Somewhere
A Short Story by Shaun A. Saunders
Image by David Dees | deesillustration.com
October 18, 2014
At the end of a long, hard shift, Old John loved to talk. Sitting close to the brazier, the shadows of the compound edging closer as the rubbish burnt down, he spun tales of wonder –
“…You could have whatever you wanted. Say I felt like a steak dinner. Well, I would just walk down the street to the butcher and pick out whatever I wanted. On the way home, I’d stop at the grocer and buy the ’trimmins.”
“What are ’trimmins’?” asked a youngster, his face smudged with dirt.
“Potatoes, carrots, pumpkin, peas…” the list went on.
An older boy snorted.
The youngster ignored the interruption. “Old John, tell us what you did on the weekends.”
Old John smiled. Weekends were the best party of the story. “On our days off” –more snorts – “I’d drive my family down to the beach.” He winced when he said family, but in the half-light of the fire, no one noticed. “First off, I’d pack the ice-box. Lots of ice, of course, to keep the drinks and sandwiches cold. Ice-creams, too. Then I’d load up the trunk with the towels and umbrella, some folding chairs for the missus and me, and we’d be off.”
“And what did you do along the way?” The youngster knew the story well.
“Well, I’d turn on the stereo and play some of my favourite music. So there’d we’d be, driving along at our own pace, windows down, waving to folk as we went.”
The older boy snorted again. “Oh yeah, just like that – you felt like going somewhere so you just up and left, and with a load of food, too.”
The old man became defensive. “Yes, just like that. And we stayed at the beach as long as we wanted, too.”
The older boy laughed. “Eating your potatoes, and carrots and pumpins and peas, eh?” Who could believe this crap? “And tell us about where you lived, Old John.”
“My family and I lived in a house: it had three bedrooms, and two bathrooms – one for the kids and visitors, and one for the missus and me. It was what they called an ensuite.”
More laughter now, with men nearby joining in. “Oh I bet it was sweet,” one of them said. “A special place for you and the little wife to shit by yourselves.”
Old John barked. “You shut your trap, Ben, you’re old enough to know better. You remember how it was.”
Serious now, the reply came, “Yes Old John, I do. But you’re not helping anyone now by talking about times gone by, that aren’t coming back. We just have to get used to things the way they are.”
“That’s how it all started in the first place,” said John. “Everyone was too complacent, believing all they heard, that the government really looked after everything for them, and that the bank manager was your friend. Everything was fine, they told us – ”
A piercing siren cut him off. Then, over the loudspeakers, “Lockdown in ten minutes. All inmates return to your cells.”
On their way to the cells, the youngster, his stomach empty, asked quietly, “Old John, where was that grocer you mentioned?”
“Where?” Old John shook his head, tears in his eyes. He pointed across the compound, “It was right over there. Before they declared martial law after the banks folded, this was the local shopping centre…”
***
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