SS Glasgow Castle 17 Chapter Seventeen

My parents are thrifty people. They always manage to keep a few thousand in their checking account, and another ten in readily accessible savings (the bulk of the family fortune is salted away in long term government savings bonds). I had grounds to hope I'd be able to borrow a few thousand.

Unfortunately, the family till had been cleared out by my mother's unexpected trip to the side of the ailing Frieda. I asked for seven grand, but only got five. My father had valiantly offered to cash one of the bonds, but I couldn't agree to that because then he'd start to be truly concerned, and maybe ask a couple of questions. It's impossible to lie to my old man; he has an uncanny knack for picking up on lies. He doesn't comment, but he knows. I had a very trying childhood because of that: he always saw through my lies.

I spent the night in Peterborough sleeping on the front room sofa, although I'd been offered my old room. I didn't want to be reminded of my time there when I was a kid.

We paid a visit to the bank first thing in the morning, and then I caught a bus back home feeling f.u.c.king awful. The vaccine and the booze were proving to be a bad combination. I spent the bus ride suffering silently, and counting and recounting the money. I kept coming up with the same result - forty five hundred if I didn't put aside anything towards next month's rent. There was still a chance I could raise the balance by selling the stuff guarded by the highly trained dogs of Hercules Security and Storage.

I collected messages the moment I got back home. There were over a dozen, heartening proof of my talent for making ads. I liked the message left by a man called James best; it was brisk and to the point and there was none of the I-have-to-see-if-I-like-it business. I called him back instantly; he offered to come around in his van, and we arranged to do business that very afternoon. Then I lay down on the bed and finally allowed myself to feel really bad. In a way it was a relief when I had to get up and leave in order to get a bite before I met up with James.

James turned out to be a tall, gruff, flannel-shirted and pony-tailed man in his thirties. His van was an ancient Dodge; painted light grey, it resembled, and sounded like a small tank; James informed me, unnecessarily, that he had been too busy to get a new m.u.f.fler. We drove down to Hercules Security and Storage without talking, the silent James chain-smoking Camels and changing the station on the car radio every couple of tunes.

When we got close to our destination, it became apparent that this was my first visit there. I felt silly, but James wasn't puzzled or curious; he patiently drove around the suburban industrial park until we found Hercules. I liked James: he seemed to be the patient, strong, and silent kind that's grossly under-represented in modern society (everyone wants to be a star and a lot of people actually think they really are stars, with much grief resulting). The world would be better with more Jameses and less Donnas in it, I thought. I held my vote on the Oscars.

Eventually we found the storage place, parked, and got out. The Hercules representative on duty- a fat, pimpled youth that had been reading a paperback novel when we came in - quickly identified the location of my cubicle, pointing it out on a convenient wall map. It was then that I finally noticed that the Hercules logo represented Hermes, the ancient Greek G.o.d of merchants and thieves. Someone had gotten their Greek mythology badly mixed up.

I found my cubicle without difficulty. It was one of many, arranged in a row behind iron bars; my stuff looked as if it was in prison. We spent half an hour going through it; my possessions seemed more numerous and interesting than I remembered them: there was a nice oxidized steel standing lamp, for exmple. James liked it too; I watched him covertly, and most of the time he was nodding in a very encouraging manner.

I put on a small show: a five-minute demonstration of the advanced gadgetry of my top-of-the-line drafting table (original price: $2495 plus tax). Then I said:

"Well?"

James nodded thoughtfully.

"I'll take your word that the clock radio, espresso machine, and the portable TV all work," he said.

"They do. Absolutely."

"Great. I'll give you fifteen hundred."

"For the drafting table?"

"For everything."

"What?!"

"Everything. Cash. I've got it right here." James paused to pat his hip, looked at me and finally registered my dismay.

"Okay," he said. "Sixteen hundred. But that's it. Can't afford more."

"I need two thousand," I said slowly, and then I had a brainwave. Donna had paid a small fortune for a year up front, and I was vacating the s.p.a.ce after a couple of days. Surely I could get some money back?
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"Wait," I said to James, who was already in the process of turning away. "I just realized that since I won't be needing this s.p.a.ce any more, I might be able to get a refund. It's paid up for a year."

"Sure you can get a refund," said James.

"Seventeen hundred."

"Sixteen. We can clean this out in fifteen minutes, and I'll give you a ride back."

"Done."

We shook hands and went to work. James was very efficient - he clearly had plenty of experience clearing stuff out of storage lockers. We were done in a little under fifteen minutes; on the way out, I asked James to wait and went to ask about the refund. The pimply Hercules representative told me he didn't deal with complaints; that was the province of the manager, an important man who only came in twice a week. I was advised to apply on Monday; I was supposed to be flying to Africa on Wednesday. That was tight, and it made me nervous.

"Got your refund?" asked James as we drove out.

"I have to see the manager Monday," I said. "It might not be easy."

James pondered this with great gravity, looking wise beyond his years. Even his pony-tail was full of wisdom. Finally, he said:

"You gotta show them you mean it, man. That will work."