Disclaimer: Dave Lister was created by Rob Grant and Doug Naylor, not me. Other original characters used were created by me.

Summary: Fourteen-year-old Lister has his first job interview, making much less than a good impression.

Mr. Holman paced around his tiny upstairs office. He smiled absently to himself, taking delight in the sound of the scuffling of his brand-spanking-new dress shoes he had purchased yesterday for forty-nine pounds. He estimated that if he stepped lightly and didn't drag his feet, they could last him for many a year.

The new Deputy Manager of Sainsbury's Megamart whistled to himself as he poured his fourth cup of coffee that day. He drank deeply whilst staring out the window of his cramped little office. Over the rim of his mug he observed the world going on outside of his window. Great snowflakes were drifting down past his window from the darkening sky and coating the sidewalk below. The Christmas and New Year's holidays had finally come to a close, and he was left to pick up the slack for the temporary employees who had only worked for the holiday season rush, picked up their paychecks, and left.

School must've been back in full swing by now—there were children of varying ages on their way home with packs on their backs on the sidewalk adjacent to his window. They were all bundled up in heavy new coats, hats, scarves, and mittens. But he didn't get those two weeks off, not that he would want them anyways. He listened to their chattering, mixed in with the gentle hum of the hover cars cruising down the street.

Stanley Holman did not particularly like hover cars, an invention which had caught on nearly fifteen years ago. There was something he disliked about driving a vehicle that didn't make contact with the ground. It made him uneasy. That was why he insisted on driving a trustworthy, though unreliable company car with four wheels that were always in contact with the road. His only worry was with what would happen if he ever got a flat tire. He'd surely be laughed out of the shop by those engineers, who must likely had only heard about the good old days of burning rubber from their parents or grandparents. To top that, he was being pressured by manufacturing entrepreneurs to try out their prototype service droids in place of his employees. Really, what was this world coming to?

The Deputy Manager set his coffee mug down on top of his newspaper on his immaculate desk. He wiped his moustache with the back of his hand and moved his mug over in order to pick up the daily paper, which he hadn't got around to reading yet. Being a highly successful Deputy Manager of Sainsbury's Megamart built on the ruins of the Anglican Cathedral on Hope Street, Liverpool, was not easy. Sometimes he didn't even get around to doing the crossword puzzle until after he had snooped around in his employee's business, counted his paper clips to make sure that there were still exactly ninety-seven, or after he held a meeting of the staff under his charge on how to make something of yourself while always wearing a smile. When he wasn't doing any of these things, he would pace his office, reflecting on his thriving career, and moustache. He owned his own apartment. He had a new job as Deputy Manager. He had a best friend—his tabby cat named Wicket, and he even owned two suits and a collection of tacky vintage paisley ties. He had a faithful wife who always left him a frozen TV dinner all ready for him to heat up in the microwave when he got home, and was always guaranteed to come back from her job as a personal trainer at some hour of the night, just in time to tell him that she was too tired again.

Mr. Holman sat on the edge of his desk and unfolded the newspaper, dabbing at the coffee ring that was encircling the Prime Minister's face with the underside of his tie. He looked at the date—it was the third of January, 2,170. He scanned over each page in the local news, looking for anything about him being the newly appointed Deputy Manager of Sainsbury's Megamart. Much to his disappointment, he had no such luck. Those journalists just didn't know what a good story was anymore.

He strode over to the opposite window, opened the blinds, and pressed his forehead against the glass. He spotted his car parked in the spot reserved for the Deputy Manager. Those infernal hover cars were parked on all sides of his. He glared at a young child passing by his car until she seemed to sense his stare and skipped off to catch up with her mother. Satisfied, he took a step back from the window. Then he heard a knock at the door.

Mr. Holman wiped his chronically sweaty hands on his pant legs and smoothed out his comb over.

"Come in," he said in his rather nasally voice.

