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Neil Armstrong

The November Editor's Pick Writer is Neil Armstrong

Please feel free to contact Neil at: neilarmstrong71@hotmail.com

Neil Armstrong

WORKING LIFE

by Neil Armstrong

As Andrew Kerrant stood in front of the red mini parked in the driveway, he thought, I’m nineteen years old and starting work today at Vale Automotive Engineering. I’ll have money in my pocket for doing what I’m good at and the whole world is out there waiting for me.

The car was a gift from his parents. He admired the glow of the bodywork. Obsessed with cars since an early age and a talented draughtsman, he couldn’t quite believe that he’d walked into a job where he could use his skills in the design department of a prestige firm.

He switched from his inspection of the car to his own reflection in the windshield, adjusted his tie, checked his hair that was neatly secured in its ponytail, and then his mind drifted off again.

He imagined pulling into the Managing Director’s parking space on his first day at the firm— the secretary’s mouth would be a perfect ‘o’ of astonishment—but she would smile at him when no one else was looking, and later when he offered her a lift home, she felt unable to refuse...

Andrew’s fantasy world was invaded by his mother’s irritated tone. “Will you stop preening yourself in that window and get to work? Do you want to be sacked on your first day?”

She collected the milk from the step and returned inside with a slam of the door like a shotgun blast that sent birds flying from the nearby hedge. Andrew scowled but then shrugged his shoulders, slid behind the wheel and disappeared in a hail of gravel.

While driving, he turned the radio on and the screeching jingle died away and a familiar guitar riff stabbed through the speakers. He’d downloaded this new music only last week and he gave the volume a generous boost as he flew along the quiet roads of the suburbs, his hand strumming in time on the rim of the steering wheel.

A few minutes later, he was drumming his fingers in frustration in a traffic jam at a junction. Where are they all going? he thought to himself as another lorry rumbled by.

One by one, the cars were allowed to pass the jam. He was second in the queue now.

Andrew watched the car in front ease out into the road; he hit the accelerator and shot out, almost on the tail lights of the car in front, causing an approaching van to brake hard. The wronged driver closed in behind like a hunter on the tail of his prey and flashed his high beams—just to show that the space hadn’t really been there for the taking. The glare in the mirrors dazzled Andrew for a second. He blinked and then eased off the pedal to force the other driver back.

“Wanker!” shouted Andrew with some relish...and he waved, using only one of his fingers.

On the radio, the epic guitar duel finished. “No radio edits here. The full shebang,” burbled the DJ, “as we trawl through the hits that were big way back in twenty-twelve on Century FM.”

“What?” muttered Andrew, leaning forward to peer at the glowing display like a man who has lost his glasses. Then he smiled and shrugged his shoulders, thinking that it was some sort of wind up to catch out foggy minds on a Monday morning.

He relaxed a bit and eased himself back into the seat and scanned the dash: speed, lights, mileage. And then he did a double take: 65k miles on the speedometer! What the...? Sure, the car was used, but his parents had bought the car less than a month ago from some old dear who had managed only 10k in five years.

He laughed nervously to himself and reached up to the back of his head—over neatly shaved hair. He gasped. His left hand jerked on the wheel and the car slewed back and forth across the road. He looked in the rear view mirror and shook his head to confirm that his ponytail was gone.

The traffic was flowing now. Mindlessly driving, he grasped the wheel in both hands, knuckles white, as pushed himself back into his seat and quietly told himself to get a grip.

Andrew wound down the window and the chilly air rushed in, causing him to shiver. He turned down the sound on the radio: more ‘retro’ chatter and a Rio 2016 preview on the sports news. This was beginning to freak him out a little.

Fixing his mind on the road, he nipped through an amber light and swung onto the slip lane that would deposit him onto the dual carriageway. At the last moment, he flicked his head over his shoulder to check for traffic. The sun, appearing low in the sky through the mist, shot blinding rays into his mirrors. He jumped on the accelerator and pulled out into a thankfully clear road.

As the glare faded from his eyes, he glanced down. He tried to take in what he saw. He managed a strangled yell and jerked in his seat; his arm flew up sending the rear-view mirror askew.

He was now in a different car.

A Lexus badge now glared at him from the centre of the steering column as he eyed the spacious surroundings. A rather absurd thought struck him—I must be doing quite well to have one of these.

Andrew reached up to readjust the mirror. He let out another yell. A haircut and a car upgrade he might be able to deal with, but not the stranger’s face that stared back at him.

A sickening realization dawned on him. It wasn’t really a stranger’s face...just one much older than that of the confident youth who had stood on that gravelled drive only a short time ago. Or had he? What should have been a crisp recent memory of departing for his first day’s work was now becoming as murky.

Andrew felt like a drowning man pushing towards the surface, but never quite breaking through to the air above. Then he saw a chance to get out of the traffic and he jerked the wheel across to get to the side the road. There was the sound of a horn and a brief angry flash of lights as he cut up a lorry to reach his sanctuary.

Sitting at the side of the road, Andrew ignored the other cars as they rushed past. He switched off the engine and put his head in his hands.

He realized he was crying. He screwed his eyes shut.

