From up here, my problems feel a million miles away. I’m not homeless, jobless, andalone. I’m just Corey, a guy who had a rough start, but who’s always been fascinated and enamoured with the idea of how each new day gives us an opportunity to change our lives. As the sky turns a dusky pink, bringing the dawn with it, I stand and lean my elbows on the wall to watch.
I’ve always been a positive person, keen to see the glass half full rather than empty, and I always try to see the best in people and give them the benefit of the doubt. But I’ve also always been an overthinker. Someone whose brain gets very loud, very quickly when I feel lost or as though I’m not in control of a situation. A chronic people-pleaser who has come unstuck and been hurt as a result more than once in my life. I can only assume it’s a side effect of growing up with overbearing parents who took everything from me, not once, but twice, so now any feeling of a lack of control over my own fate leaves me with something of an exaggerated doomsday thinking pattern.
Jesus Christ, a freezing cold night of no sleep and too many memories has left me shaken, and I’m feeling adrift this morning. Reaching into my, admittedly progressively harder and harder to find, well of positivity, I make a decision. I am absolutely determined today is going to be the day I make somethinghappen to set me on a new path, one that will hopefully have a happy ending. Maybe I’ll find a job today or have a proper meal. Something. Anything to change the monotony of self-pity and loneliness shrouding me since I arrived in this city.
That’s not who I am.
I’m a positive person, goddammit, and I will make something good happen today.
I take a deep breath and relish the way the cold winter air blows the cobwebs away. I look out to the horizon, the view from my perch high above the city unhindered by the buildings below. I feel almost like I’m on top of the world.
Maybe I am.
A warm glow breaks the horizon, a smile creeping over my face as nostalgia over those pictures I used to paint fills my chest. I feel lighter, warmer, filled with all the possibilities this new day brings. Another deep breath expands my chest again, and the heaviness I’ve felt hanging over me since last night lifts.
The sun is rising.
One
Corey
Acouple of hours later, I’m walking along the towpath of the canal as it cuts through the city, desperately clinging onto the positivity that buoyed me on top of the cathedral tower earlier. I’ve asked in three cafés, five shops, and even Tourist Information if they needed any staff. I’m not fussy. I’ll do literally anything if it pays me an honest wage without requiring me to flaunt my body while hanging upside down on a pole, but, unfortunately, I’ve had no luck.
Everyone I spoke to was friendly and kind, if a little wary of me – no great surprise given the state of me, I guess – but nobody was hiring. Sensing an increasingly familiar rush ofworry and loss of control start to fill my head, I sit on a bench at the lock basin to try to get control of myself before I start to spiral.
A canal boat is chugging noisily out of the full lock, laboriously making its way up the long, slow hill, and I watch as the holidaymakers close the lock gates and clamber gingerly across to board the boat, before it continues up the canal. I watch them go, and when they round a bend so they’re no longer in sight, I turn back and take in the sights opposite me.
There are a few sprawling buildings, their red brick facades and myriad of windows hinting at their industrial past, like so many cities in the Midlands of the UK. One building bears a sign for a recruitment agency, another for an interior designer. The largest building in the centre proclaims to be Coventry’s biggest indoor antiques centre – I can believe it. The building is massive and even has an old water wheel attached to one side where it meets an offshoot of the canal.
One of the smaller buildings has a faded sign hanging over an arched doorway. ‘Fitness for All’, it reads. Another, smaller sign catches my attention, my stomach flipping in excitement. Could this be my one positive thing to come out of today? God, I hope so.
I make my way across the lock gates, gripping the rail tightly, my backpack secured on both shoulders to ensure I don’t drop it, or myself, in the canal. As I approach the gym, I see the sign is just an A4 piece of white paper. At least, I assume it used to be white. It’s now slightly discoloured, and the ink faded, an indication it’s been hanging there for a while. ‘Help Wanted: enquire within’. I grin as tentative hope takes root in my chest, and I push open the interior door to the dim space beyond.
A large reception counter dominates the lobby, and a young woman with blue hair, several ear piercings, and both arms covered in sleeve tattoos looks up as I enter. She beams at me, and looking at her pretty face, I see several delicate, floral tattoos framing her face as well as double nose piercings and a septum ring. She looks cool, if a little intimidating, but her smile is friendly, and her voice is bright and kind as she greets me.
