The Trip from Hell pt 7

It was incredibly weird, having a fairly civil conversation with Paris. Up until that point I didn't think it possible, but there you have it. Clear as day. No blame hoisted on me for everything wrong in the world, minimal cursing, no doubts expressed about my competence… had I not put him there myself I'd have sworn someone else occupied his bed. I tried to figure out what might have prompted it, but drew a blank. He should have been all war cries and indignation, but instead very nearly resembled a being of cognizance. Though I do not complain. Not in the least. In fact, were this to be a permanent change, I could actually have grown to like Paris. Eventually. Maybe. Well, at the very least he'd be tolerable, let's not get ahead of ourselves. It is Paris, after all.
The two quoted hours passed, we squared with Reggie, and Paris and I soon found ourselves reacquainted with Deidre Miller. She was all sunshine and smiles as she greeted us and led us toward her car.
It wasn't quite as bad as a Pinto, but it was in the same genre for sure. It was a small, angular old thing with a pea green paint job. The corners had begun to eat away with rust.
I glanced apprehensively at Paris as we approached it. He'd flown off the handle at a 2002 Lincoln, I was afraid to see what he would do when faced with a '67 whatever.
At first he looked confused. I don't think he'd ever seen such a proletarian device in his life. At least up close and with the intention of climbing in it. Then he began to get that glint in his eye. That look of indignation and outrage that made one batten down the hatches and prepare for the worst. Just when I was ready for the onslaught of curses, the expression faded. Luckily no one was looking at me at the time, because I'm sure my own physiognomy read as an unabashed 'what the fuck?!'
Then I remembered 'Oh yes, that wouldn't be 'lordly' of him.'
"I'm sorry it's 'ardly a silver chariot befitting a lord, dearie, but it'll get to point B all the same."
"Nah nah that's…fine." Paris said with what sounded like some strain, "T…hanks for offering to drive…us."
Wow. For the second time in under five minutes my jaw dropped in shock. Paris actually said thank you. He willingly acknowledged a debt to another human being. Maybe the scotch still hadn't worn off. Or perhaps he was getting carried away with his lord act. I couldn't say. Unlike him, I couldn't just turn and go 'what the hell got into you?'. You need a bit more tact when dealing with a client. This being so, I was left with only my own speculations on the subject as we pulled up to the station.
We got out and thanked her. Yes, he thanked her again and I was beginning to worry. It wasn't until I'd gotten his things and she drove away that I found reassurance. The first symptom was a heavy sigh as we walked to the entrance.
"God that was awful, who in their right mind would drive such a horrible little car?"
"I would not know, sir."
"It smelt like death and sawdust!"
"An interesting description, sir."
"Betchya that asshole in Manchester sold it to her."
"I believe that particular company only deals in the rental of vehicles, sir."
"Don't get technical on me, Lurch."
"No, sir."
"Now how the hell do we do this? If we gotta wait like in the airport I'm gonna go apeshit."
"Luckily, sir, whilst being firmly planted on the ground and remaining in the country, one does not need to go through customs."
"Fuck yes!" Paris exclaimed, throwing his hands above his head.
My feelings on the subject were very similar.
I was feeling very positive as we entered the station. It felt like we were finally on the home stretch. All we had to do was get our tickets and hop on the train. I could get someone to meet us at the other end with a car, and it would all be over.
Of course, I should have known that Murphy's law would have something to say about that.
We seemed to stumble at the gates, as it were. We only got so far as the booth before we hit a snag.
"I'm sorry sir, your card has been declined."
"What?" I said incredulously.
It couldn't be, this was my card we were using.
"Your card, it's been declined." She repeated.
"That can't be right, try it again."
She did.
"Sorry, still not going though."
My heart sank into my shoes.
"What the fuck?! Why won't it go?!" Paris piped up.
"I fear, sir, that the only explanation I can surmise is that it reached it's limit due to last night's endeavours."
Paris looked at me for a moment in shock. He then slammed his palm down on the counter with considerable force, muttered an expletive, and walked away.
