The adventures of two men who happen to meet on the road.
Kit Robinson sat in shocked silence in the drab office of his former manager. The walls, painted the same sickly colour of porridge, were bare, save for a few aging posters trying to explain the nature of economics to simpletons and a slightly damaged print of a kitten, felt like they were closing in on him. His manager, a middle aged man by the name of Benedict Ayton, was sat opposite him, Kit’s personnel file resting on the desk in front of him.
“It isn’t anything you’ve done,” his manager went on to explain, “It’s an entirely financial decision, but we have to let you go.”
“But it’s-” Kit started.
“Thursday, I know, we usually do this Fridays but we honestly could not afford to pay you one more day. So, there you go,” Benedict shrugged. “You’re good at your job, Kit, it won’t take you long to find something else. Just keep your chin up, yeah?”
Kit was silent for a while. “No, Ben. Fuck you. Fuck you, fuck this company, fuck your stupid kitten picture. I’ve worked for this company for six years, I am more than good at my job, and this is how you repay me?” he asked incredulously, rising to his feet.
“Now, Kit, there’s no need to get angry.”
“Fuck you,” Kit repeated, storming out of the office, heading for the elevator on the far side of the building.
He undid his tie on the journey down to the ground floor, tossing it in the nearest bin as he made his way to his car. He’d always hated that tie, and he only ever wore it to work because one of the receptionists had gotten it for him, and he knew it made her happy to see him wearing it. He didn’t look back at the high-rise building he used to work in, getting straight into his car. In all honesty, he wanted to drag his keys along the side of his manager’s car, but he resisted the urge, not wanting to get in trouble with the police or have to pay to have it repaired.
Kit wasn’t entirely sure where he was heading as he pulled out of the office block’s car park; he just knew that he wanted to be somewhere else. For the most part, he just drove around his home town aimlessly. He was stuck at a traffic light when he decided just where he wanted to be. He took advantage of the red light he was waiting at and jabbed the eject button on his car’s stereo; his most recent purchase, a self-help CD on finding yourself, had proved thus far as nothing but a source of annoyance. He threw the disc on the passenger seat, fishing through the few CDs he kept in his car. While the rest of the world might have moved on to iPods and digital music, Kit still stood firmly by CDs. In all honesty, vinyl was his guilty pleasure, and nothing excited him more than the grainy crackle that accompanied it. He had been called a hipster for it on more than one occasion, but he couldn’t help his preferences.
He glanced at the light, still casting out its harsh red glare, and grabbed the first CD he could find; a carefully looked after soundtrack from one of the many Disney films of his childhood. He had just slipped it into the CD player, when the light changed to green, and he turned the volume up, heading for his apartment. He dashed up the stairs, not waiting to say his usual hello to any neighbours he passed, and started gathering up his things. Kit had been saving part of his pay check ever since he had started working at the tender age of nineteen, and had made a vow not to touch it except in cases of emergency. Being fired from a dead end job was an emergency, he figured.
Kit threw an odd collection of clothes into a backpack, changing out of his work clothes into something more comfortable; whatever t-shirt he’d grabbed first, and a pair of skinny jeans that were admittedly getting a little small for him. He swore blind that they shrunk in the wash, but deep down he knew that his recent lifestyle of eating takeout instead of cooking, and snacking at his desk, was sending the pounds straight to his thighs. He hadn’t been to the gym in months, either; he’d largely lost determination, no doubt thanks to the dead end job he had just been relieved of.
He made a mental note to call his parents wherever he next stopped, and slid his backpack on, checking his reflection in the mirror and adjusting his messy brown hair before heading out. He shut his front door behind him, locking the door and stuffing the key in his pocket. He wouldn’t be needing it for a while, after all. He felt a spring in his step as he made his way back down to his car; all the years he had spent listening to CDs about self-discovery, reading books and magazines about soul searching and spirituality, all seemed wasted compared to what he was about to do. He threw his backpack onto the backseat of his car, and pulled away from the apartment block, Billy Joel blasting from the speakers of his car.
He was going on the road.