When he opened his eyes, it wasn’t the change of car or the changes in himself (a pair of glasses and a slight paunch) that really caught his notice but the woman’s voice.

“How about it, Andy?” it said with a teasing lilt, “Come on, you weren’t so shy in Frankfurt.”

He looked across into a young, quite pretty (if overly made up) face and his eyes drifted, then lingered, over her plunging neckline.

“What, um, ahh, I….” was all he managed. A voice inside wondered if this was his girlfriend.

“You won’t be needing this for the moment.” He felt a cool hand touch his and with a twist she removed the gold band from his finger and flicked it into the footwell.

“Um...”

“Come on, she’ll never know,” her other hand rested on his crotch. “You know you want to; let’s get a room somewhere.”

Sitting in the car on the side of the road, Andrew began to chuckle. The girl sat back, surprised. A voice in his head was recapping for him: You are on the verge of an affair and you have no idea of who your wife is.

His laughter became louder. The voice in his head went on, but now in the mock clipped tones of an imagined lawyer: My client is contesting the divorce on the grounds that he’s never met his wife.

“Andy, what’s the matter?” Her voice was a mixture of fright and concern.

This was too much. Andrew dissolved into gales of uncontrollable laughter.

“That does it! I’m gone, you fucking freak.” She got out of the car, slammed the door, and stood in front, shouting through the windshield.

He shouted back. “Get out of the way or I’ll run you over,” he shrieked at her.

He turned the key, slipped the car into first and hit the accelerator. The car jerked and stalled, much to the amusement of the customers at the nearby burger van, for whom the show was getting better all the time.

He was able to restart the car and burn rubber, almost hitting the confused girl and a group of disgruntled men who dived for cover, burgers, coffee and all.

And minutes later, Andrew’s laughter subsided and he concentrated once again on the road. He eased his right foot down on the accelerator and flew along the dual carriageway. He didn’t know where the hell he was going but he felt a need to continue.

Andrew had little time to think about the approaching tunnel as a voice whispered to him, Ready for another one?

He braced himself.

His eyes adjusted slowly to the artificial orange gloom and then took in the dimensions of the boxy MPV he was driving, at speed, in the outside lane. Worse than that, however, was the noise in the car.

A quick look behind showed two bawling children in their car seats and that was not all: the woman in the passenger seat next to him was tearful and yelling.

“You bastard, Andrew! I know all about you and that other slut. Just how long has this been going on? To think I believed you when she first posted those pictures from Frankfurt.”

“Leave me alone,” he hissed through clenched teeth, “and can’t you keep those kids quiet?”

“Perhaps you should have thought about the kids before you started screwing around!”

She flung herself back in her seat. Andrew pounded the steering column and turned to face her, his mind filled with rage.

Then he saw her face freeze in terror, eyes wide and her arms stretched out towards the dash.

Andrew’s head flicked around. There was a forest of brake lights in the tunnel, in both lanes. There was no time to react. He was going to hit the car ahead.

In and out of consciousness.

Flat on his back.

Noises, words he couldn’t understand.

Pain. And the relief of another wave of cool, quiet darkness.

A voice, this one not in his head.“Poor bastard, he’s the only one who made it.”

Suddenly, there was daylight.

Andrew was on the road again. The sun sparkled on the mini’s highly polished bonnet.

A wave of relief swept over him. He was elated to be back on the road and on his way to work on a Monday morning. And not many people find time to think that.

He was back in the car that his parents bought him.

The traffic seemed a little odd though. A lot of strange looking vehicles bearing company names and all the road signs seemed to be LCDs. Nothing but static from the radio too.

Doubts surfaced.

And then his delight to horror. The car might be the same, but the hands on the wheel were wrinkled and pale and the face in the mirror was that of an old man.

*****

In the management boardroom of Kerrant Automotive Engineering, there was a great degree of activity. All the senior staff were present and the caterers had just finished laying out the food. A large screen on the wall was flashing a mix of congratulatory messages and highlights of the firm’s successes under their long-time managing director.

Jane Reed, the MD’s personal assistant, saw the mini approaching: looking rather odd amidst the fleets of company transports on the road.

“He’s here,” she said.

The car drove through the entrance barrier, received an automated “Good morning Mr. Kerrant,” pulled into a space and stopped. The crowd in the boardroom watched and waited.

Nothing happened.

One of the junior sales managers muttered to his colleague, “Silly old fool. All that time tracking down that car. He probably can’t remember how a manual door handle works.”

They sniggered for a short while. Then fell silent.

There was now an uncomfortable silence—as the guest of honor simply sat in the old car on his last day at the firm.

Mr. Andrew Kerrant, CEO, sat stone dead, hands still gripping the wheel. A look of relief was on his face. His long journey to work was finally over.

And then he awoke to find he was nineteen years old, sitting by the side of the road in the mini, and the voice in his head said, Want to do it again?

 

 

 

 

Neil Armstrong works as a manager in the UK public sector, but tries hard not to let that stifle his imagination and creativity. Over the last twenty years he has collected a stash of ideas for short stories that he would love to have time to turn into the finished article. 

“Working Life” is Neil’s first published work, having recently completed a course with the Writing Forge. He lives in Kent, England with his wife, two children and a retired racing greyhound.