The traffic warden looked about twelve years old. He wore immaculately pressed trousers and a blue shirt with lapels and a badge of authority. He tapped away at an electronic pad.
Mr Hepplethwaite came out the convenience store with a couple of bottles of wine. His van was on yellow lines near a bus stop.
Mr. Hepplethwaite was having a bad day. His boss had gone broke putting him out of work for the third time in two years. He was too old to retrain and too young to retire; years of dead-end jobs lay ahead.
He seethed as the child swiped the screen and lectured him about safety and courtesy to other road users. Mr. Hepplethwaite resisted the urge to slap his face. He reminded the old man of the prefects at school. He often slept uneasily when memories from forty years ago resurfaced.
In a different era, the boy warden would have been in the Hitler Youth, Mr. Hepplethwaite fumed silently. The boy’s eyes were too far apart, his nose must have been broken a few times, his lips were bulbous and his cheeks ravished with acne scars. The boy had never been laid, that was his problem, Mr. Hepplethwaite concluded.
‘Expect an email about the fine,’ the boy sneered, tapping his finger on the screen and imperiously moving down the street.
Mr. Hepplethwaite sat in the van, he couldn’t stop himself shaking as tears cascaded. Then, he drove home and drank two bottles of wine too quickly.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 