Nothing to do now. Nowhere to go. All done. I sit around and drink beer. What a life. I spend a couple of days wandering around town asking if anyone has work for an ex–bank johnny, but no one seems interested, except for Wally Partridge, the bloke who runs the local electrical shop. Partridge is a fat prick with a beer gut, slimy, smooth skin and oiled hair. He looks out from behind his desk and says: Can you do books?
I worked in the bank, Wally, I say. That’s all I did, books. Books is all I can do.
Can you sell shit?
Back home my dad had a shop full of shit and I worked in it most holidays.
Right. I’ll let you know. Got nothing right now but someone might leave. Or die.
Maybe I could help them on their way.
Partridge looks like he wants to laugh but can’t find the right muscles.
If you could replace a coon I’d shoot one now, he says.
I don’t laugh. There is no laugh in me. Partridge is just another racist pig and I have a sudden urge to split his nose and spill his guts. But, I think, I might need a job and he might be the only bloke in town who can give me one. Almost as soon as I leave his filthy office I realise I could never work for him and I could not face May if I did and I need to face May. Sweet, gentle, kind, loving May is my lifeline.