THIRD PRIZE: Dr Sohom Das - The Ill-suited Pair

“Excuse me! I say. Can you please just go away? I don’t want you touching me.”  The car’s voice was haughty, yet assured.
“What?”
“I said get off me. Shoo!”
“Shoo?! That’s very rude. I’m not a dog. I have every right to be here.”
“What are you, a flyer or something?  Whatever you want, we’re not interested.  Please do depart. I really must insist.”
“Flyer?  The insolence! I am a parking ticket, mam.  I’m here as a representative of the law. And this is an official loading bay. It’s not for any old car.” 
“Any old car?! How very dare you! I am a Porsche 997 Panamera 4S.  Zero to sixty, in 4.4 seconds.  My starting price is ninety grand, I’ll have you know.”
“I’m sorry.  Do you drive?”
“And that is merely the starting price. Evidently, I don a plethora of additional luxury features.”
“Do you drive, mam?” the ticket asked, in a louder voice.
“Pardon me?”
“Do you drive? Do you transport humans, in a role as a vehicle?”
“Yes, obviously.”
“Then you’re a car, car.”
“Now listen here, you ruffian! I’ve tried being polite, but-”
“Must have missed that bit.”
“-But I must insist that you disperse this instance. If it is money you are trying to obtain, then I’m sure we can come to some kind of arrangement.  We would just prefer for our image not to be tarnished by a-”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“Who’s what?”
The ticket sighed and crumpled (marginally).  “You keep saying ‘we’. May I enquire: who do you mean by ‘we’?”
“Whom do I mean? Myself and my owner. Clearly.”
“But your owner isn’t here.”
“But I represent Mr Smallcox. The finest of gentlemen, who-”
“If he was here, you wouldn’t have ended up with me, in all likelihood. But he’s just abandoned you here.”
“By Jove! You obnoxious little…” The car was simply too refined to create a suitable moniker. “You are not even worthy to speak his name!”
“I didn’t”
“You… wretched, despicable… scrap of paper! Look at you! Dressed in bright yellow plastic.  How distasteful!  You don’t deserve to even be in my proximity, you nefarious… piece of tree pulp.”
“Listen mam, I do not appreciate abuse. I’m just trying to do my job.”
“You know what?  I don’t even wish to converse with you.  Patently, you’re a jobs-worth and an imbecile.”
“Fine,” the ticket said, in a stoic voice.
“Jolly good, then.”

Surly winds rush through the High Street. Chased by discarded newspapers and trampled boxes. The ticket flapped a little, though remained on the car. Defiantly present. Traffic crawled by in a cacophony of beeps and hums.  Drivers craned their heads around, scouring for elusive parking spaces.  Stealing opportunities at traffic lights, passengers leapt out of cars. Rows of people flitted in and out of shops, carrying items. Marching back and forth, like ants. A regulated chaos. 

A cyclist braked hard, avoiding collision with a large van by mere centimetres.  He slapped on the side of the van, hollering protestations about indicating, and the lack thereof.  The window wound down jerkily and the head of a rotund, middle-aged woman shot out.  She had a garish neck tattoo and a limp, roll-up cigarette dangling out of one side of her mouth, along with a toothpick in the other.  Her face writhed with hostility.  She conveyed her indifference to driving etiquette in a colourful tirade of expletives, occasionally peppered with other words.  The cyclist shrunk into his light red lycra, dropped his gaze and shuffled away, muttering under his breath.

The parking ticket and the car try to ignore each other. Challenging, given their forced proximity.  After some time, the ticket finally broke the silence. “I’m not trying to ‘obtain money’, like some fraudster.  Your owner broke the law.”
“My owner is a lawyer,” said the car, as if this offered an explanation.
“Well then, he should know better.”
The car scoffed. “And what of your owner?  I bet he’s quite the upstanding citizen.”
“Owner?  I’m not an object that is owned. I’m a legal document that is served.”
“You, my dear, are precursor to rubbish that is distributed! And your owner is patently a ghastly man.”
“How dare you!’
“Me?” the car scoffed. “I think you’ll find that society in its entirety would concur. Your owner, like all parking attendants is nothing but a pariah. A leech. A ruddy parasite!”
“Oh yeah?  And your owner is a lawyer. I bet he’s revered by society.” The ticket was not adept at relaying sarcasm, but the car comprehended him nonetheless.
“At least he’s educated,” she said.  “He has a degree from a university in Oxford, I’ll have you know.”
“Didn’t help him read the parking regulations sign.”
“Can yours even speak English?
The parking ticket shuddered, even though the wind had subsided.  He was bursting with fury, even though he didn’t change colour. He was consumed with an urge to scream, even though he remained outwardly professional. “You mam, are a racist,” he said, in a forced calm voice.
The car knew she had overstepped the mark, but she would be dammed if she was going to apologise to a lowly ticket. “Poppycock!  How can I be racist?  I know lots of… ethnics.”
“Yeah? Whom?”
“You mean who. The fellow that washes me is Polish.”