One of his cashiers, Glenda, entered his office, holding the door open an inch or so. Glenda was in her late teens and had a haughty attitude. She constantly blew pink bubbles and snapped her gum, no matter how many times he reprimanded her.

"Spit out that gum, Glenda," he tutted.

Glenda snapped her gum loudly in response, pulling another piece of Bazooka bubble gum from the pocket from her uniform. "There's someone 'ere to see you," she said as she defiantly unwrapped the gum.

"Oh really?" said Mr. Holman pleasantly. The only person who ever came to see him was his mother. "Is it anyone important?"

Glenda shrugged. "Not really. Just some kid."

"Does he have an appointment?"

"An appointment?" scoffed Glenda. "Yer not that important!"

"What does he want?" asked Mr. Holman sharply. "He's not a solicitor, is he? You know how I feel about solicitors, Glenda."

"I don't think so, Stanley," said Glenda, now examining her fingernails in boredom. "He hasn't got anything with him to sell that I can see."

"He didn't steal anything, did he?" said Mr. Holman abruptly. "Or perhaps he scratched my car?"

"I dunno," said Glenda impatiently. "He's waiting out there. Just see the kid."

"Very well," said Mr. Holman. "Show him in."

Glenda stepped outside the door and beckoned the visitor forwards. "You can come in now. He's not doing anything important."

"Thanks," he heard a young voice say from outside the door as the clicks of Glenda's high heeled shoes echoed off down the tile hallway.

The legs and torso of a young teenage boy edged into his office, his head was still peering around the corner. Once Glenda was out of sight, the boy stepped fully into his office and closed the door behind him. The boy turned around and grinned chirpily, setting a skateboard up against the wall. He strode forward and stuck out his hand that was cold as ice.

"Dave Lister," the boy introduced himself.

"Stanley Holman," he said, somewhat stiffly, shivering. "Deputy Manager."

As they shook hands, Mr. Holman surveyed Dave Lister from head to foot. He was not impressed. He looked to be fourteen or fifteen, and was at least a head shorter than he was. On the boy's head was a black knit cap flaked with snow. Much to his disapproval, he noticed a cigarette tucked into the turn-up of his hat. He had a podgy face built for a perpetual grin. Dave Lister's clothing did little to help the Deputy Manager's first impression: He was wearing a long leather trench coat that swamped his frame. Visible underneath his trench coat he was wearing a t-shirt with the words 'Colostomy Explosion', partially obscured by an inordinately short tie decorated with laser-eyed robots on roller skates. He was wearing a pair of khakis that were ripped apart in the knees. A pair of badly worn trainers were barely visible under the frayed hems of his trousers. He had the shrunken appearance of someone who had lost a good deal of weight in a short amount of time.

Mr. Holman was the one to first relinquish the handshake, and Lister reached inside his trench coat. For one horrifying moment Mr. Holman thought that the boy might be drawing a gun, but he appeared to merely be wiping his hand off inside of his coat.

"Would you like to take off your coat?" asked Mr. Holman brusquely, eyeing the trench coat uneasily.

"No thanks," said Lister, his teeth chattering as he spoke. "I'm actually really cold. It's snowing out there, you know."

"Yes, I can see that," said Mr. Holman, looking down his long nose. "You tracked in quite a bit of it onto my floor when you came in."

Lister glanced behind himself at the now melting clumps of snow his boots had tracked in. He moved the snow around with one of his boots. "Oh, sorry about that, sir."

Lister removed his hat and placed it on the coat hanger, revealing an afro. Mr. Holman looked highly disapproving.

"Your hair's getting a bit –big, isn't it?" he said, taking a seat behind his desk.

Lister ran a hand through his fro, fluffing it up. "I'm trying to grow it out a bit. I want to make it into dreadlocks, see—but I need something to go off of."

"Hmm," the Deputy Manager snorted. "I see. Sit down."

Lister sat swiftly in the seat before his desk, clasped his hands with the fingerless gloves together and smiled brightly.

