Cecelia Ahern - Short Stories - The Every Year Collection

He used to get the same bus as I did. He got on one stop after me and got off one stop before. I thought he was gorgeous the very first day I spotted him outside after wiping the condensation from the upstairs window of the bus. It was dark, cold, raining, seven o’clock in the morning in November, in front of me a man slept with his head against the cold vibrating glass, the woman beside me read a steamy page of a romance novel, probably the cause of the fogged-up windows. There was the smell of morning breath and morning bodies on the stuffy bus, it was quiet, no one spoke, all that was audible was the faint sounds of music and voices from the earphones of Walkmans.

He rose from that staircase like an angel entering the gates of heaven. His hair was soaking, his nose red, droplets of rain ran down his cheeks and his clothes were drenched. He wobbled down the aisle of the moving bus sleepily, trying to make his way to the only free seat. He didn’t see me that day. He didn’t see me for the first two weeks, but I got clever, moving to the seat by the staircase where I knew he would see me. Then I took to keeping my bag on the chair beside me so no one could sit down and moving it only when he arrived at the top of the stairs so he could sit down. Eventually he saw me; a few weeks later he smiled; a few weeks on he said something; a few weeks later I responded. Then he took to sitting beside me every morning, sharing knowing looks, secret jokes, secret smiles. He saved me from the drunken man who tried to maul me every Thursday morning. I saved him from the girl who sang along loudly with her Walkman on Wednesday evenings.

Eventually, on the way home on a sunny Friday evening in May, he stayed on an extra stop, got off the bus with me and asked me to go for a drink with him. Two months later I was in love, falling out of bed last minute and running with him to the same bus stop most mornings. Sleeping on his shoulder all the way to work, hearing him say he had never loved anyone else in his life as he loved me, believing him when he said he would never fall out of love with me, that I was the most beautiful and wonderful woman he had ever met. When you’re in love you believe everything. We shared kisses that meant something, hearts that fluttered, fingers that clasped, and footsteps that bounced.

Oh, sweet joy, the joy of falling in love, of being in love. Those first few years of being in love, they were only the beginning.

I hated Christmas. Hated every damn song, the sound of the bells, the twinkling lights, every stupid movie and every happy face looking as if it should be stamped with a damn Hallmark sign. It was a time for people either happy or pretending to be. I was neither. So at 10.30 a.m. on 24 December I clocked in at work like any other day. The machine punched a hole through my docket, the sound punching a hole in my pounding head. I was over two hours late, but I didn’t care who saw me trudging down the halls dressed in the same clothes as yesterday stinking of beer, sweat and smoke and minus my uniform.

Last night had started off like every other night—a few innocent after-work drinks down at the local drinking hole with my colleagues. And it had ended just like every other night with everyone saying their goodbyes after a couple of drinks, but as usual I didn’t leave. I didn’t or couldn’t drag myself off that bar stool and I didn’t or couldn’t drag my lips away from the beer glass. I woke up this morning not knowing where the hell I was, once again with goddamn Thumper sitting on my head. You see, I had no family to go home to; no one to convince me that dragging myself away from that bar stool and beer glass was worthwhile.

I could smell the alcohol seeping from my pores and the stench of stale cigarette smoke clinging to my clothes as I walked down the hall to my workspace. I saw the faces, the glances, the nudges, the looks of disgust and the smiles of sympathy. I knew what they could see; I saw it every morning when I looked in the mirror: a sad old man letting it all slip away. But that didn’t scare me because at least I had a goal. I’d lost the most important things in my life and, if I kept on going the way I was going, I’d lose everything else. What a result, what an achievement, a triumph of perseverance. I was a perfect advertisement for what you could do when you really put your mind to it. And there was a certain amount of bravery that came with what I was doing, I believed. Not many people have the guts to throw absolutely everything away. They’re always stupid enough to hold onto something small, selfish enough to think that one thing could be a small comfort. But it’s not: it’s a reminder that you used to be somebody, that you used to belong to someone and they to you. If you’re going to do something, do it right, get rid of it all. The first thing I lost was my heart, everything after that was a cinch.

But who the hell works on 24 December? I hear you ask. Us, that’s who. We leave everything until the last minute and then have to work all hours to get the job done, every single year. The boss says we can’t start earlier because the clients don’t start ordering the goods until the run-up to Christmas. The others thrive on the manic times, I don’t. But I used to.

I work in a factory. A great, big, depressing, monstrous warehouse with no windows. I have a theory on the lack of windows: while we’re working, we can’t see how many hours have passed and the beauty of the changing day. That suits me just fine.

We’ve a boss who’s above us both geographically and mentally. He’s got an office way up at the top of the building with great big windows so he can look down on us all. Which he does. And I’ve been called up to that office once or twice and I see what he sees: hundreds of us working away like little ants, ready to be stomped on at any time.

In case you’re wondering what I do, I work on a production line. The factory makes toys, which is why we’re so busy at this time of the year. I say that it’s the factory that makes toys, not me: this Christmas all I was responsible for was sticking a plastic arm into a hole of the shoulder of some scary-looking doll with eyes so blue and dead I think I’m looking at myself. Happy Holly. That’s what they call her on the box. But I bet the kids wouldn’t touch her with a bargepole if they knew how she started out looking. When she gets to me she’s bald with no legs or arms, just a plastic torso and a head with eyes. This thing ends up singin’ and dancin’ and talkin’ and probably spittin’ if you want her to.

But every day for the past week I’ve been staring at this doll, been staring at those eyes dead and cold and thinking my development has worked in the opposite way to hers. I went from all-singin’ all-dancin’ to being a dead, cold, legless stump like her. It was as if someone had put me on that revolving table and sent me around while one by one people hammered me, pulled at me until I came out the other side feeling and looking like I do now. A conveyor belt surrounded by my ex-wife, kids, mother-in-law, brothers, sisters and whatever friends I had, all armed with their weapons. They’d all taken a jab at me and left me with cold, staring, blue eyes.

I took my place at the conveyor belt, apologized to the guy next to me who was red in the face and sweating from having to put two arms into two holes instead of just his usual one. But I bet he’d done it all while whistling. They all whistled while they worked here, wearing stupid-looking uniforms and working all day without a break. Not me, I don’t make a sound, I had the wind knocked out of me a long time ago.

I could see the boss standing at the window in his office looking at me. Glaring at me with his arms crossed over his fat belly, dressed in an expensive suit ready for his night’s work. We were all working overtime tonight. I hated him. I hated seeing him sitting up there doing nothing while we slaved away down here. I hated that he was the name and face of the company, that he reaped all the rewards, got all the glory and fame and had his picture plastered on every poster all over the world. I wasn’t jealous, no way, that’s not my nature. Not for one second did I want to be in his boots. But I hated him because he wouldn’t let me go.