Free to Good Home: One Slave

Dear PhilosForum,
I have finished Uni and now have some time to try writing before I get a job 'n all that stuff. This is a prologue/intro that I came up with this week, and I thought I better get some proper feedback before I continue with anything. So please, see what you think.
Regards,
Dan.


[RIGHT]ApTech Offices, St. Ives Industrial Estate: 3:00pm[/RIGHT]


ApTech's staff car park was most definitely too large for the actual volume of cars which frequented it nine 'till five weekdays, its blemishless tarmac surface stood testament to this. In fact, ApTech offices were generally too grand for those who toiled away within its confines: The windows too clean; the doorways, branded with hanging insignia, too regal; the blue & gold themed minimalist landscaping which framed the building, too stately.

Bearing all the hallmarks of modern day success - excess, disuse and general too-much-ery - ApTech qualitatively towered over the other constructs scattered around St. Ives' industrial estate. And if there were any doubt as to the intentionality or self-consciousness of the gratuitous construct's design, I'd simply draw attention to the tulip trees which marked the property line: A good twenty years of growth were evident from the height and thickness-of-trunk alone, and all the specimens had grown competitively in close proximity to others, writhing, twisting and arching through the seasons, each reaching for that which it had never questioned: its life-force; its light. Yet here they stood, a lonesome and unnatural thirty foot from one another as they bordered ApTech which stated in gold emboss above its main entrance:



[CENTER]ApTech Offices: St. Ives 3b


Product Review, Development and Guidance Since 2004[/CENTER]


Well, unless these tulip trees were of an unknown 'till now strain of Liriodendron Tulipifera, a strain which could sport an apparent twenty years of growth in a mere five, they were commissioned, up-rooted and then transported here for the sole purpose of improving the car park's aesthetic; to make it look something it naturally wasn't.

Anyway, it does one no good to delve so deeply into matters - and besides, it wouldn't be many years now until the trees' mighty roots would propagate, ripping the tarmac up and apart, leaving it vulnerable to the winter rain which, once it had filled the lacerations, would expand first winter freeze, shredding the ground further? One would hope that all facades are so liable to crack, but people have become so practiced at maintaining them 'tis almost an occupation in its own right, a lucrative one at that.


[CENTER]__[/CENTER]


ApTech's front entrance consisted of two automatic glass doors marked on either pane with a vinyl print of the business' insignia - a trivial yet pretentious enough portrayal of a two cranes standing back to back on top of a globe. The afternoon sun was low in the sky, casting a dense reflection of the car park on to the front doors. It was now precisely 3:13pm, and the reflection began to shimmer intermittently with impact as doors were opened and slammed on the inside somewhere. Then, eventually, the reflection distorted fully as the doors swung open, motors whizzing, to reveal half of a suited man leant against the door frame as he chatted urgently to the receptionist. He was standing at such an angle that he might have darted off at any moment and, after leaving some instructions for Monday morning, did just that, twisting away as he squeezed out the last few syllables of his sentence.

Making for one of the five cars featured in this here 200 capacity car park, he nearly broke into a jog: hopping on toes from foot to foot, swinging elbows bent at right angles, giving the impression of jogging but never reaching a speed which would justify calling it that. At this intermediate pace, embellishing every few strides with a lunge from one foot to the other, he walk-jogged toward his grey (although he would call it silver) Audi A6 saloon. Feeling a little fatigued - it was an oversized car park and he was getting old- he slowed until getting within about ten foot of the vehicle. He stopped in his tracks abruptly, scanned the car park, and reached into his jacket pocket. Then with all the practiced grace and luster of an accomplished marksman he slipped his hand back out, bringing with it a set of car keys, the ring of which was hooked neatly over his index finger. They span about his pointed finger before he gripped them proper, bringing them to point at the passenger side window of his car. Then, finally, with an air of self-satisfaction he plunged his thumb down onto the over-designed 'unlock' button. 'Blip' 'blip': The Audi's yellow eyes flickered as if with glee to see its masters' return.