Mr. Holman was not fooled by this fake act of enthusiasm before him, the optimistic cheekiness. For one brief moment in his mind's eye he could have sworn he saw an overgrown gerbil grinning at him. "I don't want my precious time wasted any more than you do. So—what do you want, kid?"

Lister took a deep breath before blurting out, "I want a job. Sir."

Mr. Holman laughed, unabashed. "A job?"

"Yeah," said Lister. "Well—to be perfectly honest, I don't really want a job. I need one. Working's not really my thing, but—"

"You want a job?" Mr. Holman repeated skeptically, looking at Lister as though he were something unpleasant he had tracked in onto the carpet with his shiny new shoes.

"Yes, sir," said Lister quietly. "I just thought that I'd—I'd try something new today!"

"Very funny, wise guy," said Mr. Holman irritably. "Did you take the time to fill out an application form?"

"Was I supposed to?" said Lister, taken aback. At the look Mr. Holman shot him, Lister quickly added, "Oh, yeah. An application form! I did one of the those—haven't you got it yet? It must've got lost in the post…"

Mr. Holman looked out his window again, eager for the youth to exit his office as quickly as possible. "Stop wasting my time, boy. Cut to the chase. What are you selling? How much of my money do you want?"

"I'm not gonna lie, Sir. I do want your money," said Lister. At the Deputy Manager's look of disdain, he quickly added, "But I wanna earn it—by working for you."

Mr. Holman leaned back in his chair. "How old are you?"

"Fourteen, sir," said Lister. "Going on fifteen."

"Fourteen?" said Mr. Holman. "Well, I do appreciate a young man who's eager to work, but I think that you might have more important things to worry about right now—like your education. I didn't worry about work when I was your age. You are in school, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir," said Lister. "For the most part. I just got out for the day."

"I see," said Mr. Holman. "Well, if I were you I would concentrate on your studies and leave work for when you're older and more mature," he stood up and walked around his desk, placing a sweaty hand on Lister's shoulder. "I'd like to help you out, I really would. Now which way did you come in?"

Lister remained determinedly seated. "No, you don't understand, sir. I'm not going to leave. I've had too many people turn me down. I know that I may not be old enough or mature enough, but I need this job."

"Surely that's not the case," chuckled the Deputy Manager, his grip on Lister's shoulder tightening, wanting nothing more than to lift Lister out of the chair by the scruff of his neck and throw him out of his office. "Your parents work, don't they? Leave them to bring home the bacon."

"I can't do that, sir," said Lister, his chirpy demeanor faltering.

"Oh? And why not?"

"I've never known me parents," said Lister solemnly. "I'm an orphan. I was found abandoned under a pool table in the Aigburth Arms when I was six weeks old."

"Well, in that case," said Mr. Holman, averting Lister's eyes as he strode away and pretended to tidy up his desk. "Someone must've found you. Surely you have some guardians who provide for you, a foster family or orphanage? A boarding school, perhaps?"

Lister sighed in frustration, leaning even further into the Deputy Manager's desk, who thought he felt his personal bubble get a puncture. He shifted uncomfortably, perturbed by the obvious desperation of the youth in front of him.

"I've been in orphanages, boarding schools, and all that smeg," said Lister. "I was adopted by a family—the Wilmot's. They used to shop here. Me step dad died when I was six and I have no clue where me step mom went, but she never liked me as much as me dad did. I lived with me gran up until last October, but she was killed by a truck just before I turned fourteen."

"Well, surely the system will have put you into another family's care in due time if they haven't already," Mr. Holman reasoned. Realizing that Lister wasn't going to leave, he sat back down behind his desk and tugged at his collar, which now felt uncomfortably tight.

"The 'system' doesn't give a smeg about me anymore," said Lister. "They've practically put me down as a hopeless case. Who wants a kid who's guardians always seem to die with me in their custody? The older you get the less interested people are in adopting you, anyways. They want young kids. I've been staying with some of me mates, but their mums always kick me out after a few weeks. Sam's mum warned me this morning before school that I'll find me kit on the porch when I go back there today. I'm on me own, and as of today I'm officially homeless again."

