My very first job was at a bakery on the outskirts of the city, not a little artisan patisserie but a massive industrial edifice that was organised like a military operation. Three o'clock in the morning I had to wake up and catch a bus, along with a handful of other ghostly figures going to their own ghastly employments; the journey took a long, meandering tour through every minor suburb you've never heard of before delivering me to Harringtons (I know, I told them at the job interview that Harringtons ought to have an apostrophe but that still didn't put them off me). As I stepped off the bus at this god-forsaken time it was only me and the urban foxes who were going about our business.
Once inside the high fences crowned with razor-wire, I'd join the elite band of bleary-eyed zombies trudging reluctantly to one of a dozen squat, ugly buildings. My reluctant labour was to clean and then sort bread tins. Scrub them, rinse them, air-blast them, stack them and repeat. For eight hours. For fifty years. Then retire and die. One guy had been there for fifteen years, scrubbing, rinsing, drying and stacking and I'm convinced he'd been driven certifiably mad.
When the opportunity came to apply for a job in deliveries I jumped at it like a hungry lioness. For the interview I subdued my sarcasm to such a degree that they actually believed I enjoyed working at Harringtons, that delivering Harringtons' baked goods would be a young girl's dream come true, that I'd proudly serve up Harringtons' wonderful products to bring joy to the world. Oh thank you for this opportunity, sir, I won't let you down, sir. Shall I bow down and kiss your shoes now, sir?
Next monday I woke up at six (blissful six, magnificent six) and dragged my ass down to the bakery for a seven o'clock start. I was directed to the outgoing depot, had a chat with a condescending prick who was my new manager and was then directed to a van. I stood outside this empty van for ten minutes until a woman walked past, pushing a huge trolley loaded with loaves, and told me that 'Larry was over behind the shed'. I walked over to the small building she'd gestured to and found a bunch of lounging drivers, using old broken crates as make-shift chairs, smoking and drinking coffee.
"Um, Larry?" I asked the congregation of skivers.
I felt very self-conscious as ten pairs of eyes all looked up to scrutinise the idiot who'd dared interrupt their recreation. After the toned-down version of myself I had presented at my job interview I had now reasserted my full goth: knee-high black (New Rock) boots, black laddered pantyhose, layered black lace skirts and band patches sewn on my jacket. My face was powdered pale, my eyes were shadowed as dark as a skeleton's and my lips were painted in blueberry purple lipstick. I felt their eyes burning into me. I couldn't have looked more out of place if I'd had three heads and a tail.
A man stood up from a game of checkers and ambled over to me. He looked me over very blatantly and then smiled. He was tall, fit and wrinkled in a 'I climb Himalayan mountains at the weekend' kinda way. I was too young to accurately guess his age (everyone over thirty just slotted into the 'ancient' category) but, thinking back, I'd put him in his late-sixties. He had an open, friendly face and, despite my practised sour-faced gothness, I found myself returning his smile.
"I'm Jinny," I said and held out my hand.
"Loaded the van?" he asked, gently shaking my hand.
"Oh, I, er, no-one's shown me what to do."
"Course they haven't. Useless twats. C'mon."
He waved goodbye to his buddies, lead me across the courtyard that was filled with the hustle-bustle of trolleys whizzing about and began my first lesson in how to get away with doing as little as feasibly possible.
*******
I immediately took to Larry, his easy-going, work-shy attitude suited my own don't-give-a-shit-ness. We drove through the city, dropping off various orders, big and small. Once he'd shown me what to do, he stuck to the driving and let me do all the donkey-work. On a long drive out to a rural store, he questioned my gothic style, asking what I eat, drank, watched and listened to. He was cheeky and flirtatious.
"Those ladders in your hose," he said, out of the blue, "Are they real or an affectation to draw lecherous old men's eyes up your perfect legs?"
