Stan let a huge belch blow in Jimmy's face. "Little fuckers come back again today?"
And that was it; Jimmy exploded. "They take my merchandise! Right off the bleeding float, and I'm right powerless to stop it! Right as I was going down the street! Off the bleeding back! I'm down eight -- eight! -- pints of semi-skim and six dozen eggs ! How'm I going to explain that to Mr Bennet when he does inventory, eh? 'Oh, sorry, Mr Bennet, couple of kids from across town were baking fairy cakes and ran out of ingredients'?"
By the end of it, the rest of the pub was staring over at their booth, eyebrows raised and billiards paused. The karaoke machine swelled for the last few bars of the song and chimed in with a grand crash of cymbals in perfect time for the end. Jimmy hoped he'd finally melted into the floor.
"Bastards nicked some shit from his milkfloat," Stan offered as explanation. A few patrons nodded -- "Right fucking shame, that" -- and got back around to their business.
"Seems to me," Stan continued, "you need a plan, 'ere, Jimbo. One that'll keep order."
"Fresh out." Jimmy let his head fall again, but made sure to rest it on his forearm. "Might as well give up and go back to sweeping floors."
"Naw, fuck that," Stan said. "Paid, like, six pence a week. Just need a speech is all. One that'll knock 'em back."
"Yeah." Jimmy sat back, again. "Yeah, sounds promising."
"So, right. Here's what you tell them. You say, 'See 'ere, you fuckin' cocksuckers, I'm about to take this fat pint and shove it down your fuckin' throats', yeah?"
Jimmy's mouth stayed gaping open for a tick. "I'll be sacked by tomorrow."
"Fine, then. Come to the gym with me, yeah? Aggression-management class's bound to have a bit where you finally get up some aggression."
And just like that, something in Jimmy... twinged, like -- like when you manage a sort of rhythm with a yo-yo and it's perfect, or when you finally figure out how to whistle a high note, or sommat. Just like this feeling that the answer to his problem'd been handed over. Despite the shitty days, and the lost merch and the damage to his family jewels, things were looking alright just then. What was it his dad always said? Sometimes you just have to jiggle the key a bit to make it fit. Maybe his key needed jiggling. After a fashion.
"Okay, yeah." Jimmy exhaled a prepatory breath. He was getting back into this, fullstop. "I could do that."
"Brilliant. Fuck this, yeah? Forget the milk, we'll get you so pissed you'll forget about it and go 'ome in a stretcher, chucking your biscuits. Oy, OY! Bring about eight shots of Johnny Walker, yeah? Jimbo 'ere needs to get shitfaced."
---
"Oh, ho, ho, boys! Here comes the milkman."
Jimmy grimaced. His head was outright thrashing about with mallets and spanners and old heavy glasses banging against the sides. He'd already vowed it'd be the last time he ever got drunk long as he had this job. Just wasn't worth it in the end. And facing Mr Bennet with a hangover was bad enough this morning, fat chance he was about to take this.
"Piss off, yeah?"
"'Piss off', ha! Still a good little boy for mumsy, Jimmy is. All posh and proper up there on 'is milkfloat. Not even swearin'."
"Right. Right," Jimmy said and stopped the float. They cackled a bit as he gingerly stepped off, grabbed a pint from a crate, and strode right up to them, eyes narrowed. "I'm hungover, I'm underpaid and I'm about ready to shove this pint down your throat, yeah?"
They all laughed in his face. "What, you think you can fuck us up, milkman? Give us your best, right here." The lead brat pounded his chest. "Bottle or no bottle, bet you couldn't even raise the fist."
Jimmy no longer cared these kids were twelve, thirteen. That they'd grow out of this, or maybe not. He set the bottle down, rolled his neck a bit and then punched the leader so hard in the face he could hear the crack of the bloke's nose like some sort of satisfying, wet crunch.
"...That's just wrong, that is," one of the punks said.
Jimmy expected that next came the humiliating part where he was pummelled into tiny, tiny bits, so he scrambled back onto the float and started it up again. "Stay the fuck off my milkround, yeah?"
They scattered, and a wave of triumph built up Jimmy' spirits. One stuck behind for a tick. "How'd you learn to hit so hard?" he asked.
"Born with it," Jimmy said pleasantly. "But I am going to a gym later today. And there, I'll learn to hit harder."
The kid's eyes went wide and then he, too, went off down the street.
Jimmy grinned to himself, straightened his shoulders, and flexed his knuckles. He could probably get pretty good at this.
--Jimmy Connelly, The Calcium Kid
It was Jimmy's first day on the milkround. Unbelievable, that. Just six months ago he'd been out of luck, out of a job, and nearly out on the streets doing odd jobs for neighbours while his mum did... what she did. It was rough, really, and Jimmy'd been downhearted since his dad--
But here he was, nineteen and bouncing, dappered up in blue sweats, blue shirt, blue jacket -- blue everything, and staring up at Mr Bennet, who'd been reviewing procedure with him for the last twenty minutes. If Jimmy had to hear another bit about proper bottle-placing technique, he'd scream. Least he was getting free milk and eggs out of this. Save his mum a bit of dosh here and there.