"I see," said Mr. Holman uncomfortably. He had never been taught how to handle this kind of situation in any of his management training courses.

"I don't really have much of an option," said Lister vulnerably, who seemed to be talking mostly to himself now. "I need to get me own place. I need to be able to buy meself food and clothes. I can't keep nicking me mate's clothes from their dressers or sneaking into restaurants and cleaning off the plates. I'm never going to find the perfect Shami Kebab that way. And I don't much fancy doing my business out there. There's no privacy. And when you do get some privacy, there's no one around to hand you a bog roll. And it's really cold out there. I'm not looking forward to finding somewhere to sleep tonight. I wonder what's more safe, a park bench or the alley?"

"That's all very unfortunate, and I am very sorry," said Mr. Holman, not sounding at all sorry. "But I simply cannot hire someone younger than sixteen and without a working permit, no matter what the conditions of their personal life are. This is a grocery store, not a charity."

"Please, sir," Lister pleaded. "I can't stay out there. I'll get mugged for what little I have just tonight! You don't know what those Bliss freaks are like. They literally think they're God! I'm still in school and I've got nowhere to stay. I've got no one else to go to. No parents, no relatives—I've already stayed with all of me friends and worn out me welcome. Please, start me off working wherever you can. I really need this—I wouldn't come to you if I didn't. Ask anyone who knows me—I probably shouldn't be telling you this, but I hate work! I'm a slacker! I once pretended I had dysentery for a week to put off having to fix up me gran's rusty gate."

Mr. Holman blinked several times. "Yes—that may not be the smartest thing to say to a potential employer…have you tried applying anywhere else?"

"Yeah," said Lister. "I've tried applying at just about every pub in the city. I thought that I'd be most comfortable working environment for me there. But they said that they won't hire minors to run the taps. A bunch of other places won't let me work because I don't even know me birthday—"

"You don't know your birthday?" said Mr. Holman, startled. This interview was going from bad to catastrophic. This kid sure knew how to say all the wrong things.

"No," said Lister anxiously. "Like I said, I was abandoned. I was found in November, they just estimated that I was six weeks old and was probably born in October."

"So when do you celebrate your birthday?" he asked curiously.

Lister shrugged. "Pretty much all of the time."

"Well," said Mr. Holman in satisfaction. "I think we've found our problem. I simply can't hire you. It would be totally unethical, not to mention unprofessional on my part. You haven't got a birth certificate or a social security number! Technically you don't even exist. I can't hire someone who doesn't exist!"

"I'm sitting here in front of you, aren't I?" Lister pointed out. "So I must exist."

Mr. Holman ran his hands, frustrated, through his thinning chestnut colored hair. "You haven't got a work permit."

"I'll get one," said Lister simply. "It can't be that hard."

"Listen, David," said Mr. Holman, clasping his hands out in front of him. "You're a kid. Fourteen. No one in their right mind would give you a work permit."

"I think they would," said Lister, looking thoughtful. "Once I tell them me story. They'd be a lot more understanding than you're being."

"Yes—this— this—story of yours," said the Deputy Manager. "How am I supposed to trust you that it's true? How am I to know you're not making all of it up?"

"Sir," said Lister, placing one semi-gloved hand over his heart. "I'd be lying if I said that I wasn't an honest man."

"If you're so honest," said Mr. Holman. "Then perhaps you wouldn't mind informing me of any criminal acts that may be on your record. As a potential employer, it is something I will doubtlessly look in on. And it will sound a lot less ugly coming from you than a police report."

"Hang on," said Lister defiantly. "What makes you think I have a record with the police?"

"Well?" said Mr. Holman. "Do you?"

"Yes," said Lister, flustered. "But—"

"But what?" laughed Mr. Holman. "Incase you haven't noticed, David—this interview isn't going all too well. However, I may hire an employee who I know I can trust. It is one of the traits I most admire."