Remotely popping the boot with a 'clunk', our man walked to the rear of his vehicle and slung in there his jacket and briefcase. This left him dressed in only his suit trousers, a pair or recently shined black loafers and a blue shirt, the collar of which was sarcastically prominent considering this was ApTech, a business comprised entirely of executive advisers, general managers, regional managers and branch managers. Once in the vehicle he examined himself in the rear-view, first probing his ever thinning dyed-black Caesar cut, then grimacing at the mirror: either checking his teeth, or the situation of wrinkles around his smile. Then, glancing the dash clock - 3: 20 - he started the engine and pulled away a good two hours earlier than usual, it was half-day Friday see.

Our man made his usual way home out of St. Ives, eastward to the village of Bluntisham. However, when he reached the third round-a-bout of his trip, instead of heading straight over he took a right, the third exit, sign posted: A14 Cambridge. The A14, an infamously substandard dual-carriage, was as usual, filled with lagging traffic, potholes and hordes of lorry drivers making their way southward from Felixstowe ports. Without a moment to loose - or a minute to live - the grey Audi sped down the entrance-slip to merge with the dual-carriageway, though on meeting the road it rather more barged its way on than merged, even forcing a China Shipping lorry into the far lane to make room: a rare spectacle. Once on, he made for the right lane - the fast lane - and without hesitation slammed his foot on the accelerator: 45?60?70?75? panned the speedometer's needle as he roared away.

After a short stint of erratic and potentially dangerous driving our man, seeing the alluring golden 'M' sported by most services these days, made for his exit, switching to the left lane. However, no thanks to his hasty driving, he was too late to safely pull off: already half way past the exit slip and overtaking someone on it. '****!' he cursed to himself, thoughtlessly breaking as he attempted a well overdue manoeuvre? 'If I can just?' - he sharply jerked onto the exit-slip, nipping in behind a rather startled Ford Escort. '****! ****! ****!' it was back to cussing as he felt the back wheels slide out from under the car as he tried to regain control and straighten-up for the rapidly approaching, 90? end-turn! However, it was too late. The corner was on top of him. He had little choice. He rode it out at the unprecedented speed of 55mph, Audi screeching wildly as he did. Well, it was either that, or not ride it out and career straight off the end and back onto the A14? at an unprecedented speed of 55mph.

Somehow holding its composure the Audi hurtled out the other side only to be met with a busy round-a-bout. Luckily the prior turning had sapped most the cars momentum and our man was able to bring it to a halt, albeit a few feet over the give-way line. Granted a few moments respite he checked his rear-view, in which I hope it was his horror to see the elderly, female driver he had nearly executed on the exit-slip with tears of fear rolling down her aged, wrinkled face. She too had to slam her breaks on when the Audio A6 suddenly swung out in front of her onto the exit slip, and in doing to she had caused the driver behind her to shunt the rear of her car. This had unsteadied her driving enough to panic her, causing the OAP to over steer, left then right then left again. She regained control, somehow, but was beyond herself with shock, fear and panic. She made it round the end-turning, but let the car gently slow out of fear of using the accelerator. She stopped arbitrarily, as her cars momentum failed just behind our man as he waited, patiently this time, for a gap on the round-a-bout. One came, and he gingerly took it, watching the distance between him and her increase as he made his way around and then over the round-a-bout, into the services' car park.

Following a little support, mostly in the form of aggravated horn blowing from the driver who'd knocked her and now caught up, the old lady eventually made her way into the car park. There she sat within eye shot of the Audi, across two spaces with her engine still running as she stared at the steering wheel. Apparently the gentleman who hit her had taken the opportunity to avoid incurring any insurance related expenses and made his leave.

Knowing full well that the elder would not approach him; that the car behind her didn't have time to see; and that anybody who witnessed what happened from the dual-carriage way was long gone, he exited the Audi and made his way, with an ego-repairing swagger, to the rotating front doors. Looking back before he entered, he glanced the little old lady who still hadn't left her vehicle, only to avert his gaze as she looked up at him hauntingly from across the way. Blaming her senility under his breath for the whole ordeal, he stormed inside the services, not realising that was the last time she would dare drive.


