A Thousand Days Like Sunday - 3

The tatty old pier seemed to have emptied of all human traffic mere seconds after he arrived. He had actually been leaning against the barrier at the end of the pier for about an hour but he had a habit of going into trances and losing all track of time. Two years in this place had brought him nothing but grief and boredom. The pier was where he went to switch off. A distant and only vaguely remembered aunt had bequeathed him a small house in the town and he had jumped at the prospect of leaving the grimy confines of his home town and his miserable night watchman job. He hadn't banked on the insular, suspicious natives, nor had he imagined how hard it would be to make a living in such a place.

He knew now.

His current job was every bit as crappy as his last. He worked in Mr de Giacomo's ice cream kiosk during 'high season' and worked in the old man's chippy during the long, cold rain lashed winter months. There was little to choose between the jobs as far as was concerned. His desire to spit on every ice cream cone he made for the mewling little brats that queued up on saturday mornings with their pocket money was equalled only by his desire to piss in the vinegar bottle in the chip shop. In fact, he had done just that one friday night. None of the loud, boorish drunken fuckers that came in during his shift had the slightest clue that their suppers had been drizzled in urine. He had laughed about it to himself at the time. He was literally pissing on their chips, as much as they were metaphorically pissing on his. He had nobody to share the joke with though and his sense of triumph wore off alarmingly quickly.

Staring out to sea as the sun finally began it's evening descent, he realised that he had two choices. Get on the train and go back to the hole of a town he grew up in, back to his sadistic father, valium and gin addicted mother and his deranged sex offender brother or stay put and count his blessings. Even getting out of the family home and into a flat wouldn't be enough to drag him back. The local hard men knew who he was, knew who his brother was, would ensure he didn't get a nights sleep ever again. Every memory he had of home consisted of a shroud of grey filth and dullness. Even sunny summer days were shit and when you got home it might as well have been pissing down with rain for all it mattered. There was no contest really. He turned finally and wandered back along the sun dappled walkway towards the promenade. His existance was shite, a trial, endless boredom.

It just wasn't life threatening anymore.