"Never mind then, I'm sorry to have troubled you." I said to the person in the booth. I obtained my card and went after Paris.
He was pacing angrily in a tight circle. Upon my approach his eyes ignited with hell fire.
"Fuck!" He said, "We're fucking stuck here in this fucking station with no fucking money!"
"It appears so, sir."
"Shut the fuck up!" He exclaimed, "It's all your fucking fault! You suggested we take the fucking train but noooooo! Your plan's shit! You failed! At every fucking turn your suggestions fuck us over! And now we're stuck here, out of options and out of cash and all you can say is 'it appears so, sir'? Like some kinda fucking lobotomy patient? Fuck you!"
He stormed off, and I let him go. Unprofessional of me to do, but I did. I was hurt. I mean yes it was Paris and yes I do expect these things from him, but it still stung. As a servant, one tends to derive a certain level of their own personal satisfaction from providing excellent service. To have a client tell you you're a failure whose mental capacity is akin to that of a lobotomy patient, it takes a toll on one's professional pride.
I went and sat down on a bench. I couldn't really think of anything else to do. It's not like I could go anywhere, and I certainly wasn't about to go looking for the miserable shit.
And so I sat and brooded. Not thinking of anything particularly constructive, like what to do, just general brooding. This went on for a while.
I think that his statement only affected me as it did because of his earlier behaviour. Normally I'm well braced for such onslaughts, but his civility this morning had lulled me into a false sense of security. I guess the scotch had finally worn off.
The brooding subsided eventually, leaving me with the question 'Well, what now then?'.
At first I wondered why even bother? I was probably as good as fired anyway, and without references. Not that I'd want them anyway, if Paris had a hand in them I'd never be employed again.
Then I realized that even if I were to be fired, I'd still have to make it back to the manor. My stuff was there, and it wasn't like I could go elsewhere and get the butler to send it to me. Now that'd be a real glitch in the matrix.
My thought process devolved into simply watching people walk through the station, looking for glitches in the matrix. I did see two women with the same coat, but nothing more solid than that. It's funny how the mind wanders to such strange things after a state of distress. I guess it just grasps onto anything it can to prevent relapse.
After what I feel must have been half an hour of glitch-spotting, Paris appeared. He came in on the eastern front, so I only saw him in my peripheral. I did not turn to look at him. He sidled up and sat on the bench to the left of me. I said nothing. What does one say to someone who thinks them to be on par with the lobotomized? I certainly didn't, and I didn't care to venture any guesses. Petty and unprofessional, I know.
He let out an audible sigh, conspicuous enough to make it apparent he was trying to get my attention. I still didn't glance over. After a moment he realized that I had no intention of doing so.
"Look," He said, "I'm… uh… I'm sorry. Kay? It's just… like… Fuck. Okay, you know what? I got scared. Okay? Yeah, you fucking made me say it. I am scared. I was scared of the drug dog, I was scared of missing the plane, I was scared of being stranded and eaten by farmers, and now I'm scared of the fucking train station. Just one. Big. Clusterfuck of scared. And I took it out on you and I'm sorry. It's not your fault, kay man? I…"
He faltered for a second.
"I just wanna go home."
I glanced sideways at him, mostly to make sure it was Paris talking. It didn't sound like him, but sure enough there he was. He didn't look much like him either, really. I mean yes he still had the aviators and such, but he wore an expression I had never seen on the Paris visage before. I think it was something close to humility. Were I not looking right at it, I wouldn't have thought it possible. I sat for a few moments, bewildered by it. Then the expression sharpened into annoyance.
"Soo like, I'm just barring my fucking soul here and pleading forgiveness for shits n' giggles, don't feel like you gotta say something or fucking look at me or anything. That's cool." He said sarcastically.
I snapped out of it.
"Sorry sir, one fails to find words at such junctures."
"Whatever, we cool then?"
I looked at him for a moment and thought it over.
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Mmkay, if we're gonna be stuck in a fucking station, at least we're on good terms."
"Very true, sir."
"So any thoughts on that?"
"Sir?"
"Getting the hell out of here, I mean?"
"Actually, sir, I gave it some thought while you were away."