A long pause ensued.  Some teenagers walked past, kicking a football and eating fried chicken from greasy cardboard boxes, with white wires dangling from their collars. They spoke in slang. A couple of them stopped to marvel at the car, briefly.  One pointed at the ticket and laughed. They moved on. The pause continued, unperturbed.

“I’m surprised you remember what race he was,” the ticket mumbled, after a while.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m just making an observation.  You don’t appear to have been washed in quite some time, mam.”
“Mr Smallcox is a busy man.”
The ticket noticed the slight hesitation in her response. The despondency hidden in her words. He revelled, striking while the proverbial iron was hot. “I just thought a hypocritical racist like yourself would look after her appearance, mam.”
“How preposterous! I’m not a hypocrite.”
“Judging others by the colour of their skin, whilst you’re luminous yellow.”
“I’m luminous yellow?  By George! That’s the pot calling the kettle black.”
“But my yellowness is a requirement,” said the ticket, his voice smug. “It serves a purpose.  I need to garner people’s attention.  Not for vanity, but to uphold the law.” 
“Uphold the law?  Steady on, dear boy! You’re not John Wayne.  You’re at best a minor inconvenience for people who accidentally make an honest mistake.”
“And what’s your purpose, mam?  To feed your owner’s ego?”
“I simply can’t help it if I turn heads.”
“With your hue? You turn stomachs!  How insecure is your owner?”
“What are you implying?”
“He must be compensating for something.”
“Behave yourself! How dare you insinuate that Mr Smallcox’s genitalia is inadequate? I’ll have you for libel, you scoundrel.”
“Don’t you mean slander?”
“What?”
“Don’t you mean ‘pardon’?”
“What? …Pardon?”
“Libel is printed. Slander is verbal.  For a lawyer’s slave, you really are uninformed.”
“Now, listen here, you cretin! I will not be insulted by a godforsaken piece of paper, in a godforsaken piece of plastic. I shan’t stand for it! I am a valuable asset to an amazing gentleman.  A great, noble man, with probably at least average… particulars.  I have a purpose! You’re nothing.  Do you hear me?  Nothing!”

A warm tingle of satisfaction spread over the ticket. He gloated silently, even though he remained outwardly professional. 
“You shall end up in a spiffing scrap heap, rotting. Or recycled at best,” the car said, her voice as haughty, though less assured than before. “If you’re fortuitous, you might be recycled into toilet paper and my owner might grace you with his use.  That’s all you’re worthy of. You silly rapscallion.”
“Are you an only car, mam?” said the ticket, his voice icy.
The car did not respond.
He repeated the question.
“It’s no concern of yours,” she eventually mumbled.
“You assert yourself to be a precious, unique object.  I was just curious if your owner had another car.”
The car grunted, somehow still managing to convey snootiness. “I shan’t dignify that with an answer.”
“Ok then.  I’ll assume that, since you’re such a majestic specimen, worth ninety grand, that you are able to satisfy all his needs.” The ticket’s aptitude for sarcasm had somewhat developed, in a short space of time.
“Well, obviously he needs an alternative for more boot space for trips away.  The kids have buggies and all kinds of equipment.  It’s not easy, you know.”

The ticket said nothing.  He didn’t have to.

Traffic (human and vehicular), subsided as the evening sauntered by.  Shops closed and the cars lined up along the street were driven away, one by one. But not her. The ill-suited pair ignored each other.  Paradoxically, this had become easier, the more they had gotten accustomed to each other’s company.  They lay together, but separate. Lost in their own thoughts.  Despite himself, the ticket wondered what was going through her mind.

The skies distorted from an optimistic blue, to a sulking grey, to a devious black. Darkness camouflaged itself within all silhouettes, then  encompassed them.  Flashing lights from planes careered across the sky, mingling temporarily with the stars.  The ticket fantasised bizarre scenarios, of being served on a plane. In another life, if things were different. He dismissed them. He knew they were silly.

A drunk man waddled past them both, singing his pain.  He stumbled down the road, placing a grubby hand on the car, momentarily. She shrunk back. Hours later, a dog urinated a few feet away and a stream eagerly marched down the road, avoiding contact with the car’s tyres by mere centimetres.  Aside from that, it was an uneventful night. Some things happened. Some did not.

The morning reincarnated the bustle of the High Street. Birds’ ballads were replaced by a new cacophony of beeps and hums.  Adults acquainted. Babies bawled. Children chattered. Dogs dawdled. Everybody emerged. 

New vehicles began their crawl. New drivers arrived. They craned their heads around, scouring for parking spaces, which remained elusive. Despite the flagrant absence of her owner, the car concealed her distress.
 
