Banjo
Banjo laces up his shoes for athletics, a nervous tremor in his fingers, which is fucking stupid because he already made the team. He’s on the bench at the side of the track, trying to get his pulse to shut up.
Somebody sits so close to him that their sweat wafts off their body.
‘Hey,’ the random guy starts, breathless and sweaty in his face, which is very fucking nice this late in the day. ‘We came back yesterday but you were gone, I don’t – I didn’t – fuck.’ He runs a hand through his hair.
Banjo looks up. Right. One of Kyle’s wee minions. The one that went berserk while Kyle was kicking; that pure gripped his hair and shouted fuck sake. His eyes are a bit crazed, to tell the truth, but his face isn’t pulp. Unlike Banjo, who can feel the sun against his stitches.
The guy flinches when Banjo meets his gaze.
‘Get tae fuck,’ Banjo states.
Somehow, Mr Minion takes the biggest offence to this. ‘What? I didn’t hit you.’ 47
‘You tell it yersel, mate,’ Banjo states.
To be matter-of-fact, he’s not really bothered. Kind of glad Kyle took yesterday to beat the living shite out of him. An enjoyable experience from start to finish.
Missing curfew and coming back to his foster parents with a busted face was not, though. Went a bit like this:
‘Just want to chat.’ Paula knocked on the bathroom door.
Banjo was scrubbing the blood out his clothes. He sighed and opened up. ‘Am a bit knackered, Paula.’ He focused on his toes.
There was a beat. ‘All right.’
Another knock an hour later.
‘All good?’ Henry clung to his bedroom door.
‘Yup.’ Banjo nodded, fiddling about on his phone. The next time he looked up, Henry was away. Banjo stewed in it all night.
Now, however, Minion scrubs his face and huffs. ‘Look, I told him yesterday he took it too far. I’ve stopped speaking to the guys.’
Banjo looks back, face flat. Totally unimpressed.
Minion swallows, stands, and starts running.
It’s fine. Banjo’s had a lot worse, but he can’t run great because of the pain throbbing over every inch of him. He’s still got a rotten wheeze coming from that bruise blooming on his side. Somebody can sure as shit wallow.
Banjo learns Minion’s name is Devlin Marques. He’s been kicked out the group, it seems. Banjo knows this because Kyle makes it so obvious that anyone would think Devlin some carrier of bird flu. 48
Devlin’s not slow. Banjo still beats him. They’re not even fun to beat, is the problem. The whole team are an utter shambles.
‘Where did you train?’ one of the guys asks in the locker room.
‘Yer maw,’ Banjo replies, because he feels like it.
‘Shut up, wee fag!’ someone yells back.
Banjo wants to chuck a grenade into the room and lock the door.
*
At the weekend, Banjo decides he needs a job. Now that he’s legal and settled someplace he hopes to stay at least a full year, he needs to start thinking about the future. Especially since he’ll be chucked out of care at eighteen. Not that Banjo’s been smart about that fact, mostly ignored it until now, since it’s looming nearer and nearer.
He manages to land a trial shift at a crummy little café called East Kilbride Bistro and Barista a few streets down from Paula and Henry’s. He walked in, asked if they’re looking, and told them he can do weekends and nights.
The girl behind the counter offered him 9 a.m. Saturday morning.
Paula rolls them up at 8.30 a.m.
‘Good luck.’ She smiles.
Banjo stares at his phone. ‘It’s no’ fur another half hour,’ he mutters.
‘Always good to be early.’ Paula lifts a hand, maybe to give him a pat, but thinks better of it and sorts her hair. 49
Banjo nods and jumps out. He grimaces, turning back.
‘Thanks,’ he says. It’s her Saturday morning as well.
He shuts the door before she replies.
The girl at the counter is the same one who offered him the shift. She’s maybe mid-twenties, with a dirty apron tied around her waist and a T-shirt underneath. Her blue hair is thrown in a messy bun, wisps curling around her temples.
‘Hello!’ she beams when he arrives, looking up from her open notebook.
‘Eh. Hi.’ Banjo scuffs his foot. ‘I’ve got a trial shift the day.’
The girl frowns, checks her notebook, and clicks her fingers. ‘Right! Yes, I thought we had someone coming in. Well, my name’s Morag.’ She places a hand on her chest. ‘I’m the manager here, so if you need anything, just come to me for it.’ She pulls something from under the counter and holds it out. Banjo takes it.
‘This is your apron. We’ll get you a name tag, don’t worry.’ Morag frowns. ‘What’s your name, sorry?’
‘Banjo.’
Morag’s head tilts. ‘Benji?’
‘Banjo.’ He tries harder.
‘Banjo?’ Morag asks.
‘Banjo,’ Banjo repeats. His name is turning into an optical illusion.
‘Right.’ Morag reaches underneath the counter again, scribbles on something, then slaps it on to Banjo’s chest. ‘This is just for today until we get you a proper one.’
Banjo looks down. 50
Banjoe.
Well. Not much he can do about that.
He’s quickly introduced to a place called ‘the back room’, and just as quickly learns he should make himself at home here, ’cause he’ll be spending most of the shift and what feels like the rest of his life in it.
‘So you stack the dishes sideways because you’ll get more in.’ Morag’s hands move effortlessly as she piles plates into the dishwasher. ‘Make sure you scrape all the food off first because it’ll clog it. If you can give them a rinse as well that’s great, if not just shove them in.’