"And don't forget to always say 'Good morning' if someone comes out to greet you. Likely they won't -- you're like a shadow in the dawn, Jimmy! -- but if they are up and about at this ghastly hour, make sure to say hullo!"
"Right, sir."
"Now, Jimmy," Mr Bennet continued. "I don't want to hear about any shenanigans out on your round. You're taking over for a very dear employee of Express Dairies, God rest his soul, and you've got to keep your operation up to the same sort of caliber that old Marty had his, understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"No shenanigans."
"No, sir, none at all."
Mr Bennet smiled, "Right! Think you're about ready to start, after all." Finally. "All the milk loaded properly onto your float?"
Jimmy stepped back, revealing about thirty minutes' worth of stacking; a few hundred litres altogether. "Yeah, they're all on, including the six dozen eggs."
"Good show, Jimmy. Tanks full? Windows polished?"
"Done and done, sir."
"Well, then. Looks like you can head off."
Jimmy hopped in the front of the float and turned the ignition as fast as it seemed humanly possible. "Thank you," he said.
"Just, remember, Jimmy." Jimmy stopped the flat in the garage so Mr Bennet could lean in, speaking low and serious. "I'm taking a leap into uncertainty for you, employing someone so young. Don't make me regret it."
Jimmy gulped, eyes wide. "No, sir."
Mr Bennet smiled and patted the hood. "Get on, then. Things to be done."
"Right, sir. Thank you, sir, I'll be back in an hour or so."
---
"Who the fuck're you?"
Jimmy turned to see who was yelling at him this time. Mr Fletcher'd already threatened him about staying away from his wife, and it'd taken Jimmy about three minutes of arguing to figure Vera was apparently halfway deaf in both ears. Couple that with crating in about sixteen litres of milk to the bakery, he'd had a long first morning. So being shouted at by a group of angry-looking blokes was a bit less of a surprise than expected.
"Jimmy Connelly, hullo. I'm taking over for Marty on this round." Jimmy brought the float to a stop and hopped off, not only to better chat with the kids, but also to drop off his last order for the day.
"You're the new Marty?" The leader (least Jimmy figured he was the leader) stuck up his chin to size Jimmy up. Jimmy'd had a bit of experience with this kind of thing few years ago, around when his dad'd been taken away,so he knew how to stick his ground. He'd since lost whatever fierceness he'd had, though. (Not that he'd had loads to begin with.) "Look a bit young, you do."
Rich, that, coming from someone who's probably all of twelve. Jimmy snorted a bit. "Yeah, but'm just as useful as he was, which's all that matters."
"Oh, brill. Guess we'll just be taking our pints, then."
Jimmy frowned, grabbing some eggs from the back. "Sorry?"
"Our pints, you gormless shit. Ones Marty promised us."
"I don't think so, sorry." Jimmy decided maybe speaking slowly'd help the convo out a bit. "Not really policy about here."
One of them stepped up to Jimmy's face, nearly on his tiptoes to look him in the chin. "Where's our milk, milkman?"
Jimmy's eyes narrowed. He'd had a long enough day already. This was a bit much to round it out with. "Where's your order, then?"
"Don't need a fuckin' order."
"Then you're not getting a pint. Simple as that."
With a bit of purpose in his carriage, Jimmy hopped off the float and went round to the back, lifting out the Lockley's order (two pints, two dozen eggs) and heading to their front door. He avoided eye contact best he could.
"Oy! Those're ours."
"No, they're not."
"They are, dirty plonker."
"Marty wouldn't have given you anything," Jimmy said, setting the order in front of the Lockley front door. "He probably just told you to bugger off."
"Ho, is that how's it'll be from now on, then? You telling us to 'bugger off'?"
Jimmy's hands made their way to his hips. "Yeah, yeah, that's how it'll be."
There was a grand period of silence wherein the flash of light that glinted across Jimmy's face from one of the kid's buckles could just as well've been bits of his life.
"Think we're about to personally fuck you up, that right?"
The rest of them laughed in particularly evil glee. Sure, Jimmy's whole body was pretty much protected by an extra layer of rock underneath, no doubting that. There was one particular part of his body, thought, that was free from special padding.
Jimmy, winded and knocked down on his knees like any large tree having suffered major structural damage, gasped in pain while, through watery eyes, he watched the little brats make off with the Lockleys' milk.
This, now. This was crap.
---
The next three mornings went much in a similar way, to Jimmy's dismay. If this kept up he wasn't going to have any children, much less be able to stay employed.
It was a slow night at the John Bull, so Jimmy didn't feel stupid about letting his forehead fall to the tabletop, defeated as he was. Think a milkround'd be an easy job to keep up, but no. Someone on was wailing Sinatra's "My Way" in the background and if that wasn't a portend of bad things to come, really. Jimmy couldn't've come up with a better one himself. And now, the end is near, shit. Jimmy was thoroughly and completely doomed.