"Okay," said Lister quietly. "I'll tell you."

"And don't leave anything out," said Mr. Holman. "Or I'll know."

"Alright, alright," Lister sighed, biting his lip and staring up at the ceiling. "The police…I've been caught stealing—"

"Stealing?" said Mr. Holman, his eyebrows rising up to his receding hairline. "Stealing what?"

"Cars," said Lister. "Me and me mates never got very far, though. We use shaved keys and always went for really nice cars that always had alarms installed. We never got very far before we were caught. We'd probably have got away with it if it had been night time or if there weren't all those onlookers. We can be pretty stupid sometimes, I guess."

"That's obvious," snorted Mr. Holman. "Is there anything else you've stolen?"

"Orgy Bears," said Lister.

"What?"

"You know, those little red cinnamon candy bears," said Lister. "When they're all in a bag wrapped in their own separate plastic wraps, they're Virgin Bears. But when they're all unwrapped in the bag together, they're Orgy Bears."

"I see," said Mr. Holman slowly. "These—Orgy Bears—they weren't stolen from my store, were they?"

"No, sir," said Lister. "You're new here, right? So it wasn't your store at the time. I've also been charged with trespassing on private property, loitering, breaking the city's curfew, minor in possession, and indecent exposure. There was this one time where me and me best mates were out past curfew drinking lager. We didn't realize that we were also loitering until the bizzies showed up with their billy clubs and told us. It turns out we'd been standing in front of the cop shop. To make matters worse, I was blind bladdered and when the police showed up, I was pissing on their car, so drunk that I mistook it for some great ugly bush. So on top of all the other charges I got indecent exposure and violation of public property, too. But at least I had a place to stay that night."

"I think that's—"

"And then there was that time where I spray painted the London Jets Zero-Gee football logo on the side of me old school," Lister continued. "I probably shouldn't 'ave done it now that I think back, but the drawing was just so good that the real crime would be if I didn't give it my signature at the bottom. So I did. I was in the Headmaster's office by lunchtime."

"You really—"

"This one time I was really sloshed and I stumbled into someone's garden when I was trying to find me way back to me gran's. I thought it'd be a shortcut. And there was this woman undressing for bed. It was totally innocent—I'm not a pervert, I looked away almost as soon as I saw her. But she started screaming. The only reason I wasn't charged with assault was because I was genuinely drunk, lost and harmless, and my gran convinced them that I wasn't entirely there mentally, that my medication wasn't working. In exchange for her bailing me out, I was on denture duty right up until she died—"

"I'd advise you—"

"If you read anything in my report about me punching out the Berlin Bandit's star Roof Attack player, it's not true. That was just someone who looked like me. I was at that riot, but I was the one getting tossed about. And I couldn't have thrown that punch, because I has been handcuffed to a goalpost. But it is true that I've been banned from Sweden."

"Well, I do appreciate your honesty, David," said Mr. Holman. "But I simply cannot hire someone with that sort of criminal background."

"But I've changed," said Lister earnestly. "I've turned over a new leaf. I've made a New Year's resolution to stay out of trouble. What's the date?"

"The third," said Mr. Holman, glancing back at the date on his newspaper.

"Great!" said Lister. "You see? I've already kept it up for three days. There's only three hundred and forty-two more days to go! I'm a new man already!"

"Three hundred and sixty-two more days," corrected Mr. Holman.

"Eh?" said Lister.

"There's three hundred and sixty-five days in a year, Lister," said Mr. Holman.

"Yeah, well," said Lister, unperturbed. "It's a good start, innit?"

"But still, those are outstanding crimes for someone as young as you," said Mr. Holman. "And it's not all that easy for me to swallow everything you're saying. Actions do speak louder than words."

"I hope I'm not out of place in saying this," said Lister. "But didn't you ever make any stupid mistakes as a kid?"

"Well…" Mr. Holman mumbled. "That's a very personal question. And it was a very long time ago…."