If not? Why wouldn’t he give them a rinse? Isn’t that his whole job?
‘You put all the rubbish in this bin, and put the clean dishes here so someone can lift them.’
Morag looks at him expectantly. Banjo looks back.
‘Get all that?’ Morag prompts.
Banjo nods quickly. ‘Yuh, yep.’
‘Good.’ Morag pats him sharp and leaves.
Then all holy hell breaks through the back room.
Banjo’s never sweated this much, and he does running. He’s athletic. The steam from the constantly opening and closing dishwasher turns the back room into some kind of sauna, and his apron sticks to just about everywhere on his body, hair turned wet and plastered to his face. He’s also never touched so much food: gross, soggy, moist food, chips stuck to the plate in a puddle of sauce, melted cheese crusted around the sides, lettuce. Christ. Lettuce. 51
Banjo will never eat lettuce again. He doesn’t even think he’ll look at a leaf after today.
He accidentally lets some slip his radar. It gets into the dishwasher.
Banjo opens up and is met with a gust of toxic fumes.
‘Huu—’ Banjo turns away to gag.
It only gets worse. The pots come with some breed of congealed, burnt soup welded to the bottom. Banjo has to go in armed and scrape it out. He’s dealt with a lot of smells, not half from today, and the smell of the burnt soup at the bottom of this pot is the worst.
‘No!’ someone shouts.
Banjo whips around.
‘That’s not how you do it! You have to do it quick, see, scrape fast—’
Banjo stares, dumbstruck, because Alena has her brown hair up in a ponytail, apron tied around her waist, hazel-green eyes fixed on him.
Alena from the hospital.
Alena, who Banjo laughed with and hasn’t stopped thinking about since.
‘Benny!’
Aw, fuck.
Alena bursts out laughing. ‘Oh God, Banjo, your face!’
Banjo can’t really see his face, but he can feel his cheeks burn to some unholy level of hellfire, mouth stretching.
‘Hi,’ he says, full-out grinning now. 52
‘Hi!’ She grins back, all teeth on display. God but she’s beautiful, even in work clothes. It hurts a little to look at her.
‘Whit – how’re ye doin’ here?’ Banjo stutters out.
‘I think I should be asking that.’ Alena grins, crosses her arms, ponytail swishing. ‘Hm, new recruit? You been following me?’
Banjo’s eyes bug out. He shakes his head so fast his own sight blurs. ‘No! God, no, I looked – I wus lookin’, and this place only hired – it wus the only one tae hire—’
Alena waves a hand. ‘I know, we’ve been trying to find a replacement for weeks.’ She laughs. ‘Don’t worry, I’m winding you up.’
For whatever reason, when Alena laughs it makes Banjo want to laugh too. Even if he’s not in on the joke. Even if he is the joke.
‘Aye, wonder why.’ Banjo raises his eyebrows, trying for the air of coolness. ‘Got some lettuce stuck tae the dishwasher and been breathin’ in they fumes fur the past—’
Alena shakes her head. ‘Rookie mistake, my friend. I see you’re not getting along with the pots either?’
‘That. Pot,’ Banjo starts, ready to go on a three-day bender explaining the horrors, but Alena laughs again.
‘It’s no’ funny, Alena, I cannae even – talk about it, fucken trauma.’ He laughs as he speaks though, pink-cheeked and utterly charmed.
‘It’s a test,’ Alena whispers like a secret, leaning all close. ‘We have to see if the new recruits can hack it. But, hey, you’ve lasted longer than most.’
Banjo blinks. ‘Serious?’ 53
Alena nods. ‘Oh, yeah. We had someone crying about an hour in, and last week this guy passed out. You made it.’ She pulls her phone out and checks the time. ‘What, four hours? Four and a half?’
Banjo gapes. ‘It’s been four hours?’
Alena’s eyes shine as she grins. She’s so unfairly pretty. ‘I think we’ll keep you.’
Banjo knows she’s talking about the job, but still can’t help blushing. He must be a neon stop sign at this point. ‘Whut, I – I’ve got the job?’
‘Oh, you had it like an hour ago.’ Alena waves a hand.
Banjo stares. ‘I got it? Really?’
Alena smiles wider. ‘Of course.’
‘Ha!’ Banjo laughs. He wants to jump around this fucking back room. He actually got the job.
‘Shh, shh!’ Alena waves. ‘Act surprised when they tell you!’
Banjo nods quickly, but he knows his face is a dead giveaway, and Alena’s smile is sparkling.
‘Anyway.’ She makes a finger gun towards the door. ‘I should get back to work.’ She crooks her thumb as if firing. Banjo even finds that dorky move somehow phenomenal.
Once she opens the door to leave, though, she swivels around. ‘How’s the –’ she gestures to his face – ‘charity work going?’
‘Oh.’ Banjo laughs, touches the sensitive scar. ‘’Hink I’ll stick tae washin’ dishes.’
Alena laughs at that. Banjo’s stomach bursts with butterflies. She raises a hand to her forehead. 54
‘Good luck, comrade!’ She salutes, back stiff and straight. ‘It’s been an honour!’
Banjo laughs. He gives her an awkward salute in return, but she’s already away to deal with the customers.