Some people like it because it creates a distance, which makes things a bit easier and less personal when complaints or demands are made, it makes it easier for both sides. But Stevie called me âmateâ. Not because he feels Iâm undeserving of respect, but because he knows I donât need it. Nor did he do it to get familiar with me so that I feel uncomfortable making complaints or demands, but to make me feel like I can tell him anything. Weâre mates, after all. Not real mates, obviously, but for the duration of this wee thing weâve got going on, weâre mates just like any others.
Stevieâs all right.
He beeps the barcode with his laser gun and reaches under the counter to pull out a poly bag. He flaps the bag up and down to open it up, but in doing so he wafts a leaflet off the counter and down onto his side of the floor. I watch him as he bends over to pick it up, and what I see makes me like Stevie even more.
Itâs not that I like him even more because Iâm watching his arse. I am watching his arse, but thatâs not it, itâs the whole thing. Itâs the way heâs bending over. Heâs bending over in that bow-legged way, his knees slightly bent and pointed outwards, and his upper body bent right over. I donât know what it is about him bending over like that, itâs like thereâs something open about it. I know that âopenâ isnât the best word to use, because it makes you visualise him bent over with an open arsehole, but thatâs the only word that springs to mind. Open.
Itâs the way you imagine people to bend over in the wild, or in the jungle. You sometimes see programmes with Amazonian tribes where the men wear nothing but a wee piece of cloth tied around their waist. And every now and then, thereâs a shot of one of them from behind, somewhere in the background, bending over to pick something up. Cock, balls, arse, the lot, there it is, they donât give a fuck. They donât give a fuck because theyâve got nothing to hide. And thatâs the same with Stevie here.
Iâve sometimes seen guys like that in changing rooms, back in school, and in gyms when I got older. Theyâre not stressing out trying to cover up their genitals with a towel, they know the sky wonât fall if somebody catches a glimpse. With them, itâs a towel between the legs, drying their no-manâs-land with a heave-ho, heave-ho, right in front of you, mid-conversation. And I know they wouldnât mind if I did it as well. And why not? No formalities, no pretension, no lies, no borders, no barriers. Open.
Stevieâs all right.
He picks up the leaflet, puts it back and goes to stick my thing in the bag. But then has a look at it.
âWhat is this anyway?â he asks.
âItâs like a media streamer thing,â I say. âYou can put all your music and films on it and watch it from anywhere in the house. Hopefully.â
âAh, right. I could do with something like that. I didnât know we had it. I suppose I should, since I work here!â
He has a wee laugh.
I love this guy.
Itâs the way he just laughed at himself for not knowing what his shop sells, even though he should. Itâs like he doesnât care. Not in a bad way, not in a cocky or arrogant way, but in a way that helps me relax and makes me less uptight about how the world should be.
Because there comes a point, I think, when you realise that the world isnât as orderly and in control as you might like it to be, that itâs in fact held together with Blu-tack and Sellotape and the wheels are about to come off at any moment. It can be quite a scary realisation, that, enough to make most people panic. But hereâs Stevie here, and heâs laughing.
We need people like Stevie. We need him to laugh, so that we can laugh. If youâre ever stuck in a lift, or holed up in a loft to escape the zombie hordes, or
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