I blushed and tugged down my layered skirts over my thighs. I was blushing because he'd caught me out. All my nylon tears had been carefully designed with a surgeon's precision. He flashed me a cheeky smile and I returned it. He was an ageing Lothario and he was very charming. Boys my age were either dumb-ass arrogant or painfully shy, both ends of the spectrum completely inept at making me feel like the gloriously sexual woman I was becoming (or longing to become, given half a chance); they'd barely advanced beyond pulling my pig-tails in the playground and yet here was a confident, experienced, masculine figure complimenting my legs. It was alarmingly enjoyable to be under his libidinous gaze.
Mondays were always busy, he told me, but the rest of the week shouldn't be so hard. I was relieved to hear this, by the late afternoon I'd walked for miles seemingly and my poor feet were aching. I unbuckled my chogger goth-boots and leaned back in the passenger seat to put my burning feet up on the dash.
"You don't mind, do you?" I said, wiggling my nylon-clad sweaty tootsies.
"Not at all," he grinned and then sniffed audibly, "I thought for a minute there I'd left one of my cheese sandwiches out in the sun."
I chuckled and closed my eyes. After all those early mornings, I hadn't yet adjusted to my new schedule. I conked out. When a bump woke me I realised I still had one foot up on the dash but the other had dropped, leaving my legs spread wide open. I was flashing my pantyhose gusset at my new colleague. I sat up, adjusting my clothes in a semblance of decency, to notice that we were pulling into the Harringtons depot.
"Shit," I said, worried, "I must've dozed off for minute."
"More like an hour," Larry grinned, "Don't fret, I know it's hard coming off the graveyard shift back to daylight hours. Though you vampires probably prefer the night, don'tcha?"
"You won't tell the manager will you?"
Larry gave me a dirty look, as if I'd somehow insulted him.
"Of course not," he said, "We're partners ain't we? Anyhow it gave me an excuse to take a leisurely look up your skirt while you were asleep."
"Larry!"
"Only joking, only kidding."
"Oh. Good."
"There's no possible way I could know, for example, that goths don't wear panties under their hose."
"Larry!"
"And I'm pleased to note that young ladies are once again favouring the full bush."
"Larry!"
I punched his arm while he laughed at my reaction. He reversed into his allocated spot like an expert then showed me how to stack the empty crates up high and where to wheel the teetering tower. We swept out the van and were finally done for the day.
"Well, see ya tomorrow, kid, when we'll do it all again."
He went to walk off but I caught his sleeve.
"Larry? Um, you'll probably want to tell all your buddies about me embarrassing myself, falling asleep and showing you my... crotch and everything, but I'd rather you didn't."
I could see I was asking him to ditch a very entertaining story, the dilemma was writ across his features. In the end, he decided to be as lovely as his face.
"No, I won't. If you don't want me to."
"I don't wanna be laughed at."
"No, sure, it'll be our secret. My own private, treasured memory."
"Thank you, Larry."
I leaned in and kissed his cheek. I smiled at him through my awkward relief and went to catch my bus.
*******
That night I had some extremely erotic dreams about this man more than forty years my senior. When I woke I couldn't recall the details except one vivid image of me on my knees while he towered over me, I was using both my hands on his huge, angry, red cock and licking the textured head until I was showered by rope after rope of thick glutenous sperm. I was a little freaked out by my involuntary fantasies so the next morning I dressed down and ditched the lacy skirts in favour of a tee-shirt and a pair of jeans over my tights.
At work I loaded up the van with the day's deliveries then dragged Larry away from another unfinished game of checkers behind 'the shed'. He looked disappointed at my effort.
"Did I do something wrong?" I asked, surveying the crates crammed with bread-type-stuff I had just stacked.
"Oh, no, you did a good job. It's all secure. Well done."
"What is it then?"
"Weeellll... I was looking forward to spending a large part of my day gawping at your fine legs in sexy nylons, but..."
He frowned down at my jeans. I nudged him playfully with my elbow.
"I'm still wearing nylons, see, they're underneath."
I pointed to a few punk-rock holes in the denim.
