Chapter Text
His eyes strained by the morning light filtering through the sheer curtains, highlighting a red scar that’d pulverized his left shoulder blade, laid barren for only his miniature bedroom to reflect upon. He lay on his stomach, squinting. An array of honks seeped in and he moaned, grasping for the pillowcase pressed beneath his head. A bird chirped, pecking at a glass pane. He clutched the pillow tighter, shutting his eyes. Then a rubbish truck advanced, rushing to a steaming halt, and bellowed a long, menacing yawn.
Damon slid the pillow from underneath his elbow and tossed it toward the sounds, gripping his sheets and snarling. So much for a good rest in, eh?
He sifted over still-damp hair, ruffling a blond strand, and lifted his heavy comforter, swinging his legs overboard. Damon scratched at his thigh, noticing a stark blemish contrasting the majority of his hairy limb. A bug bite, he concluded, standing. There was no carpeting in his bedroom—he hadn’t been able to afford any. And, besides, a good pair of socks were enough warmth. But one had slipped off in the night.
Damon surveyed his wrist, checking the time. 6:30—not enough to venture forth underneath his bed, searching for a renegade sock. But, enough to get dressed and greet Phil across the road. He’d probably be sipping his morning coffee out of a paper cup, tapping his watch and eating a biscuit down the street, people-watching any bloke he saw.
Damon reached for deodorant, lifting his arms and dapping the recently shaven area; he never liked the sensation of tiny hairs prodding his skin—with the exception of his legs, which he sacrificed discomfort for lack of rigorous maintenance. After carefully placing the object on the bedside, he plucked a button-up and trousers from his quaint, wooden wardrobe, busying himself with the loop of a belt.
He inspected his reflection through a tiny vanity mirror, brushing a knot of slick locks. He grimaced, brandishing his tender senses. But he shook it off, toeing at his brogues and grabbing the keys to his flat. No need to boil any tea; by noon, Phil would be thirsting for caffeinated hydration.
The bustling morning breeze skimmed the bridge of Damon’s nose, prickling his nostrils as he locked the entrance to the flat. A few cars zoomed by, probably on their way to—or from—work. He recognised some, Damon realised, skidding onto the pavement. Especially a green one with an odd, skewed license plate. Usually there was an old woman driving it, but today there was a far younger, eager man behind the wheel. Damon idly hummed. Hopefully nothing tragic happened, he thought. He’d spoken to the old lady before. She was polite, if not a little abnormal.
He nervously plucked at his spare earring, another car swiftly coveting the adjacent street. Vagrant air attempted to swindle his hip, caressing Damon’s stomach, then cozying up to a patch on his chest. But he tucked at the straggling flap of loose clothing. It wasn’t quite Spring yet and Damon didn’t fancy the bipolar weather reports influenced by drunken, so-called meteorologists at the local bars.
Hammering his shoe into an indent on the pavement, Damon discerned a vehicle screeching into park. He blinked, noticing Phil cursing to himself. That’s a good sign, Damon sarcastically remarked.
Examining the street, Damon scanned either direction for incoming traffic, only to begin jogging toward the car. He piled in through the passenger side, exhaling, and slumped down.
“Mornin’,” he huffed at a disgruntled Phil, buckling up.
“Good God, you smell like shite, man,” Phil crowed. “Didn’t ya’ take a shower?”
Damon sniffed his shoulder, assured that he didn’t reek of anything more than leftover cologne and newly applied deodorant. It must’ve been that Phil’s nose finally broke, Damon decided.
“Didn’t have enough time, plus I took one last night,” he jibed.
“Didn’t do good enough a job then,” Phil muttered, revving the engine and snooping the rearview. “Fancy a tea?” He inquired once they’d steered a half block from Damon’s flat.
“This early?” Phil was usually thirsting for tea by maybe ten, at most eleven—never at nearly seven in the morning.
“Yeah, why not?”
Damon shifted, harshly squinting, a ray of light virtually blinding him. “Alright then.” He shrugged. If Phil was irritated earlier, the bother had escaped his attention. That was likely a good thing, since Phil was never exactly pleasant. It was a blessing to Damon if ever his spirits rose.
