Beast of Burden

The nickname I was given as a child has stuck. Those in the know call me by a compact monosyllable: Jug. I was teased at school, of course, yet when I was six, my parents made things worse by revealing that the chain-smoking midwife who presided at my birth couldn’t resist commenting on my outsized ears as I lay on my mother’s breast. Why did they tell me this? It has only compounded my complex.
I didn’t excel academically. ‘Average student’ describes me best. After my GCSE’s, I drifted in and out of temporary employment and spent a few months as a house painter in Amsterdam. That’s where I bought my bike, a 1950’s model, custard yellow with a curved frame. It made me think of paper boys in the American suburbs. It had a name too: “Don Quixote”.
I am sober, perhaps over-serious. Not once during my stay in Amsterdam did I sit in a group in a canal-side cafe and cheerfully take stock of the city’s mild hedonism. I never got drunk or stoned or visited prostitutes. Rather, I tried to adopt a work ethic and live a clean, ordered life. Eventually, I returned to London, where I ended up working as a bike courier. That was three years ago. The riders worked out of a small depot in Clerkenwell. It was close to both the City and the West End and we could hardly keep up with the orders. Perhaps that’s why they kept me on; they just had too much work.
The other guys had beat-up mountain bikes, covered in grime. They’d all been in accidents and fights. It was because they rushed and were as aggressive as the motorists. Reluctant to damage my bike, I abstained from running red lights, yelling at truck drivers or cycling on the pavement. I chose instead to make it my business to know the A to Z inside out. So what I lost in speed, I made up for in short cuts.
The nickname stung me still but it was handy at work. You need a convenient tag in such a hectic environment. One of the guys even said he liked my moniker. Said it was cool. I wasn’t convinced but at least they didn’t rib me too much.
Two years into the job, I had my first crash. I was on my way to the Swedenborg Society Bookshop, an address in Bloomsbury. It was a sunny day and as I passed Holborn Underground Station, I lost control of my bike. I don’t remember what caused me to swerve. Maybe a glint of reflected sunlight. I went into a parked car and fell to the ground. I was concussed for a while and when I came to, the sun was dazzling me. I averted my gaze and caught sight of the package I was to deliver. It had been spilled from my shoulder bag and lay to my left, close enough for me observe the creases on the brown paper. I shut out the commotion around me and concentrated on the postage stamp.
It showed a tableau of Joseph, Mary and newborn Jesus. In the background was a mountain valley with forests and a gushing waterfall. In the foreground, mother and child sat on a weary-looking donkey with dark slits for eyes. I picked out more details: Joseph’s ornate curly beard, the baby’s chubby rubicund cheeks, the donkey’s ears.
I laughed until tears came, joyful, merciful tears.