[RIGHT]Cambridge Services, A14 Cambridge: 3:48pm[/RIGHT]



Inside, a circuit of fast food purveyors lined the outside of the rounded building, encircling the dining area which was currently full of empty tables, some ill-attended bins and just a few customers. Given the time of day, most of the people here were either, as he was, on their way home from work after a half day Friday or not at work in general. The layout of the services inspired his ego, as it always did, to walk clockwise past all the eateries he deemed greasy or cheap to reach La Petit Four, which, had he turned anti-clockwise, would have been no more than a pace or two away. Regardless, he made his round and passing a MacDonalds first, sniffed the air. 'Urgh' he sounded to himself while scoping out what foul vermin sat nearest this food stall: a pair of students quietly tucking into burgers. He winced at the sight and carried on. Next was the KFC. On passing he, again, sniffed the air, a reminder of the scent of the obscene. 'Blurgh' he grumbled, turning his head from the aroma, crunching his eyes closed, and sticking his tongue out. Lastly, was a Pizza Hut Express, which in all truth featured a menu many times healthier and fresher than that of his beloved La Petit Four. But in ignorance he strolled past, feigning interest in the large back-lit menu above the serving counter, just so he could observe the adolescent scum standing their, gormless as always, awaiting the sort of people he imagined would eat here. As it were he had not yet bared witness to any customers, but the staff's appearance was enough for him. Judgment made, he moved onwards to his purveyor of choice.

La Petit Four was somewhat segregated from the rest of the services by a four foot high wooden partition which doubled as a high table. Our man approached and looked intently at the staff and table layout. He watched one waitress in particular, a young blonde, noted which tables she was tending and then, once confident he had sussed her work assignment, tentatively seated himself at table five. However, not averting his gaze from the waitress, he let his weight settle on the plastic chair too close to one edge, off-setting his centre of gravity. It shunted under him ever so slightly, centering itself and letting out a shrill 'screech' against the laminate flooring. The blonde pivoted accusingly, revealing two rather enchanting hazel eyes.
'Stan! Di'nt see ya there. You're running a little late aren't ya?' she started, her voice slightly raised as she finished clearing a table over the way. 'I bin bored out ma' mind', she exaggerated with her back to Stan as she wiped up the remnants of a packet of crisps. Ain't bin nothink but old fogies in 'ere all day.' Stan smiled.
'No change here then' He half joked: self pity had always worked with this one.
'Don't be silly. I need a good conversation'ist and besides-
'Dea!' Bellowed a husky female voice from the inside the kitchen somewhere. With a look of confused suspicion, Dea darted off to the kitchen without finishing her sentence.

She was too young, only about sixteen. Well spoken, that is well enunciated: she articulated her T's and S's with class. It was just that, said T's and S's tended to fall at the end of the wrong words. Regardless, she was beautiful, had the soft delicate complexion only found on girls her age and she cheered our man Stan up mightily.

Bursting into the kitchen Dea waved an accusing finger at the jolly-looking woman sweating away behind the grills and hobs: 'What?! There's no one ere: I just cleared the last table then Stan came in.'
'Ah so you're on first name terms then?' commented the Chef knowingly.
'What? Stan? His firs' name? ? so what?' snapped Dea, undoubtedly thrown by the terminology.
'He's been here every Friday scoping out your tables, and no doubt you. He's a clear twenty years older than yourself and -'
'Please Chef Marsha, dunt start, I know. He comes here after work Fridays, big deal! And so what if we have a chat?' Marsha, the chef, and apparently surrogate mother to the staff, ignored the mild insubordination and opened her mouth to labour her point, but Dea was half way out the kitchen.
'Dea?' tested Marsha in a tone not unlike that used to caution a mischievous pet before it gets into trouble.
'What?'
'You wouldn't leave the premises, would you?' Dea rolled her eyes and stepped back in the kitchen. She re-approached Chef Marsha, a large, crude but compassionate enough woman, and offered a kiss to her rosy veined cheek: pouting and leaning-in, but not touching. Marsha smiled, tipping her head towards so her cheek pressed up against Dea's over-glossed lips; accepting the kiss. 'I'm not'un idyot Marsha' she comforted with her head cocked to one side trying not to giggle; daring Marsha to have the last word.
But she only got an authoritative: 'Go on then, get.'