A lively Café filtered Damon’s perception as Phil let his engine die. He never parked properly; the wheels always skewed, tumbling onto crumbled pavement. Shifting gear, he sighed, patting the knees of his trousers.
“Alright, lad,” he began, “whatcha want?”
“The regular, I guess.”
“Alright, your regular coming right up!” He unbuckled and exited the vehicle, pausing momentarily to view Damon from the window. He winked, a grotesque grin plastered to his face. Damon’s head tilted, and pressing his jaw to his palm, he kneaded at hairs forming beneath his chin.
Whatever had Phil so excited didn’t particularly probe Damon’s mind. He inhaled sharply, watching a jogger strut along cracked roads, a heavy windbreaker adding weight to their thin figure. His gaze followed them until they’d exited his peripheral. Then another passed—a woman. Striking black hair and glasses, strolling a carriage. He couldn’t quite see the baby, just its miniature white shoes poking out.
They too disappeared beyond the car. Though, by then, Phil returned with identical steaming cups of tea—except, Phil’s was chamomile, Damon learned as he commented on its flavor, swerving his car forward. The brittle liquid stung Damon’s tongue, burning its rim. Biting down, he assuaged the pain against pressure. It scarcely worked to his approval. Damon carefully continued sipping, swishing bitter tea until he swallowed.
Phil had switched to the radio, a melody lulling rattling speakers. It was from a new popular British band—Damon hadn’t recalled their name. He didn’t keep up with the scene much, even if it was all his bar-going friends rambled about. They told him, if he just gave music a chance, he’d fit right in with the image of a boyish pop musician. Nonetheless, Damon knew he was destined for anything but that. He’d probably just work a dead-end job or become like his dad: head of a school or something. Nothing special, really.
“Alright,” Phil grunted.
Damon shifted, nabbing an all-to familiar window from Phil’s backseat.
The pane lay flushed against his face, crushing Damon’s lips and nose. He resisted an urge to fog the glass, but Damon knew any grime would turn off any customer more than Phil’s car-salesman attitude already could.
The primary row of homes carried a variety of identical brick, and doors painted a hue of red. Among them, decaying flowers decorated the sills. Approaching a flat, Damon surveyed Christmas decorations brandishing the door.
“Must be an old bird,” Phil gestured to the rotting garland, fist rapping thick hardwood. And she was. The woman boasted short, frizzy hair pointing in several directions. She peered from behind thin spectacles, investigating the pane of glass Damon gripped. He offered a smile, adjusting, but she only scoffed and slammed the door.
Yet Phil wasn’t discouraged. He fished client papers from his trousers and plucked a name, trudging further to another flat. Their cycle repeated from then on, just as it had everyday.
There was a nice older couple who’d opened the door together, greeting Damon—probably pitying his humiliating expression. Phil almost convinced them of his product until their tea kettle jaggedly whistled, to which Damon flinched. They apologised profusely and reassured them they’d purchase an item soon. Damon wasn’t so sure, even if he appreciated the sentiment.
By the time Phil diverged on another street, Damon was sweating through his suit, unusual since March was marked by rather frigid temperatures. He wiped perspirant grime from his forehead, dialing up the vehicle’s cooler.
Phil slapped at his hand. Ow.
“What do ya’ think you’re doing, son?” He scolded.
“I’m sweating,” Damon moaned. “It’s hot.”
“Oh, come off it—are you sick, then?” He glimpsed Damon’s feeble state. He was generally a prick, but he cared; sometimes, that is.
Damon swatted Phil’s meandering hand, groaning. “No,” he retorted, “you just have the heat cranked up to fuckin’ hell in here.”
“Well, what am I ‘sposed to do?” The other raised. “‘M old, aren’t I? Bones are cold. And it’s freezing out there!” He shirked Damon’s bemoaning.
“Alright, alright,” Damon waved him off, head hugging the window. “Do what you want, it’s your car.”
“Damn right, it’s my car!”
He sighed, eyeing Damon. He was pitiful. Hair stained with sweat and collar glued to his neck. “Ah, sorry, lad, just a bit riled up, y’know how it is, dontcha?”