"And someone gave you a second chance?" Lister prompted. "I know they did. How'd you end up here, otherwise? Deputy Manager of a supermarket as distinguished as Sainsbury's. Would anyone have let you do that when you were fourteen?"

"This is your job interview, not mine, David," said the Deputy Manager sternly. "And even if I did make the odd mistake, it was never anything like drinking in front of a police station."

"But, sir, wouldn't you sleep better at night knowing there's one less kid like me on the streets?"

"Yes, I would," said Mr. Holman honestly.

"Then maybe you could give me a second chance, too," said Lister.

"Lister, let me be frank," said Mr. Holman, collapsing his hands together.

Lister looked confused. "I thought Glenda said your name was Stanley."

Mr. Holman smiled stiffly. "Let me be Stanley, then," he said. "You are not exactly the type of employee I'm looking for."

"I am!" Lister assured him. He desperately cast his eyes around the room for something to give him an idea of how to change the Deputy Manager's mind. He found the answer in a framed document above Mr. Holman's desk with the legend 'The ABC's Of A Good Employee.' Bingo.

"But I know that I have all the qualities you're looking for," said Lister, trying not to squint as he read the poster on the wall behind the Deputy Manager. "I'm like a diamond in the rough. You may have to dig a bit to get to them, but they're definetly there. I'm assertive, benevolent, cooperative, disciplined, enthusiastic, friendly, good-natured, honest, intuitive, jubilant, knowledgeable, logical, mature—"

"I'm not saying you don't have those qualities—somewhere," said Mr. Holman, eyeing Lister doubtfully. "I couldn't hire you even if I wanted to. We don't need any more workers at the moment. The holiday rush is over. There's simply no openings "

At that moment, the office door burst open and Glenda reemerged, looking flustered and breathless.

"Glenda!" snapped Mr. Holman. "I'm having an interview and you did not knock before making your entrance."

"Fine," Glenda knocked sharply on the door three times and said, "Happy now?"

"Oh, go on, Glenda," said Mr. Holman in resignation. "What is it this time?"

"It happened again," said Glenda. "You know—the thing that happened last time."

"You mean a lemming escaped from the pet shop and was trying to drown itself in the staff lounge coffee maker?"

"No, the other thing," said Glenda, biting her lip as he sharply inclined her head in Lister's direction.

"You mean that another one of my employees was hit by one of those infernal hover cars?" blustered Mr. Holman, his moustache twitching. "Not again…"

Glenda nodded. "It was Mason again. He was collecting the trolleys and old Mrs. Jenkins didn't see 'im. Bowled 'im right over, she did. We've called the ambulances to take him to hospital. They're on their way. A doctor who was in the lot took a look at him. Says it looks like he broke a couple of ribs and fractured his spine."

"Oh," said Mr. Holman, massaging his temple. "Will he be okay?"

"Eventually," said Glenda. "But he also says he quits. I'm gonna go back to wait with 'im."

With that, Glenda left the room as quickly as she had come. Lister smiled slightly to himself. "Poor old Mason…"

"Indeed," said Mr. Holman. "We need a replacement to pick up the work for tomorrow now. I suppose that means we'll have to decide on your entry level."

"What?" said Lister, brightening. "You mean I've got the job?"

Mr. Holman nodded stiffly, with the air of one who knew they were most likely making a fatal decision.

"Well, in that case," said Lister. "I think we've hit it off pretty well. How about Assistant Deputy Manager?"

"No," said Mr. Holman, shuddering. "I'm going to start you off as a trolley collector."

"A trolley boy?" said Lister, his brow furrowing. "Is that what Mason was?"

"Yes," said Mr. Holman. "He really should have given me the two weeks notice before he quit. It's the typical entry level job here, and luckily for you is now the only one available."

"What do I do?" Lister asked.

"It's so simple even you could do it. Mostly you'll be helping customers take their groceries to their vehicles and I'll also have you collect shopping trolleys," said Mr. Holman.

