Life is Traffic

The car was parked precariously on a yellow line. Trevor tutted, shook his head and then tutted again. He adjusted his cap and raised his eyes to heaven. It was a miserable day, cold and drizzling. Every now and then he had to wipe flecks of rain from his glasses with his handkerchief so he could see his way along the pavements and peer into car windscreens to inspect the pay and display tickets. This car was parked illegally, Trevor surmised. He straightened up from his inspection of the windscreen, no ticket. No disabled permit. No nervous looking child who would tell him shakily that their mother had just nipped into Sainsbury’s and would be back in two minutes. No growling dog to be released on him when the owner of the car returned fuming and waving their car keys, whilst cursing heaven and sending Trevor to hell. He lifted his computer monitor from around his neck, wiped the rain from its waterproof cover and began to tap away at the keypad. His little nose twitched like a woodland creature. ‘That’s a seventy pound fine, my friend.’ He hummed a little as he worked. Despite the cold, it had been a productive morning. Two calls for clamping for parking on a double yellow and one ticket for an expired disabled permit. ‘If disabled parking is a necessity for you,’ he had said as he handed the ticket to a frantic woman on crutches, ‘it might be worth keeping on top of your paperwork.’ He had thought she was a little discourteous when she had refused his help getting back into her car. Some people were just like that, Trevor had always considered himself a people person. He read people very well and he was always very kind. One last thing to do. As he folded the documents and placed them carefully into the plastic envelope, (Trevor was nothing if not a perfectionist) he heard a shout in the distance. ‘Yobs.’ He muttered, bending down and placing the ticket lovingly under the windscreen wiper. It was very nearly time for lunch. His cheese and pickle sandwich was awaiting him on the bottom shelf of the fridge in the staff canteen. He had one Sudoku puzzle left to complete in his copy of The Daily Mail. Friday was shaping up very nicely indeed.
There was another shout, this time closer. Trevor frowned and took out his handkerchief again to wipe his lenses. As he looked up, he saw a burly man approaching, with a ferocious dog straining on its very inadequate looking lead. ‘Oi, mate.’ Trevor cleared his throat, he had always found it peculiar that people chose dogs that resembled themselves. Like hairy children. Children, however could not tear your throat out with their teeth. At least in 53 years, Trevor had not come across any children who could. The burly man approached with his hairy child who was growling.
‘Can I help you sir?’ 

‘What the hell is this?’ The man was wearing dirty, baggy jeans and workman’s boots. He had a hood up, but there was no sign of any hair underneath it. Though not fabulously tall, the man had a broad chest and biceps which were most probably the result of steroid injections. Trevor wondered if the dog had also had steroid injections. Probably. He was sure he had read an article about it in the Sunday Mail last weekend.
‘You’re parked illegally.’ 
‘No I am not mate.’
 Trevor coughed delicately. ‘Yes you are. You don’t have a ticket’ he hesitated and then added ‘Sir,’ Professionalism can never be overlooked.
‘I was round the corner, the machine is broke pal. I’ve got a ticket here.’ The man pulled a crumpled pay and display ticket from his pocket along with his car keys and waved them in Trevor’s face. Trevor coughed again, his eyes on the dog whose growl was getting louder, ‘The pay and display machine is not broken sir. I checked it myself thirty minutes ago.’ The man let out a noise like a wild animal. Trevor started back and switched on his radio mic. ‘This conversation is now being recorded, sir.’ A woman with a buggy on the other side of the road had slowed down to watch the proceedings.
The man wrenched open the back door of the car and more or less threw the dog inside. It yelped. ‘Shut up Delia!’ He slammed the door and Delia pressed her face against the window.
He then grabbed the parking ticket from the windscreen and threw into the passenger side of the car. ‘traffic wardens, jobsworth mate.’
Trevor hesitated again and then said.
‘I’m not a traffic warden.’ The man slammed the passenger door shut. ‘what mate? Course you’re a traffic warden. Or is it just a really shit halloween costume?’ Trevor had only once been to a halloween party, but he had dressed as ghost, not a traffic warden.
‘The official term is Parking Enforcement Officer.’
