A heavy beat blared from the beaten up van. Hardly an original act of provocation, though he had always taken pleasure in the disapproving looks from passers-by . Truth was, the weekend’s drinking was taking its toll. The familiar feeling, as though the body was bruised on the inside. Monday wasn’t supposed to be a working day.
The combination of these factors darkened his mood. He recklessly swung the van into the parking space, narrowly missing the parked car behind him.
‘You have reached your destination.’ toned the disembodied woman from the SatNav.
“Hello. Joe isn’t it?’ said the young guy who answered the door.
“Yeah, yeah. You’re Mark, I assume. Hi. Hi. Yeah. Take care.”
The handshake had already gone on longer than necessary by the time it had taken him to say all that, and Joe was now aware that some mild form of polite tourettes had slipped from his lips. The handshake continued.
“Take care?” asked Mark, reasonably enough.
“Oh…Yeah. That’s what you say at the end. Not when you meet someone, right? Right. My bad.” Joe shrugged. Mark raised his eyebrows, as they finally finished shaking hands.
Mark chuckled nervously, noticing the badly parked, graffiti strewn van.
“That’s your van?”
“Certainly is,” Joe proclaimed proudly, as someone might respond to being asked "Is that your Porsche?"
“Oh. Ok.” Mark seemed apprehensive now, not that Joe noticed, or particularly cared.
“I’ll be in the van.”
“Ok. Give me a minute.”
Joe turned the music on, but at a reasonable level now, as his hangover was getting steadily worse.
“Come on, mate..” he mumbled to himself, impatiently shaking his left leg up and down.
Mark had barely time to sit down and put his seatbelt on before Joe had swung the van out in front of an approaching car. A horn sounded, angrily.
“Jesus!” said Mark.
“Woah, sorry man. What am I doing? That’s right. Oops. Right, where are we. Um, yeah, first gear. That would help.” Joe was gibbering.
“Careful mate.”
“Yeah, yeah. Sorry. I mean, woah, right? Jeez.”
“Mm.”
Mark chewed on a fingernail that was already bitten away. It was another minute or two before either spoke again.
The first word was an excited proclomation.
“Tune!”
Another dangerous, over excited lurch of the van. Another horn.
It at least broke the silence, and Joe had appeared to decide at this point that any more silence would be a terrible thing. His chatter was incessant for the rest of the journey, topics changing seemingly from the approaching autumn, to how hard it was to find somewhere that serves good coffee. Joe would randomly discuss the plots of various films, then seemed annoyed when Mark offered a short contribution. Keeping a constant rhetoric seemed to be Joe's only concern, so his passenger fell quiet.
Mark’s insecurities lay away from the social awkwardness clearly being experienced by his companion. It was in the fact that Joe would look at him for extended periods of time when talking, appearing to forget he was driving. Making pleading nods towards the road didn't seem to help much, but Mark didn’t consider picking up a sofa for the new flat worth a fatal motorway accident.
He gripped the seat apprehensively as Joe leant across him, and fumbled in the glove box.
They were stood in a empty room on the fifth floor of a block of flats. Empty except for the spotless white sofa and armchair. The girl selling the sofa, Kate, and Mark made small talk, as Joe stared out of the window, vacant.
“Well, yes, it’s served us well.”
“Yeah, it looks great to..”
“That horseshoe will bring that house bad luck,” offered Joe suddenly, raising a finger to demonstrate that what he was saying was important. He was referring to the house opposite, which had a lopsided horseshoe attached to the wall.
“Umm,” said Kate, unsure what to say.
“It’s bad luck to have it on its side like that.”
“Well, thanks Kate," Mark said, interrupting the silence. "My wallet’s in the car. I’ll pay you as soon as we get it in the van.”
Joe suddenly came around.
“Right!” he exclaimed. “I’ll get the rope?”
Mark laughed. At least he’s got a sense of humour, I suppose.
Joe, however, was shrugging, as if to say ‘What’s funny?’
“No. I’ve got a rope in the back of the van. We’ll tie it round the thing and I’ll lower it down to you out of the window.”
Mark laughed again. Another little shrug in response.
“You’re…You’re not joking?”
“It will be quicker.”
Kate covered her hand with her mouth, mixed feelings of amusement and embarrassment. She went into the kitchen and pretended to busy herself.
“It’s..It’s a £100 sofa”
“It’ll be fine!”
“I’d really rather not do it that way.”
“What? Why?”
“Because we’re paying quite a lot of money for it.”
Joe was genuinely incredulous. It was as if Mark’s objection was completely unreasonable.
“Well, alright. Fine. We’ll at least get the rope round the armchair. No bother there.”
“I think we’ll carry them down the stairs. You seriously want to tie a rope around..?”
“Oh, for christ sake..Right! Come on then!”
Joe was visibly annoyed.
“Clearly you know best. Come on, we’ll get the armchair first.” He flung one of the cushions across the room, and kicked the other one out of the way. Mark was too stunned to respond.
Joe turned around, holding the armchair up behind his back. Kate had returned into the room and she and Mark exchanged brief, perplexed looks.
“Hold it straight!” Joe barked, and continue to grumble under his breath for the four or five trips up and down the stairs it took to load up the rest of the sofa.
They were back in the van. Silence had returned between them. Joe kept shaking his head, still visibly irritated that his rope idea had been rejected. Mark preferred it this way, the chances of a motorway pile-up having been slightly reduced.
“How much is this guy charging?” Mark asked in a text to his girlfriend.
The reply was rapid.
“Says fifteen an hour on the website.”
Joe pulled into a garage.
“I need thirty quid in the tank. Have you got it on you?”
“Well, is it not 15 an hour?” They had been an hour or so, so far, and were twenty minutes from the flat.
“Thirty for the job.”
“Oh..”
Joe got out to fill the engine, paid for it and got back in the van.
“Are you going to argue with me?”
“Sorry?”
“It’s thirty. Are you going to argue?”
“It says fifteen on your website.”
“It’s thirty.”
Mark, weighing up the situation, considered it to be reasonable enough, considering it was fairly difficult to load up and would be just about two hours by the time they got home.
“That’s fine.”
Joe started the engine, drove back and didn’t say another word for the remainder of the journey, shaking his head incredulously throughout. Mark sat there, trying not to laugh by this point.
As Mark handed the money over, Joe had one final thing to say.
“Wet-wipes.”
“Sorry?”
“Good for getting out marks on sofas.”
“Right.”
And with that, Joe the furniture deliverer drove away with a screech, with a bemused Mark staring after the van in the plumes of exhaust smoke left behind.
