Bag for Life
Aaron Farrell
Inside the Aldi’s Bag for Life – either a sadistic joke, as this plastic will probably end a life, or just a plain lie as nothing is for life apart from the craving for something that lasts for life – is my present for him. I know now, as I shuffle up the damp High Street, my sagging tracksuit bottoms sponging the rain, that I’ve left all of the shopping receipts in there. Crumpled and folded in a pile like the inside of the squeaky middle drawer of Alma’s desk. Jerome won’t care when he sees the boots – size thirteen! When I saw the choked laces pulled tight around the creased, worn-black leather clogs behind the glass of Oxfam’s storefront, I thought I could get in them and row my way down the gushing rivers washing the kerbs. I’d eventually float pointlessly atop an overflowing brown grate but I’d have fun getting there.
After purchasing them with the money I’d saved from not buying lunch and tampons – Alma, my support worker, has promised me tampons whenever I need them – I couldn’t wait to give them to Jerome. I skipped afternoon class but I thought Alma would understand when she gets the call from college as she always misses things to help me out.
So, soggy tracksuit bottoms, realisation I’ve left receipts in the bag, shuffling up High Street, I can hear Jerome’s warm voice and rhythmic pattering of his knee drum.
It was as if the boots were alive as the bag twirled and kicked at my knees. I’d stopped in Poundland after buying them to use some of that brown tape that really stinks when you peel it back. I wanted to have him tear open the plastic. To reveal the boots rather than just see them inside a bag. I’d twisted the handles and the top half of the bag to make a long skinny neck. Then I’d wrapped the tape around it. A bit like how I think wrapping a mummy would have gone. I remember unwrapping snowflake paper for a pink box containing shower-gel and deodorant in the demolished Community Club – where I first got a taste for free coffee. It was a nice feeling. Only one lady pushing her shopping bag on wheels saw me use the tape and put it back on the shelf. She looked confused more than anything.
Jerome doesn’t notice me until I’m standing beside him. His height on a kneeling position is still as tall as I am all the way up to my dirty blonde bun. His massive feet, wrapped in fat woolly socks and slipped into too-small flip flops are always beneath his bum. That’s where they must be warmest. His cardboard rug is mostly dry as he’s got a nice spot beneath the slanted roof of a closed shop. It did sell clothes but now it looks like a museum of mannequins.
‘Hello, my wonderful Gem-’ He always paused with a smile of the whitest teeth I’d ever seen before finishing my name. ‘-ma.’ His long body shook as he giggled. I smile with just my lips. I hate my bent teeth. Alma says she’s still trying to sort out the forms that will pay for braces.
‘Hey, Jerome. As ever, I could hear you from the middle of High Street.’
‘I’m the cock that wakes the people.’ His black cheeks had no spots either. No blemishes of any kind. Just a few little wrinkles that I think are more from creasing his face laughing than from his age.
‘Why aren’t you in college, girl?’
‘I got you something.’ I hold out the bag and it swings like a dead chicken. He stops tapping the drum with his magic fingers as they wrap around the taped neck and take the weight from my week shoulder.
‘But why did you spend anything on me, my lovely? I’ve already got about three pound in the hat today. All for sharing my Caribbean spirit.’ His accent makes his words rise and fall like the tiny birds that spring from one tree to the other. Jerking his neck, his head points to the grey woollen beanie. The beanie and socks were another gift he’d received from a local girl who sells her knitting. She’s really kind. And good at gifts.
‘They’re used, sorry. But I think they’ll fit at least.’
His eyes flick from mine, to the bag and then back to mine. I look away as he’s shaking his head. He’s still smiling bright.
‘Open it then.’
‘What about the bag? I’ll have to tear it.’
‘Good. You’re supposed to tear it open. It’s a present.’
‘Whatever you say, girl.` With the long nail on his index finger, he jabs a hole in the bag. Sticking his other index finger inside, he tears a little portal that warps the fake family around a dinner table.
He takes the boots out and eyes them like they’re made of gold. Popping up from his folded legs, he lets out a sigh as he stretches them out. Long they lay, flexing either side of the drum. His head is still shaking. I don’t know why.
Tugging at his foot, and taking the flip-flop off, he rests it awkwardly on the drum. Then he presses the bottom of the boot against the bottom of his foot.
‘You are a Gem-ma more precious than all the gems in all the rings in the jewellers’ window.’ I can’t hide my crooked smile. He’s so happy. Loosening the laces, his head bobbing to an unheard beat now, he pulls on the mesh tongue so he can stuff his foot inside.
‘It fits! I shall go to the ball.’
Laughter surprises me. I haven’t done this for a long time. It feels nice.
A gust of wind hits my back. Jerome doesn’t notice the receipts take flight as he’s fastening the laces with steady yanks. The words, Bag for Life pop into my face as the plastic stirs and rises in the consistent wind. I snatch it to put in the bin across the way.
As I cross the people-scarce street, Jerome bellows, ‘These boots are made for dancing.’
Maybe it isn’t a bag to last a lifetime. Just an immortal sack for holding whatever makes life feel like this.
“Aaron Farrell is Don Quixote with a pen. From growing up in an area Google labelled as ‘rough area’, Aaron’s gone on to rigorously explore our pale blue dot and employs the heterogeneous peoples, places and cultures to offer a tangibly broad world-view tinged with colourful creativity. Now a student at Bangor University studying Creative and Professional Writing, the degree will support dreams of a transient life whilst endowing Aaron with potency, depth and critical knowledge. He’s Chief Film Critic for Nation.Cymru, Young Critic for the Arts Council of Wales, a Black Belt Third-Dan in Kung-Fu and a very mediocre surfer. No one thing defines him.”