This is the 2007 birth of Enrique. He didn’t have a surname back then, let alone about ten of them.
Enrique at Work is Such a Greaseball
You should see him, one day he was the guy behind the hot food counter putting cooked sausages and oven chips into polystyrene boxes and living in a garage, the next day he waltzes in wearing a white suit, alligator shoes and a white fedora hat and living in a garage. He looks like a total fucking dick. I hate everything about him. He’s also banging my sister.
He’s as greasy as a Jersey Wonder (a sort of deep fried cake). You put him in a paper bag and it’s going transparent. Most of the day I dream about dipping him in a bucket of Cilit Bang!
This morning it was quiet with just us two and Paula on. He struts up to me, leans back on the counter and goes, “hey, Piano Man,” all conspiratorial – that’s my nickname by the way, Piano Man, because I broke that piano – “Piano Man” he goes, “I go’ some goo’ shee’ for you, man. Chu wan’ it?”
He knows I’m not into drugs and he was trying to show me up in front of Paula. I smoked a spliff once, at a Spar training day, didn’t enjoy it at all, back of my head went heavy but Enrique is mental for drugs, he gets them delivered to the shop. He knows I know and he doesn’t give a fuck.
Somebody came in for their paper and Enrique didn’t flinch, just remained there, leaning on the counter, smoothing down his moustache. When the customer goes he says, “es preemo man, Colombya’s bes.”
Of course I tell him to go fuck himself.
“I forgo’ chu were such a leedle baby,” he says, standing straight, pulling on his lapels and moving his body around to position it correctly in his suit.
I tell him there’s nothing cool about drugs. He nods at this, seems to ponder it for a while then, in a flash, grabs Paula, pulls her close over the counter and gives her a frenchie. When he’s finished he asks me, “dat no cool?”
I tell him no but I’m lying, it actually was pretty fucking cool. I think about grabbing Paula but she reads my mind and shakes her head.
“Do eet!” He tells me and I think fuck it. Enrique’s such a dick he’ll go on about it forever. He’s stupid too. One day a rep for the peanuts brought a calendar in, Enrique claimed it as a perk and spent the day writing PAY RENT on all 52 Fridays. He does my head in.
“Where?” I ask him.
“Sin de toylit, ma’, you go doooo eet”
So I think I’ll go in and, I guess, pretend to snort it. He’s not expecting me to heat shit up on a spoon and inject it from silver foil, I’m hoping – with a tourniquet around my arm – I’d definitely Pulp Fiction it, and I’d get addicted. Nah, I’ll go in and pretend to snort it, leave some around my nostrils, flush the rest, come out and screw up my nose a lot and act like an asshole.
Enrique and Paula follow me to door of the staff area of the shop. He holds open the door, gives me an appreciative nod, a greasy one, with the sides of his mouth really down-turned.
I walk down the corridor and open the toilet door and of course! How hilarious! The fucking toilet is pebble-dashed to fuck. There’s some on the cistern. The cistern is an overhead one. I hear the two idiots laughing.