“Hiya. Welcome to Fitness for All. I’m Emma. How can I help?” Emma’s smooth Scottish brogue rolls over me as she makes her way around the counter to stand in front of me. Her short height – even shorter than my own 5’ 6’’ – does nothing to diminish the shapeliness of her frame. Her slim waist is exposed by the blackcrop top she wears, her ample chest duly enhanced, and her black skinny jeans cut off just above grey woollen socks folded over the tops of her chunky Dr. Martens. I sigh internally, wishing I could carry off a look like that.
She bounces on her toes, arms swinging slightly before she clasps her hands in front of her in an effort to control the enthusiastic movement. The quiet clanging of metal plates echoing from the gym beyond the glass wall behind her desk suggests the only company she’s had all day has been too busy making mad gains to spend too long chatting.
“Oh, er, hi.” I tilt my head over my shoulder towards the front window. “I’m Corey. I was interested in the job, if it’s still available. May I have an application form, please?” My grandma would be proud of my proper grammar in this situation. She was an English teacher for years, and a total stickler for ‘may’ not ‘can’. If I asked, “Can I have a biscuit, please?” she’d reply, quick as a whip, “I don’t know, poppet, can you?” And the way she’d correct my lack of enunciation of the letter ‘t’ in words like ‘water’ and ‘butter’.
“Can you pass the bu’er, please, Gran?” I asked from my seat on her right at the table as I prepared my jacket potato. I was home from uni for the summer, and we were having one of ourfavourite dinners – jacket spuds with cheese and beans.
“The what?” she asked, with a sharp ‘t’ at the end of the word ‘what’.
With a sigh, I replied “the butter,” careful to enunciate correctly. Then, with a twinkle in her eye, she said, “That’s be’er,” completely ignoring her own rule.
God, I loved her. And missed her as though she’d only been gone two days, not almost two years.
The bittersweet thought is quickly wiped from my mind as I suddenly realise the sign may well have been left in the window by mistake, and there might not actually be a job available. I force down the negative thought before it can fully form, determined to stay positive and keep my smile aimed at Emma.
“Och amazing, John’ll be dead chuffed. JOHN!” I wince as she bellows the man’s name in a voice bigger than I would expect from such a small person. I raise my eyebrows at her in surprise, trying my hardest to keep my smile in place, despite knowing my face has never once in my life allowed me to hide my true thoughts. She grins impishly, absolutely zero fucks given. “He’s been after someone for ages. See, when heput that sign out, I told him he should’ve put an ad on IG too, but he wouldnae listen to lil ol’ me.”
“I’ll start listening to you when you speak at a reasonable volume.” The gruff voice from nowhere makes me jump, but it’s soon followed by a large man rounding the corner behind the reception counter and joining us in front of it. He’s about 6’ tall, and his biceps look as though they could still break open a melon, even if the rest of him has gone a bit soft around the edges. He clearly used to be extremely fit, but if the slight limp and stiffness he moves with are any indication, time hasn’t been kind to his body. “I’m John, the owner,” he says. “Can I help you?”
“Yeah, um, I was hoping to get an application form for the job advertised in the window, please?” My voice is pitched higher than it usually is, no doubt a result of my nerves and desperation. John looks at me silently for a long moment, his gaze quickly taking in my backpack, grubby clothes, and undeniably greasy hair. I haven’t been able to get into the leisure centre showers for a couple of days because the last time I did, the security guard found me and threatened me with the police if he caught me in there again. I’ve been doing the best I can with baby wipes and dry shampoo I bought in Poundland, but I know I look a mess. I feel John’sscrutiny in my bones and deflate.
“It’s OK, I get it. Thanks anyway.” I turn away, shoulders slumped in defeat, and go to leave, giving him an out so he doesn’t have to outright reject me. Thankfully, Emma is back behind the reception counter, so at least I can leave without an awkward, pitying smile. I chance a glance in her direction as I pass, only to notice her eyes glaring daggers at John. I catch her eye and give her a small frown and an imperceptible shake of my head. I don’t want her to get in trouble for defending me. I’m not worth losing her job over.