"That's what Mason was?" Lister clarified. "And he was hit by a car twice?"

"Well," said Mr. Holman slowly. "Not to speak ill of one of my former employees, but Mason was not the brightest crayon in the box. Do you want to risk being run over as well?"

"If it means I'd get the job," said Lister. "But at least I'd have the common sense to move if I saw a car coming."

"I can't believe I'm doing this," said Mr. Holman, extending his hand.

"Neither can I," said Lister, shaking the Deputy Manager's hand. "I mean—thanks a lot."

"Be here for training this time tomorrow," said Mr. Holman. "Meet Duncan, the trainee manager. He'll show you the ropes. And don't be late. Got it?"

"Got it," Lister repeated, taking his hat from the coat stand and retrieving his skateboard. "Oh—one more question. Do I have to wear a uniform and nametag?"

"No, Lister," said Mr. Holman, and Lister sighed happily. "You get to wear a uniform, a name tag, and a reflective vest. Possibly a rookie badge too, if you're lucky."

Lister gave Mr. Holman a two-fingered salute as he reached for the doorknob.

"I'll be watching you, Lister," said Mr. Holman, pointing at his eyes and then at Lister's chest. "Don't make me regret this."

"Don't worry, Sir," said Lister, opening the door and giving him one last chirpy grin. "You won't."

Lister closed the office door. Mr. Holman sighed and strode over to his window and watched as an ambulance soared past, sirens blaring. At last he was gone, until tomorrow. He was already started to regret hiring the boy. He found some small comfort in knowing that at least Lister could read.

…

Lister hummed cheerfully to himself as he sauntered off down the hallway. He was elated at having got the job, yet full of dread at the same time. This was a commitment. He hated commitments. But this was one that he had to make if he intended on surviving on his own in the city.

There was one less worry in his life—where the money would be coming from. He could collect trolleys and help people carry their groceries out, no problem. He might even get to meet some more cute cashiers who'd like to hook up with him during lunch breaks. Lister's main concerns now was where his dinner would be coming from and where he'd sleep that night. He'd got lucky once that day with Mason's unfortunate accident, and he hoped that he'd get lucky again—like maybe Mason also had a sandwich clutched in his hands and a key to a hotel room in one of his pockets. It was about time that life started treating Dave Lister well, because it owed him. Big time.

Lister stopped beside the drinking fountain beside the restrooms. He whooped gleefully and did the Zero-Gee touchdown shuffle. He heard a feeble giggle behind him and turned to see a small girl watching him while her mother paid for the groceries. Lister was in such a good mood that he did the touchdown shuffle again, and the little girl bubbled with laughter. He cast the girl a smile before bending over the water fountain to get a drink. From his horizontal gaze he caught a glimpse of the aid car outside the window, its lights flashing.

Lister held his skateboard behind his back and strode out the automatic front doors. It was already getting dark and the snow was still falling thick from the dark winter sky. Lister shivered and wrapped his arms tightly around himself. Under the dim light of the streetlamp, a small group of onlookers watched as the paramedics lifted Mason's stretcher up into the back of the aid car. A police officer had his hand awkwardly on the frail shoulder of a little old woman who was sobbing, clutching a handkerchief to her mouth.

"I didn't mean to hit 'im," she sniffled. "I just couldn't see over the top of my steering wheel!"

"There, there, Mrs. Jenkins," said the officer robotically. "This will never happen to you again. I'm rebuking your driver's license."

Old Mrs. Jenkins sobbed even louder. "Not that that'll stop you," the officer muttered, turning away and heading back to his car for his report book.

"Mason!" cried Lister jovially. "How're you doing, mate?"

Lister caught a brief glimpse of Mason raising his bandaged middle finger into the air at the unfamiliar boy with no tact, before the paramedics closed the doors.