Stan quietly waited in the meantime, checking his wrist watch once or twice: 4:09pm, enjoying his sanctuary. It must have been about two years now since ApTech implemented half day Fridays, a sort of all year bonus awarded to the staff for keeping sick days low and punctuality high. The first few weeks they were all so excited, rushing off home or to bars as soon as that clock hit 3:00, now he was the only one left. Everyone else had started using the time to catch up for Monday, probably chasing some other potential bonus: that was, broadly speaking, how most executive types operated. Anyway, those first few weeks Stan refrained from telling his wife he'd be home early. A couple of times he went to a bar with the Desmond and Si from ApTech, a couple of times he just came here, to the Cambridge services, and stood outside having a cigarette before downing some coffee, washing his hands of the telling stench and making for home. Either way, he was now used to these two hours every Friday afternoon and would give anything to protect their secrecy, especially now he had befriended Dea. She was too young, too na?ve & his wife would castrate him if she saw him eye-balling her like he did. And that's why he came, for two hours in generic-living-limbo; two hours of respite and childish games.

Dea returned with a coffee for Stan and perched next to him, sucking on an Appletizer. They chatted for much longer on this occasion, broaching subjects like why Dea's friends might have stopped talking to her; whether or not Dea should change the colour of her hair; and when would Dea be old enough to test smoking in front her parents without risking her life. And no doubt they would have continued long into the afternoon had not Chef Marsha intervened yet again: 'Dea!'
'Stan sorry, I def'netly got to go now.'
'Alright sweetheart. Enjoy your weekend, aye?'. She nodded and considered giving Stan a peck on the cheek before-
'DEA! Last time!'

Once all was calm Stan left his seat at table five and headed for the toilets towards the rear of the complex, completely oblivious to how infatuated with him Dea was becoming. He had no idea as to the level of teenage gossip his name was subjected to. Sometimes he was a fifty year old widower type with too much money and too little company who brought Dea expensive gifts of gold and jewels. Sometimes he was dashing thirty year old driving a Ferrari: mature, good looking, smooth talking. And in the farthest reaches of the school yard he was known as a convicted sexual offender, stalking Dea, his next victim every week, trying to extract some vital information before he tracked her down and abducted her. Granted this was mostly jealous boy-talk - Dea was rather attractive - but it was just as readily circulated as any other gossip? if only he knew. Well, blissfully unaware of the slander, he glanced his wrist watch - 4:48! He had no chance he was going to be late. He needed something, a prop, a reason to detour? 'err.. um..' A newspaper! The evening standard, there's bound to be something in there. He snatched the copy the door-side vendor was waving as he reeled of the headlines, advertising his wares, and made his exit.

Dizzily Stan was launched from the rotating doors which he had hit with a little too much speed, forcing him self to do a couple of extra circuits before he could actually fathom trying to jump out. His vision dancing somewhat he tried to scope out his car but first his gaze fell on the old lady's? but no old lady. Struggling with his conscious he pondered: It was possible that she had been offered a lift home, presumably by the slow-witted fellow who'd shunted her? or maybe she had been taken to the hospital? No no no. Stan banished the thought from his mind and made for his transport, only to find the left side keyed from nose to bumper: a single scratch the length of his vehicle. Standing with disbelief, palms questioningly open to the skies he frowned - '**** it!' Almost ripping the door off its hinges he threw himself into the driver's seat. And then, revving the engine in frustration, he wheel-span away, accelerating over the car park toward the dual-carriageway: 45?60?70?75? panned the speedometer's needle.