The man had already gone round to the driver’s side door. ‘I’m not paying this. You ain’t gonna be a parking enforcement warden much longer.’ With that, he drove off at speed, not without splashing Trevor considerably with puddle water. He switched off his radio mic and sighed deeply. The woman with the buggy was still staring. Life on the front line of parking enforcement could be a harrowing job. Just like the police, they weren’t given enough credit. 
At five pm, it was time to clock off. Trevor had made his way back to the office, the usual walk up the bustling high street and then through the council gates and up the back stairs to the staff area. It was a dreary, institutional building - low slung grey concrete with beige coloured walls and beige Lino on the floor. The chairs in the staff room were cheap, blue plastic and there was a blue sofa made of an itchy hessian material with a foam interior that had been patched up several times with limited success. The walls were bare, save notices for fire evacuation (Trevor had read this very thoroughly and kept a copy in his locker). There was also a notice for the upcoming Christmas drinks. The parking enforcement team were not very welcome at such events and if they did attend, were usually sidelined to a corner and offered flat lemonade or warm beer. As he was hanging up his uniform, he heard the door creak open, it was Hassan.
‘Good evening Hassan.’ Trevor nodded to him. Hassan did not respond and made his way to his locker. Trevor cleared his throat and said again, in a tone that emphasised his irritation, ‘good evening Hassan.’ Hassan looked up and nodded at him but said nothing. Trevor made a noise of disapproval as he turned back to his locker. He had long ago realised that it wasn’t possible to be friends with everyone. Cultural integration day at work had proved that. Some people didn’t want to integrate and he believed there was nothing that could be done about it. Trevor was very proud to be British, anyone who saw the Union Jack taped to the inside of his locker would know that. As he gave the locker door a little slam and turned the key, he heard a muffled sob from the other side of the room. Hassan’s back was turned, but Trevor could see his shoulders jolting slightly. He was crying. Trevor scratched his grey stubble and rolled his shoulder. Crying made him uncomfortable, but in his line of work it was hard to avoid, Hassan had probably had a trying day. ‘Hassan, are you quite alright? It’s just that you ignored me when I addressed you which is quite rude in our culture, and now you appear to be crying.’ Trevor always felt he was good bridging the line between professional and comforting.
Hassan straightened up and looked around, his face was red and his eyes glistened. He didn’t speak for a moment. ‘My sister, her husband is very ill. He cannot work,’ Trevor awkwardly shuffled his feet and said nothing.
Hassan continued. ‘He cannot renew his work visa. They have to fly back to Pakistan in three weeks. Their son is four years old, he just started school. He was born here, he can stay. She wants me and my wife to care for him, but we do not have the money.’ Hassan straightened up and swung his rucksack onto his back. ‘Please do not think I am rude. Sometimes life is hard, but we will see it through. God willing.’ He gave Trevor a nod and with that, he swept through the door. His footsteps could be heard on the Lino, all the way up the corridor. Trevor pondered on Hassan’s situation as he awaited the number 44 bus. He had finished his Sudoku and so gazed out of the window at the shops they passed by. What was his purpose, he wondered? What was the meaning of his life? He had always felt an inherent nobility within the parking enforcement profession. Upholding the law, managing congestion, keeping the roads clear for fire engines and ambulances. He took home his money to his lonely flat every month, money which allowed him to cook delicious meals, alone. Perhaps watch a recording of countdown and then he would go to sleep in his bed on his own, waking up alone. Apart from one night when he had forgotten to lock the front door and his elderly neighbour had wandered in and sat at the end of his bed. Nothing, in Trevor’s mind, compared to the terror of awaking at three am to see an old lady in a white night dress at the end of your bed. But it was a good story to tell at parties. If you had parties to go to. He climbed the stairs to his flat slowly, unzipping his mackintosh as he did so. His corduroy trousers had become a little tight of late, it was difficult to climb the stairs comfortably. He pushed open the front door and collected the post from the mat. The usual bills, his monthly subscription to Car Magazine and… what was this? There was a little note, with black printed lettering. He examined it closely. Debbie’s housewarming. Debbie has just moved into number 5A, please come and join me for canapés and drinks from 7pm onwards - hoping to meet lots of my lovely new neighbours! No need to RSVP, just pop along whenever. Hope to see you, Deb.