"And?" He asked impatiently.
"And I may have a plan. However.." I hesitated.
"Yeah, what?"
"I ask that you keep an open mind about it, sir, and do forgive me in advance. The plan that I propose relies heavily on your abilities, and is not strictly in the moral or legal domain."
A smirk cracked across Paris' face, "Those are the best kind."


We walked down the platform. Paris sauntered carelessly, his swagger making people take notice and dodge out of the way. Some seemed to gape as he passed, either out of awe or indignation, and he brushed past with not so much as a cavalier glance. Excellent. I just hoped he could keep up the act for when it counted.
"That's the one, right?" He asked, lazily pointing at a train up ahead.
"I believe so, sir."
"Awesome."
He walked up to the machine and jumped up into the doorway in a fluid, 'I could give a fuck' movement. I followed close behind.
The conductor seemed to be a little stunned. He stood on the platform, just outside the door. Paris had brushed past him with nary a thought. He barely even registered as I flashed a small, ticket shaped piece of paper and boarded. It having served its purpose, I put the receipt back in my pocket.
We walked through the aisles in silence. Eventually he spotted two empty seats and sidled in. It wasn't until I had deposited the luggage in the overhead and joined him that he spoke.
"Did it work?" He whispered, leaning in.
"I believe so, sir."
"Siiiiick." He said, a satisfied grin forming as he sunk back into place.
"Yes, sir."
We sat in silence after that. It was a little bit harrowing, idling there in the station. At any moment the conductor could come to his senses and turf us out. It seemed unlikely, since most people wouldn't suspect someone with a valet to try and dodge paying for tickets, but you know. It was still a possibility one couldn't rule out in these situations.
As the doors closed and the wheels slowly whirred to life, I breathed a sigh of relief. It seemed we were in the clear.
We rolled out of the station and into the light. Once again the hills and fields were rolling past the window. Paris seemed disproportionately excited at the sight of them.
"Dude this is awesome!" Paris said, suppressing his exclamations into excited whispers, "I can't believe we got away with it!"
"The odds against were indeed disconcerting, sir."
"This is the kind of shit they do in Oceans Eleven!"
"I cannot say I am familiar, sir."
"You've never seen Oceans Eleven?!"
"No, sir."
"With George Clooney?"
"No, sir."
"Brad Pitt Julia Roberts and Matt Damon?"
"No, sir."
"You have to be shitting me."
"I would never dream of it, sir."
"How the hell can you live with yourself, not seeing Oceans Eleven?"
"I take it day by day, toiling under the burden of it, sir."
"Don't get snippy with me, Lurch. I know your plan worked, but don't let it go to your head."
"No, sir."
"Good."
There was a short pause.
"… They do this shit in Pulp Fiction too, you seen Pulp Fiction?"
Amazingly enough, I had.
"Yes, sir."
"Badass movie, right?"
"I did find it interesting, sir."
"Interesting doesn't cut it, man. It's fucked up." He said, "So whatdya think of Uma Thurman?"
I paused. Oh god, why did he have to mention Uma Thurman? I could feel my cheeks flush in embarrassment.
"I…" I faltered, "I think she is a very talented actress."
After a few seconds I added "Sir." as an afterthought. Luckily, my pathetic display went unnoticed.
"Meh, I guess." He shrugged, "But Julia Roberts is totally hotter in Oceans Eleven."
And so we conversed more or less in this sort of way until we reached the next station. As the train came to a halt once more, Paris began to panic.
"What the hell?! Don't tell me the train broke down now!"
"It is nothing to worry about, sir, we are stopping at the station."
"So are we there yet?"
"No, sir, the train stops at all stations."
"Well that's stupid."
"Some may be inclined to take up that argument, sir."
The train ground to a halt and the expected shuffle took place. People got off, more people filed in to replace them, the faces changed but the scene remained the same. We sat patiently, waiting for the whole song and dance to be over and for the journey to commence once more. Then I spotted the man coming around punching tickets.
"Um, sir…" I said, prodding Paris, "I think you may have cause to worry now."