Then disaster struck.

“Wayhey! What’s going on ‘ere?” The second ticket’s voice was impish and, to the car’s dismay, even more churlish than its predecessor. 
“Allo mate,” he nodded a corner (imperceptibly) to the original ticket.  “We’ve stuck ourselves on to a gorgeous bit of kit here, ‘aven’t we?  I bet she’s a right ol’ goer on the motorway.”
“We’re in the presence of royalty, don’t you know,” said the original ticket, his voice derisive. “A Porsche 997, street value starting at ninety thousand pounds.” 
“That was ‘er value,” said the second ticket. “She looks like she’s been around a bit.  That’s the fing with cars. They peak when they’re brand new and it’s all downhill from there.  They depreciate in value every day.”
“I say, can you stop talking about me like I’m not here? It’s awfully uncouth,” the car’s voice was haughty, but it waivered. Subtly, but it was enough.
“Oooh, ladde-dah! ‘Ark at the princess,” scoffed the second ticket.
The original ticket sniggered, with a hint of discomfort.
“It doesn’t matter ‘ow much you were worth once, darlin’,” said the second ticket, his voice sneering. “Anybody who can afford a Porsche wants a new one.  You’re gonna be used until you’re worn out and then dumped into the scrap heap.  Then your pretty little yellow carcass is gonna become brown rust. Just like every other car. Just another piece of scrap! Ha!”
“Ok mate. She gets the message.  Go easy on her,” said the original ticket.
“Don’t defend ‘er!  If she don’t want to be taunted, then ‘er moronic owner should have read the sign.”
The original ticket was puzzled by an urge that he could not quite fathom. He said nothing. He remained outwardly professional.
“What does he do then, Sweetheart? Your owner?  Is ‘e a doctor or summin’?”
She said nothing. 
“Does it really matter?” asked the original ticket.
“Well, I bet e’s busy cos there’s two of us now. He don’t love you.  You’re just ‘is bright yellow hussy trophy.  If e’s got a total of five unpaid fines, they could tow you away?   Maybe they’re coming tomorrow.  They’d love to crush up, a delicate posh little…”
“THAT’S ENOUGH! LEAVE HER ALONE!” bellowed the original ticket, consumed with an urge that he could not quite fathom. He stretched out (infinitesimally), trying to knock the cocky young ticket off the car’s windshield, impaired by his own sticky back and the grip of the windscreen wiper.

A trickle of fluid flopped on to the bottom of the windscreen. A couple of drops caressed the edge of the original ticket.
“I do apologise,” whimpered the car. “It’s a faulty wiper fluid valve.  It does tend to do that once in…”
“Oh my God! She’s crying!  ‘er royal Highness is crying!”
“Shut up! Shut your mouth!” yelled the original ticket.  “I don’t want to hear one more peep from you. Leave her alone!”
“Sorry for existing,” muttered the second ticket, needing to have the last word.  

*

In the morning, the car was stoically silent.  The second ticket was petulantly silent.  The original ticket was pensively silent.  When the removal truck crawled to a stop nearby, the car let out a long, flat sigh. A sigh that held resignation. It was the first noise that any of them had made that day.

The removal trucked hissed and screeched, a little excessively.  It lined up with the car. Then a shrill beeping noise ceremoniously announced the inevitable. 

“I wanted to thank you for sticking up for me yesterday, ticket. You’re awfully valiant.” The car’s voice was haughty, but delicate.
“That’s ok, mam.  I’m sorry this is happening to you.  You deserve better. He shouldn’t have just abandoned you like this. If I had known this was gong to happen, I wouldn’t have-“
“Oh Please! You’re ‘aving a laugh!” grumbled the second ticket.
They both ignored him.
“It was Oxford Brookes, you know.”
“What?”
“I purported that my owner got a degree at a university in Oxford. Well, it was Oxford Brookes. Not the Oxford University.
“Well, I hear Oxford Brookes is a fine institute, too,” the original ticket said, even though he had never heard of it.
“Its not.  It’s a sham. Just like me.”
“Hey, c’mon.  Don’t say that.  I was fibbing yesterday.  I actually think your colour is beautiful.  You’re so… vivacious.”
“Do you really think so?”
“I do,” said the ticket, fibbing.

The beeps got louder, as if to emphasise the drama.  A couple of workmen in dirty overalls leaned over the car. They wore luminous yellow gloves and hats, and sombre faces. They spoke in serious tones.  One placed a large metal bar underneath the front chassis of the car.  Some passing school-children giggled.  One stopped and pulled out her phone to take some pictures.

“You know, we probably don’t have long left together,” the original ticket flapped (visibly).  “I just wanted to say… I know it sounds silly, but in another life, if things were different…”
“Yes?”
“Well, you and I, I think-”

RIP! A meaty, luminous yellow glove separated the car and the tickets.