Darlington

Looking out of the plexiglass widow of the planes interior. Tapping it like a child.
Ants.
Simcity.
Gorgeous.
Frankie flicked the ipod back on in a vain attempt to ignore his team leader. "Superstition" blared in a blast of funk as he focused on the sea of cloud. They sailed in it for 45.

The landing was anything but smooth. Everyone felt the jolt and looked dissaprovingly at Frankie as he laughed heartily, saying "Ryanair dont use wheels, the stewards have to drop down and run". In his mind, at that moment, it was the funniest thing he had ever heard. Airport in and up-north accents. Others lead, he followed. Rent-a-car and back seat, half joining in and craving a smoke. Spotting the redbricked misery of it all, kids growing up to work in factories, primed by the smoke stacks and the tenthousanth round-about. Poor fuckers, Frankie thought, poor hopeless fuckers.

The hotel was found after an hour of bad turns and, with the exception of Frank, a unanimous refusal to ask somebody where the fuck it was. They checked in, the four of them, laughing. Frankie forcing it and hoping it went unnoticed. He guessed it did, they were probably forcing it too. Plans were made on his behalf, meal time set. Enforced bonding, jesus.
Keycard.
Roomed.
Showered.
Orientating himself and flicking idly through the tv channels, he sat naked on the kingsize. Smoking and smoking and smoking.

The meal was passable, nice even. Warm enough to make him forget. Jeff joked. They all laughed. It felt Ok, and a bit of him died. The paddy contingent did what paddy contingents do, drank. It felt acceptable, the thing to do. We. Are. Bonding. Stories exchanged and interest aroused, no mean feat. Frank settled in to liking them, for now. We'll see, he thought.

Jeff and Susan talked abouth their kids, their spouses, their off-peak interests. The team leader, the youngest there, listened, took mental notes, appraised them all. They got as drunk as they could manage. Frank had to wait till they got tired, suggested sleep, and nodded as if he hadn't been thinking about it.

The morning set the curve. Torturous. Dragging himself into a shower which looked like something designed for dirty weekends, Frank shook off the cobwebs, made coffee with the little pot without enough time to drink it. Breakfast was buffet style. An Englishman always serves himself at breakfast. Fuck you, youre getting paid for this, I want waited on, the grump in him demanded. The jokes started early morning, Jeff was always on, looking for something, something like love.

The place was found in time, due in part to a late night adventure throughout which Frankie had to pee, and pretend it was fine as they lingered and u-turned and missed the hotel. The Grey suit he wore made him feel important, but not that important. They sat, semi-circular, and stared at each other, all fifteen. Bob the trainer set up and began, he reminded Frank of an uncle he hated. The spiel was spouting and the reality of the situation hit everyone, we sell kitchens, its what we do with our lives, we are the biggest losers in the world. The "theory" class continued, mercifully with regular breaks. They all winged it til lunch, then winged it some more. Frankie thought he would die there, in a training room in Darlington, surrounded by industrial noise, industrial lives.

The contingent agreed they all needed a rest, but when the foyet was reached frank had to pee, again, and the speed with which he ran into the bar enthused the others. He returned refreshed to see them ordering drinks, nobody wants to be sober in a place like this.
He wanted to spark up, the luxury of indoor smoking was there. He saw the way they looked at him, how they casually talked asthmatic sisters and cancer victims, passive smoking is the Real killer. Fuck them, Frank thought and went outside. It made him homesick and he felt lonely, standing there, regular patrons looking at him like he was insane. "Smoking outside" they would guffaw, "how utterly preposterous!". He dragged the last and had to return inside to stub it out.

Dinner, more drink, more jokes. It was easier to laugh after a while. They all felt it. No harm was meant. Team leader talked of the team, how they would have great craic in-store, like anyone fucking cares thought Frank, till he saw the nodding faces of the others and had to join in for fear of pitchforking. The bar closed early, Jeff and Susan slipped out to the garage to get wine. Team leader and Frank talked about how funny the other two were, avoiding any real conversation. They didnt come back, the other two, and a few drinks on sleep was suggested out of suspicion.

Teamleader was canny, a canny,canny guy. He knocked on Susans door. Inside they were drinking, falling over, laughing hysterically, too close to each other. Jeff handed them the wine and they went off to teamleaders room to drink it. "Nice one. Geezer. And thats as far as the conversation went." Teamleader poured and talked to Frank about his failed relationship, joking about hookers. Frankie tolerated the conversation till the wine was gone, said his goodnights and thought about his life.

Day two was practical, so sat better with the wearyheads. Guided drawing and explanations. "You can all design kitchens now" Bob said as they were leaving, meaning everyone except the Asian kids he subtly belittled could design kitchens, and they all knew it. That evening blended. Dinner didnt raise any complaints and some light mingling with the other eleven took place. Bed time was earlier, Frankie thanked fuck.

The drive in for wrap day depressed him, and he longed so much for home. Lollypop ladies rushed kids on, the takeaways sold parmesan, everything looked grim as the redbrick merged. The cracks were beginning to show in everyones happy faces and Frank felt horribly uncomfortable. They got it over and done with and the paddys won the prize. Wine. Jesus Christ!

The last night was messy and the following morning worse. He smelled the guilt from Jeff and Susan. They fucked and phoned their kids. Silence till the airport. Silence there. The superteam stood side-by-side with a failed football squad at the check in desk. Frank thought that was probably symbolic. The politeness left the building and mp3 players were switched on, as the plane was boarded for the return. Frankie shot into the window seat once more, took up his tapping position. The attendants attended, barely. He looked at the clouds. Thought of himself running on them, fast-tracking it to his own bed. "If only I had superpowers" he mumbled, "I wouldnt have to sell kitchens".