The Shopping Channel

'Mr. Bell?'

'Yes? That's me name, young lad. Now speak up, me hearings not what it once was.'

'A parcel for you, Mr. Bell.'

The young lad of thirty green stood with a cardboard box before Mr. Bell. Now, Mr. Bell's hearing might be touched, but his sight certainly wasn't, and he could tell at a glance that the parcel at the foot of the delivery lad was not for an arthritic man edging on the positive side of eighty.

'No, that'd be for that young couple 'cross the road. Always out when you lot turn up. Bring it in, mind,' Mr. Bell said in his deafening nearly deaf voice.

The delivery lad glanced from his digital signing device with a look as blank as the square box awaiting Mr. Bell's signature.

'Sorry, can't do that. Company policy. I can leave it here in the porch for you. If you don't mind si--'

'What's that?' Mr. Bell shouted. He reached out with a shaking, knotted, purple hand. It was a nice contrast to the bony wrist peaking out the edge of his hanging-off, mustard cardigan.

'Just sign here, sir,' the delivery man handed the plastic stick to the old man, checking his watch as he did.

(Two more minutes and your behind schedule. Three more minutes and that's work traffic. Four more minutes and no hot sandwich stop. ((And the delivery man likes his hot pork sandwiches. With thick thin gravy and extra tart apple sauce.))

'Just need your signature, there in the box,' he said.

Mr. Bell barely touched the screen, producing a jittering squiggle before the delivery man swooped it out of view.

'Thank you very much. See you,' the delivery man said, and turned, counting the seconds in his steps.

'Wait a bit now young lad, just you wait a bit. How'm I supposed to get this in me house now?'

Perhaps it was the desperation in the old man's voice, a certain tremble that reminded the delivery man of his own grandfather (a former delivery man himself, now six foot under, ever the chronic worker, he's delivering nitrogen below Shaderslane Cemetery), or perhaps it was the fact that he realised he had a minute to spare before losing out on his hot sandwiches. Either way, he came bounding back and grabbed the parcel for the old man.

'I'll put it in the hallway, we aren't meant to come any further,' he said as he crossed the threshold of company policy.

There was the old grandfather smells. Roasters and stale air. Mustard, why are the houses always mustard? Maybe it's to blend in with their cardigans and matching slippers?

'No, no, don't put it there lad, I can't get out the house if you put it there,' Mr. Bell boomed. 'Just up here, lad, behind the pantry door. That's a good 'un.'

Shifting the heavy box into one hand, the delivery man opened the pantry door. As soon as he did, he felt his hot sandwich slide past his throat without a taste.

*

The boxes.
The boxes?
They found their bodies crushed beneath the boxes. Company policy, see.
It's there for a bloody good reason.
(Sniffs.)
Yeh, but no one expects death by boxes, do they?
(Silence.)
Always good to think outside the box, ain't it?
(Restrained laughter.)
Oh that's a good one.
Poor buggers, though. Took three weeks to notice they were gone. By then, the smell--
Yeh?
Yeh.

*

Every night, at around ten past six, just after Mr. Bell finished his supper of cabbage, pork belly and roasted potatoes, he retired to the living room to sit in front of the telly.

His mustard slipper feet shuffled along the mustard floral carpet, to reach the remote control and turn on the big red button, as instructed by that nice young chap on the phone.

The image flashed instantly into view. None of that static grey of yesterday. Mr. Bell was positively bedazzled. Swamped by his musty mustard cardigan, lost in his mustard armchair, he sat with legs up on the mustard leg rest.

The glare from the lamp was a golden mustard yellow. The glow from the telly was a blaring, daring white. Thing is, the other buttons on the remote, apart from the big red one (on and off), did not work. He pushed as best as his arthritic set fingers would let him, but it was never much use. It's always the same old rubbish.

A young woman selling fake diamonds and real emeralds.
A nice young lady selling craft knives.
A dark chap selling machines to make young chaps muscles bulge out.
And then... him.
If that isn't the young chap who sold him this very telly!

First he sold a camera, and then some sort of talking device, and then he sold a telly. Just like Mr. Bell's. Only bigger this time. 52 inches. Better. Quality. Crispness. High definition. Three dimensional. All these fandango words ran around Mr. Bell's mind.

Then, on cue at eight o'clock, the telly went black. No amount of thumb pressing on the red button would shift it.

The telephone (a new cordless model) was conveniently located to Mr. Bell's right. The number was conveniently there, too. As soon as Mr. Bell thumbed in the first digits, well, there it was! Dialed fifty-four times already! Well that can't be right. Yes, yes, he'll have the new talking device as well while he's at it.
This one is surely not working.

'Hello? Yes, I'd like to buy the telly, mines not working,' he shouted down the phone.

'Okay, I'll just need your details. Do you have an account with us, sir?'

'No, never bought from this in me life. Just watching me telly and it won't work now.'

'Oh, that's all right, sir. Can I have your name and address, sir?'

'Gerald, Gerald Bell. Fifty-Four Grovesner Road, Tilford.'

'Grovesner Road, Tilford... Mr. Bell, you are aware that you already have an account with us? I won't need your details as we have a direct debit already set up.'

'What's that? Sorry?'

'No problem. We have sorted that out for you, Mr. Bell, and have the parcel sent out A S A P. It's been a pleasure. Please shop again with Y G S, Your Goodly Shopping Channel, for All Your Goodly Needs. Is there anything else I can help you with this evening?'

'Yes, yes, it's this thing. It's not working proper. I'll have that new thing you had that nice chap showing...'

*

At Fifty-Four Grovesner road, Tilford, a mustard chair sits without a thin body to sit in a swampy musty mustard cardigan.

The air chokes in yesterday's roasters and cabbage.

Nothing stirs as the dust gathers.

Come six, the large television (far too large for the dark wood and glass cabinet) flickers on. A series of charming women and men try to sell their goods to no one.

A young chap with the whitest smile and a familiar name (Gerald Bell) sells the latest tech, including the new 54 incher:
precision imaging...
diamond crispness...
for that home cinema sound...
timer for.... energy saving...
you know, just in case you forget to turn off the telly!

Then, without warning, the screen flickers off.
It's just gone eight o'clock.

Mr. Bell powders his nose somewhere, sitting in his dressing room.

'For All Your Goodly Needs,' he says and smiles, checking his pearly white, not-a-spot-of-mustard teeth in the dressing table mirror.

Elsewhere, a delivery man delivers his last parcel: one bloated, cadaverous fart, squeezed out under a pile of Fifty-Four Alzheimer boxes.