Damon conceded and inspected the suburban landscape. A bright, scarlet fence besotted a surpassing park where children giggled, toiling around squeaking swing sets. A small boy pestered another who snatched his pair of glasses, blond hair glistening below the afternoon sun. Damon idly wished he was either of them.
“Last block, alright? Then you can go home n’ mope, or whatever you do.”
Damon nodded. “Okay.”
“Now, get that damned window, son, we got selling to do.” Phil slammed the door before Damon could respond.
He laughed. Their moment was partially ruined, but he didn’t hold anything against his boss. Quite the contrary. Damon just wanted his day of bothering common blokes finished. And maybe some food too. But that wasn’t at the top of his priority list.
The pane, partially frosted, smeared his cheek. He breathed heavily, uncaring as to whether it bled onto the glass or not. Nobody was buying it, anyhow.
Damon paused, observing Phil jiggling the knocker; he was never considerate of other’s property, Damon learned when he practically vandalized a customer’s flat. That was prior to Phil’s vulgar crack down by their managers. His irate behaviour had since then been prohibited. Maybe that was why he got put on antidepressants, Damon pondered.
He sighed, adjusting the window. The door quietly narrowed, revealing a gangly boy, fingers mangling the threads of his collar.
“Mrs. Coxon?” Phil offered, obscenely grinning.
“No,” the boy muttered. He fixed his glasses, which descended the bridge of his nose. “That’s my mum.”
“Well, where is she, lad?” His voice cracked, but Damon didn’t particularly notice. He focused intently on the boy.
Usually, old people answered the door—ones who wrinkled, with large, brown freckles spoiling their skin. Sometimes, younger women did, too. But they always had whining babies, and any fantasy Damon conjured up evaporated just as easily as they’d flooded his mind.
Never, though, had he met anyone around his age on the job.
“Oh, she’s out, won’t be home until evening.” He contorted his lips, what appeared to be a grimace emerging. Perturbed eyes danced between him and Phil, confusion lacing his brow. Finally landing on Damon, a smile elicited tender dimples that garnished his chin.
He flushed as Damon returned it.
“Ah, that’s a right shame,” Phil said. “Dad home, then, lad?”
The boy shook his head. “No, sir,” he replied, hushed. Retreating inward, he scratched the base of his elbow.
Damon frowned. The boy was nervous.
He nervously hacked, clearing his throat, and lowered the pane, uncovering his face. “Well, we’ll come ‘round another time, then. When the missus is home, eh, boss?” He glared at Phil, generating skepticism in him.
Still, he played along. “Right, right, yes,” Phil grinned, and manically produced his card. “Give ‘er this, eh? Tell ‘er we’ll be by.”
The boy grabbed the card, glowered, and looked to Damon once more, who winked. He sheepishly smiled, lowering his gaze, cheeks dusted pink.
“Yes sir,” he said and swiftly closed the door.
Phil turned, fisting Damon in the ribs.
“Ow!” he moaned.
“Why’d you do that?” He gritted his teeth. “We could’ve had a sale, for Christ’s sake! Young and impressionable boy without his Mummy and Daddy! That’s a goldmine, son.”
“Oh, come off it, will you? He wasn’t gonna buy anything, you know that.” Damon suckled the air sharply. “I saved our arses before you made an idiot out of both of us.”
“An idiot?” Phil scoffed. “I would’ve had him wrapped around my finger, and you just let him go—you think you’re gonna get anywhere in this world without doing a lil’ shovin’?”
Discontent, Damon collapsed in his seat. “We can just go back next time when the ol’ bird’s home. Isn’t that enough?”
“Enough, enough,” Phil mocked him, “you’re lucky I like you, boy. Or you would be right stomped on by now.
“saved our arse, diddya?” He said to no one in particular, disapproval simmering from his visage. “Right, then.”
Damon ignored Phil’s ramblings for the image burning his retinas. That boy. His glasses were a bit too big for his face, sheltering his enlarged eyes, and his hair was all shaggy. He even noticed how gnawed the boy’s lips were, scabs lacing his arms.
Curiously, he smiled. For reasons unknown to him, Damon hoped he’d see him again.