"Cheers, Jimbo." Stan shrugged himself into the booth next to Jimmy. He pinged Jimmy's two-percent cuppa with the costume ring at his knuckle. "Got it warm today?"
A few of Jimmy's hairs got ripped from his head as he sat up. Bleeding sticky tabletop. "I'll never get through this, Stan. 'S hopeless."
"'S not hopeless, what'd you mean 's hopeless? You're Jimmy Connelly. Unbreakable, unshakeable, not a shade mistakable--"
"Shut it, Stan. 'm not in the mood."
"Oh, now. Not in the mood are we? Think I know why." Stan let a huge belch blow in Jimmy's face. "Little fuckers come back again today?"
And that was it; Jimmy exploded. "They take my merchandise! Right off the bleeding float, and I'm right powerless to stop it! Right as I was going down the street! Off the bleeding back! I'm down eight -- eight! -- pints of semi-skim and six dozen eggs ! How'm I going to explain that to Mr Bennet when he does inventory, eh? 'Oh, sorry, Mr Bennet, couple of kids from across town were baking fairy cakes and ran out of ingredients'?"
By the end of it, the rest of the pub was staring over at their booth, eyebrows raised and billiards paused. The karaoke machine swelled for the last few bars of the song and chimed in with a grand crash of cymbals in perfect time for the end. Jimmy hoped he'd finally melted into the floor.
"Bastards nicked some shit from his milkfloat," Stan offered as explanation. A few patrons nodded -- "Right fucking shame, that" -- and got back around to their business.
"Seems to me," Stan continued, "you need a plan, 'ere, Jimbo. One that'll keep order."
"Fresh out." Jimmy let his head fall again, but made sure to rest it on his forearm. "Might as well give up and go back to sweeping floors."
"Naw, fuck that," Stan said. "Paid, like, six pence a week. Just need a speech is all. One that'll knock 'em back."
"Yeah." Jimmy sat back, again. "Yeah, sounds promising."
"So, right. Here's what you tell them. You say, 'See 'ere, you fuckin' cocksuckers, I'm about to take this fat pint and shove it down your fuckin' throats', yeah?"
Jimmy's mouth stayed gaping open for a tick. "I'll be sacked by tomorrow."
"Fine, then. Come to the gym with me, yeah? Aggression-management class's bound to have a bit where you finally get up some aggression."
And just like that, something in Jimmy... twinged, like -- like when you manage a sort of rhythm with a yo-yo and it's perfect, or when you finally figure out how to whistle a high note, or sommat. Just like this feeling that the answer to his problem'd been handed over. Despite the shitty days, and the lost merch and the damage to his family jewels, things were looking alright just then. What was it his dad always said? Sometimes you just have to jiggle the key a bit to make it fit. Maybe his key needed jiggling. After a fashion.
"Okay, yeah." Jimmy exhaled a prepatory breath. He was getting back into this, fullstop. "I could do that."
"Brilliant. Fuck this, yeah? Forget the milk, we'll get you so pissed you'll forget about it and go 'ome in a stretcher, chucking your biscuits. Oy, OY! Bring about eight shots of Johnny Walker, yeah? Jimbo 'ere needs to get shitfaced."
---
"Oh, ho, ho, boys! Here comes the milkman."
Jimmy grimaced. His head was outright thrashing about with mallets and spanners and old heavy glasses banging against the sides. He'd already vowed it'd be the last time he ever got drunk long as he had this job. Just wasn't worth it in the end. And facing Mr Bennet with a hangover was bad enough this morning, fat chance he was about to take this.
"Piss off, yeah?"
"'Piss off', ha! Still a good little boy for mumsy, Jimmy is. All posh and proper up there on 'is milkfloat. Not even swearin'."
"Right. Right," Jimmy said and stopped the float. They cackled a bit as he gingerly stepped off, grabbed a pint from a crate, and strode right up to them, eyes narrowed. "I'm hungover, I'm underpaid and I'm about ready to shove this pint down your throat, yeah?"
They all laughed in his face. "What, you think you can fuck us up, milkman? Give us your best, right here." The lead brat pounded his chest. "Bottle or no bottle, bet you couldn't even raise the fist."
Jimmy no longer cared these kids were twelve, thirteen. That they'd grow out of this, or maybe not. He set the bottle down, rolled his neck a bit and then punched the leader so hard in the face he could hear the crack of the bloke's nose like some sort of satisfying, wet crunch.
"...That's just wrong, that is," one of the punks said.
Jimmy expected that next came the humiliating part where he was pummelled into tiny, tiny bits, so he scrambled back onto the float and started it up again. "Stay the fuck off my milkround, yeah?"
They scattered, and a wave of triumph built up Jimmy' spirits. One stuck behind for a tick. "How'd you learn to hit so hard?" he asked.
"Born with it," Jimmy said pleasantly. "But I am going to a gym later today. And there, I'll learn to hit harder."
The kid's eyes went wide and then he, too, went off down the street.
Jimmy grinned to himself, straightened his shoulders, and flexed his knuckles. He could probably get pretty good at this.