[RIGHT]Home, Bluntisham Village: 5:12pm[/RIGHT]



As he sped into the village Stan felt his heart palpitating, he lived on the high street and could see his house from here, his green garage door open and his wife rummaging through a box of recycling for tomorrow's pick-up. Killing his speed he approached then pulled up on the drive and turned off the engine. He exited the vehicle with a flop sweat developing, evening standard under his arm and stammer. 'D- d- dear, forgive my lateness. I, err,' he swallowed hard ',just had to go grab a copy of this.' He waved the paper at her like a dog, but she was disinterested and went back to rummaging. Was she angry? Stan thought. Did she know? He thought it wise to continue 'till he knew better. 'Err, there was something you just have to see, D- D- Desmond showed me today? while on lunch? love?'
'Yes, I'm listening. So...?
'So what dear?'
'So what must I see?
'Oh, yes! The paper. Well?' He frantically leafed through the pages: News wouldn't do, she'd know that already and she knew he didn't care about it. He found the personals nearer the back. Yes! They'd do, lots of interesting characters there, perhaps a name he could feign recognising? Nothing!
'O' it's in here somewhere dear,' he stalled. Advertisements? He scanned the page, something he could suggest buying or selling?! Maybe something he thought she would -
'That'll do it!' He triumphantly pondered, regaining enough confidence to add a dramatic pause before rotating the paper so his wife could see.

She finally ceased rummaging and stood to face her husband, who was now excitedly tapping the paper, just bellow a ? page advert which read:


[CENTER]Free To Good Home: One Slave


Contract Subject to Food, Lodging & Sleep (Or Nearest Offer.)


Collection Only: The Allotments, Lot 3b, Hill Rise, St. Ives, The Blue & Gold Shed.[/CENTER]


'Well' started Diane, the wife, 'If you're sure?' she raised a curious eye brow.
Stan was thrown now, did she seriously consider? Had he over done it with paper tapping? Would he be risking Friday afternoons if he backpedalled now? Yes, Fridays meant too much, he thought, best to stick to his guns - 'O' I'm sure dear, just the thing we need. I mean it's obviously a maid or butler of some sort trying to get a little attention through creative advertising, all the rage in our marketing department. You know, throw a little mystique out there with the ad, a little smoke and mirrors to keep the punters guessing. 'O' yes, s'all fine my love; s'all fine.'
'If you say so Stewart? but the address? He can't really be living on allotment plots can he? I mean isn't that illegal?'
'S'all fine love? I err? err ? had Desmond check it out, a little creative advertising s'all. He got me the real address off the newspaper's editor, somewhere down Earith way I think it was.'
'Well, Stewart.' She proclaimed resolutely. 'You're always thinking of me aren't you?'
What! This couldn't be good, thought Sta- Stewart. But before he could intervene-
'Just last week I was dropping hints about getting back on the road and doing a few more driving lessons, you know get some extra cash. Now I'll have more than enough hours in the day with a maid!' She looked fit to burst with excitement and pride: she had been a house wife too long.
'Or butler' corrected Stewart, hoping she might change her mind?
'What? O' yeh. Well either way it doesn't matter, I'll get an ad put out tomorrow morning: Diane's Driving School' she proposed with jazz fingers, beaming at such a considerate and attentive husband.
'I think that'll do just fine dear, I'll put word out and get Desmond to run one in Corporate Quarterly.'
'Bless you. And thank you, it means a lot, Stewart.' They exchanged smiles for a moment before -
'Well? Off you go then before some one else snaps 'em up. Earith didn't you say?'
'B- b- but love'
'I'll have dinner done by the time you get back; I got to get these newspapers ready for tomorrow's pick-up anyway? I'll be about thirty minutes, you've got plenty of time.'

Saving his breath Stewart got straight back in his Audi and cautiously, this time, headed for St. Ives allotments; plot 3b. God knows what sick prank this is, he pondered, or maybe a police sting? Was that even plausible?.. Either way, he felt like he had little choice in the matter and simply hoped for the best. Who knows maybe there would be a free slave awaiting him, or at least a costless one.