"For christ sake Bob, you can't work at a catholic helpline and tell all your calls you worship the seven gods of the shire or that satan watches them bathe" yells the bossman, a bright red vein sticking out of his slimy pale skin.
"I don't care if its Finnelston the third, get out, you've had your fun" he roars trying not curse in front of the nuns. He pushes me out the office door, making sure to slam it in my smirking face.
I felt it grow the minute i corrected my name. It's not actually robert.
Thats the 8th job this month, i've been keeping track.
I stroll down the side walk until the lamp posts have earned themselves an easy light. I wish i could be a lamp post. At least they turn on, im joking.
I got my sarcasm from my father, i just dont know which one. The woman went through men like i do jobs. She used to call me sour, her sour little lemon. I didn't mind the name though. It gave me a feeling of belonging.
I turn in reaching a park, swaying along the gravel path. Eerily silent.
There is a reason to my sourness though. The school councillor blamed it on the lack of a set father figure in the household and a bad case of schizophrenia. Pumped up on meds, they thought i was fine. I wasn't.
Someone was fine though, my step dad. Schizo tablets did him rather well.
You see, titles, as i call them are people's future or past. Not royal ones. Storytelling titles. "The UnderDog", "A bad case of the Beans", "Spongebob gone wrong".
Trust me, I've seen them all.
And where do i see them?
No, not on billboards, music albums or trippie red's face. Above people's heads. Their own storyline. Mine's blank as of right now, my future unknown.
I sit on a bench, tonights bed then. Dont mind if i do.
Mummy dearest kicked me out the minute the leaving cert results came in. It wasn't the results she was mad at. Just my literal "sour" being.
Cassie was her shining star. Sweet dear little sister cassie. Dead at 14. Choked on a sweet little toffee. The nickname finally doing her justice.
My thoughts were interrupted for a moment when a girl sat next to me. A small young girl sitting on the cold steel bench next to me?
I dont look at her until she speaks.
"Care for a bonbon?".
I turn slowly. The pocket-sized ghost of a girl shakes out her bag of sweets once more gingerly. I shake my head as my eyes rise to read her story.
Let me guess. "Trys to steal money off homeless man by offering sweets" or "Sweet treat on a park bench" or maybe even "Killer bonbon girl". I'm telling you these writers of mine get creative.
"Don't bother it's not going to happen" she speaks again. But what about?
"No, no i meant what do you mean not going to happen?" I move my hands to ennunciate.
"My prompt". She replies in a duh tone. Her white hair flittering in the wind.
I look up at her title.
"World changer". I let out a low whistle at this one.
She scootches over to my side, putting each hand to her cheeks and squishing.
"I fit the part aye?" she says still smooshing her skin together.
My heart beat picks up as i hear clogs connect in my brain. Did she just- yes she did. She can see them too.
"You call them prompts?"
Its getting colder now, as the autumn leaf falls. She shivers in response.
"I call them titles". She nods her head and stands, reaching out her hand for me to take.
"Hello, my name is Mae, just Mae, like Cher or Rihanna" she pauses dismissing a thought "Youre oliver".
She's right, I am oliver.
"Any moment now, its on its way Oli" she titters gleefully from foot to foot.
"What do you mean on its way Mae, just Mae".
She smiles playfully, a dimple curving on the right side. My right side.
We hear a bing and as if on cue we look up together.
I have a title now.