The Traffic Warden

Miniature diamonds glistening in the street lamps aura. Cascading over the already dark tarmac, making it glummer. Appropriate for the night that has been cast upon Ethan. As the crystals relentlessly hound the pavement, constructing their own riverways, one stream appears unique against all the others. You would believe it was Sierra Leone with all the blood congealing and diluting into the liquid jewels running into the drains abyss.

Drip. Drip. Drip

The next-door neighbour’s leaky guttering causes raindrops to strike the tin of the shanty building below. Sounding like the Chinese form of torture, it wakes a drowsy traffic warden who wasn't scheduled to be conscious for another four hours. Even though he has heavy eyes chaperoned by gravity, he fights the urge to return to another slumber. As his thoughts catch up with him, he considers the idea of pushups to compensate for the early awakening. This is out of character for the elongated, shy-framed man, but with divorce and hefty court fees looming over his head, the down on his luck warden entertains the unusual thought. He slinks into the pushup position.

“unfamiliar territory” He thinks.

One… Average start.

Two… Arms start to tremble like a coward's legs in a duel.

Three… Triceps are now burning hotter than a crematorium’s furnace.

Four… Just achieved.

Five… Never arrives.

His feeble body shakes pathetically.

“You’re a worthless man. No wonder she left you” riddles his mind.

Kneeling on the floor his head beads with sweat.

Drip. Drip. Drip

He collects himself and stumbles south of his creaky two-up, two-down in the less desired part of town and proceeds with the earlier than normal morning routine. As the kettle boils, he prepares himself for the finest Columbian coffee bean to take over his body. This stuff was for a manor, not his exhausted palace.

As the coffee trickles down his throat and the caffeine enters his bloodstream, he gets a 400amp shock running through his veins. “This must be how a new car feels” He said.

With his newfound energy, he turns bread into toast and at record pace ushers the butter around more smoothly than a curler does to a stone.

The toast is quickly dismembered and hits the target. As the crumbs plummet and bounce off the plate, landing near the radio, he turns it on and tunes into ROCK-ET FM, hoping to prolong the buzz.

‘Steve Miller Band - Take the money and run’ is playing.

“Some of the cleanest sounding drums going” he thinks and starts to sing the chorus. “Hoo-hoo-hoo”

Hooing his way to the shower.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Ascending waterfalls lead up the windscreen only to be met with the sweep of the window wipers that quickly disperse the water along the glasses edge.

Beginning to come down off of the Columbian, the traffic warden is envious that his morose thoughts aren't as easy to move and displace.

The idiot on the 96.2 radio wasn't helping either by stating the next 24 hours will be full of rain, especially toward the latter part of the evening.

“Gloom!” Thought the warden.

“Typical,” He said.

“If only tropical” He smirked, causing the cheek to crease his eye.

This was a short-lived dopamine hit. He switched over the radio to hear ‘King Tubby - Stealing Stealing’. Playing.

Drawing closer to his destination his mind began to ponder.

“Why does, bed. Written down, Look like an actual bed?”

“How will I cope today with only 4 hours sleep and an unpleasant job?”

“What’s the longest anyone’s ev..” An automatic abrupt “turn left, we are here” entered his mind.

He pulls into the car park and sees his favourite spot is vacant.

“Hmm, maybe I’ll have some luck today. Would be a nice change” he murmurs making one of his eyes crease again.

Once his eye returns to its natural shape, the car is parked.

He searches for his hat and coat, then rummages in the glove box for his trusted quill and little black book. The union of these components equates to what a traffic warden needs in his arsenal to stalk, hunt and fine ticket dodging, illegal parking maniacs.

07:30 punches in.

The day starts, again.

A wet, mediocre Tuesday morning made the warden reminisce on last Tuesday's antics when an ambulance pummeled into the back of a stubborn rover on the highstreet. “If only today was to be as exciting” He thinks.

A few more hours pass and as he is patrolling the side street like a proud sentry in the rain, he observes a pink bit of paper politely folded and encased in a transparent protective shell. Upon closer investigation, he realises its a drivers licence.

The owner of said papers lives in a plush part of town that he's beat a couple of times before.

“I shall return this to you Ethan” he thought as he slid the damp paper back into its chamber. Not normally one for good karma or gestures (probably why she left him) today felt different.

With the shift’s end only round the corner, the traffic warden makes his way to the car.

Punched out 17:00.

Now back in the car with his trusted tools in the rightful spots and glad to get his bulky wet coat off his shoulders - he looks quite a presentable man.

The car is put in reverse and makes a clunky retreat. “ Time to find Ethan's house” He thinks aloud.

Hearing the same idiot but with a different voice repeat the weather report on the radio, he changes channel only for his ears to prick up when he hears ‘pet shop boys - opportunities’. He smiles but soon gets annoyed once he remembers that SHE used to listen to this and changes the channel again to the trusted, ROCK-ET FM. ‘Ocean Colour Scene - Riverboat song’ comes bellowing out from the speakers. With both eyes creased, the traffic warden belts out in harmony with Steve Fowler.

“Anyway for alllll the thingss you said, tell me why doesss the riiiver run red”. Goosebumps as he's never nailed a line like that before. He wonders what ‘the river runs red’ means.

A couple more songs pass by and the traffic warden is only moments from the grand street where Ethan’s 32 resides. As he struggles to locate the house, a big white-fronted domain catches his attention and it so happens to be 32. “Now this is the house fit for my coffee” He chuckled.

All the houses had lights illuminating the buildings but not all of the walkways leading up to them. The warden wasn't phased by this as most of his street was dark, even on a clear night. He pulls up and exits the banger with the aim of posting the documents. He homes in on the letterbox.

When nearing the door he briefly enters a shady dip out of the lights reach and BANG! He is suddenly greeted with a 4 knuckle sucker punch to the east flank of his nose. He falls at the same speed as the rain but pelts the pavement with a bone-crunching velocity , his eyes close whilst dazed and confused.

Distant footsteps become clearer and another BANG! He's struck with more force than before, straight into the eye creaser.

Face pulsating and nose now showering the path with blood. He clambers back towards the street in preparation for another punch but just like the fifth push up, thankfully, it never arrives. He hears the footsteps departing accompanied by a grainy voice “FUCK YOU ETHAN, we don’t want it and leave us the fuck alone. You horrible prick”.

‘I think you have the wrong Ethan’ The traffic warden said faintly, trying to bring himself together.

Equilibrium now aligned, his arm and hand bend to meet his nose as blood slithers down his face into the curb’s valley beneath. He managed to stand up even though he was punched harder than 07:30. He gazed back at the house, seeing there was a mysterious briefcase poorly hidden near the door. “I can't remember that being there,” He said. Noticing it has a note attached that’s only getting wetter and wetter. Being the curious type, he inspects it.

He reads the etchings on the paper only to find it was the same thing the weighty ghost who struck him said, but with a little extra.

WE DON'T WANT THE MONEY

YOU HORRIBLE MAN

IF I SEE YOU AGAIN ILL KILL YA!

As he reads this, the only thing he can think of is the ‘Steve Miller Band’ song.