Fate had smiled on him, Trevor thought as he made his way to Debbie’s at 6.59pm, bearing a bottle of Beaujolais he had won at a work raffle two years ago and a tub of bread and butter pudding. He had smoothed back his hair with wax and slapped on some aftershave. His heart palpitated slightly as he reached for the bell.
A woman in her mid-forties opened the door, she had a pleasant face, but looked a little harassed, there was a smudge of flour on her cheek.
‘Hello, I’m Trevor,’ said Trevor. He proffered the wine and the pudding. ‘Number 2B.’ She smiled, ‘or not 2B?’ She chuckled as she let him into the flat. It was warm, and decorated with old photos, young children, sepia victorian snaps. More recent pictures of a family at Disney Land. ‘I’m just finishing up in the kitchen, but my friend June is in the living room. Don’t mind the boxes, I’m still unpacking.’ She hurried back into the kitchen.
Trevor made his way down into the living room. June, whoever she was, was nowhere to be seen. The smell of roast vegetables wafted into the living room and soft classical music played from a stereo in the corner. The boxes were very much not unpacked, and there wasn’t much space, but Trevor made himself comfortable on a small settee and chose a crisp from a bowl that had been set on an ugly coffee table adjacent to it. The crisps were chilli flavour. His mouth burned, his eyes watered and he fanned his tongue as he looked around for a waste-paper basket. As he recovered himself, there was a clang as of metal on wood. As he looked up, he saw a pair of crutches and then a fragile looking woman easing herself into the room. She did a double take when she saw him, and then recoiled in horror. Trevor smiled weakly. ‘We meet again!’ He chortled, and went to shake her hand. She pursed her lips. ‘I can’t shake hands, I can barely stand up.’ Trevor introduced himself and said he lived downstairs, ‘second floor.’
June could not look less impressed. She settled herself in an armchair and her crutches clanged to the floor. An awkward few moments passed between them and then Trevor said, ‘you know, it is illegal to park in a disabled bay with an expired permit.’ June shot him a look of such disgust, that Trevor could almost feel the bile dripping down his neck. He trailed off. ‘Just in case you didn’t know…’ Debbie pushed open the door and came in, followed by Richard and Jess, the young professional couple from the top floor. ‘So, I think you must know Trevor, from 2b… or not 2b!’ She laughed again and threw back her wavy hair, like a wild horse. Jess and Richard nodded to Trevor. ‘Have you and June been introduced, Trevor?’ June gave a sardonic laugh. ‘We’ve met before actually.’ Debbie looked delighted. ‘Fabulous, how? Such a small world!’
‘He’s a traffic warden, Deb. Did you know?’ Trevor went to correct her, but she plowed on. ‘He gave me a fine for parking in a disabled bay… I didn’t realise it had expired… I had only popped in to visit mum in the care home. Just my luck, after fracturing my foot last week.’ She had started to cry. Jess and Richard were clinging awkwardly to each other. Debbie sunk down onto the arm of June’s chair and put a comforting arm round her.
Trevor rose slowly and rubbed his brow… ‘I’m very sorry June.’ June sobbed and Debbie pulled a pack of tissues from her apron. Trevor made his apologies again, and made his way to the door, not before he had banged his shin on the ugly coffee table.
Beethoven continued to play as Jess and Richard stepped aside to let him pass. Debbie, looked nonplussed and June, well June looked like a woman who had a very, very bad day.

When he returned to his flat, Trevor looked around his sad little kitchen. At mum’s Charles and Diana tea set display and the framed photo of she and Trevor at The Grand Canyon.
‘Life must go on, Trevor, my treasure,’ she had said as she struggled for breath in that tiny little hospice room.
Life must go on. Who ever really knows why we’re here? What our purpose is. Perhaps Trevor would never really know when his life would begin in earnest. Or maybe, it already had. ‘There is no right or wrong way to live,’ mum used to say, ‘we just need to embrace our own version of reality.’ Trevor climbed under his cold sheets and stared at the blank ceiling. He could hear Debbie’s party continuing upstairs. He must remember to collect his Tupperware container from her over the weekend, he thought as he drifted into an uneasy sleep. He would need that for lunch on Monday.