Unperturbed, Lister walked on. He stopped on the sidewalk and scuffed the snow around with his toe. The snow was piled several inches deep, and he had a feeling that he wouldn't be able to skateboard down the sidewalks. Lister stepped down off the curb into the side of the street and his feet slid out from underneath him, causing him to land painfully on his back. The snow on the street had melted and then refrozen as the temperature had dropped, forming a treacherous layer of ice on the road. Groaning, his head spinning, Lister blearily opened one eye and saw that his skateboard had slid away across the street. Lister got shakily to his feet, every bone in his body throbbing from the fall.

Disorientated, Lister darted out into the street without looking. A hover car nearly hit him and honked loudly, coming to a screeching halt mere inches from Lister, who grinned dazedly and waved at the driver. "Hi!"

The driver rolled down his window and leaned out. He shouted, "Hey, kid! What's the matter with you? Are you drunk?"

"Not yet, sir," Lister said, retrieving his board from the opposite curb. "Give me another hour…"

Lister stumbled up onto the curb, and the driver sped off. He pressed his face up against the nearest shop window, looking for a clock. It was nearly five o'clock. Lister turned and looked around at all of the snow covering the city like a thick blanket. Though it was already dark as the dead of the night, the snow acted as a light, making everything seem that much lighter. Lister threw his head back and stuck out his tongue, trying to catch the snowflakes that were circling and lazily falling like a swarm of insects in the light cast from the lamppost. Lister blinked when a particularly fat snowflake landed in his eye.

"I wouldn't do that if I was you, son," wheezed a passing elderly couple. "The world's so polluted these days that you shouldn't touch any form of water not straight from a bottle. And even then it's still questionable."

"Thanks," said Lister, not paying them any attention, determined to catch one of the snowflakes that seemed to be averting his tongue.

"Just down to visit St. James and then we'll be going home for dinner, dear," Lister heard the old woman say to her husband.

Lister turned his head in the direction of the elderly couple, making their way slowly but surely towards the cemetery. Lister kept a safe distance behind them so they wouldn't know he was following. He decided to give them more of a head start, ducking into a restaurant and bringing a flurry of snowflakes with him. At the table nearest the door, he snatched a half-eaten roast beef sandwich off the plate of a customer who had recently left and the bus boys hadn't got around to cleaning up yet.

Lister stepped back out into the snow, eating his dinner as he walked. That operation had gone more smoothly than it usually did. Lister continued walking to the cemetery. He finished the sandwich quickly. It had been his first meal that day. At Sam's house that morning he had woken up two minutes before the opening bell at school, and Sam's mum had told him he'd have to get up earlier if he wanted any breakfast. Lister licked his fingers, hungrier than he was before, as it always seemed to happen.

Lister walked down the sloping tunnel into the cemetery. In the dim evening light reflected on either side from the snow, he could vaguely make out chiseled tunnel walls decorated with tombstones. Lister pulled out his cigarette lighter and held the flame beside the tunnel wall, running his finger over the initials J.F.P, 1856. Three hundred and fourteen years seemed an unfathomable amount of time to him. It may as well have been three million one hundred and fourteen years ago the initials were put down.

Lister continued down the path. He spotted the elderly couple standing off a distance in front of a tombstone. He could faintly hear the woman say something about their daughter who had died two years ago, and how glad she was that the cemetery had been reopened to burials. Lister felt a pang or remorse, agreeing with her that this beautiful gothic cemetery wasn't a bad place to have as your final resting place. He was at least glad that his own loved ones were here. The place looked hauntingly beautiful in the snow.

He stopped in front of angel-shaped tombstone bearing the inscription, "MYRTLE GROMSTONE, 2113-2169. May you not hit the ceiling fan on the way up to heaven."

At the foot of Myrtle's tombstone was a bundle of pink carnations. Lister made sure no one was looking and picked up the bouquet, sliding two delicate pink carnations loose from the others. "Sorry, Myrtle," Lister apologized, laying the remaining carnations back in the snow.

Lister continued to wander a familiar path through the cemetery, his teeth chattering, his numb hands clutching the two pink carnations, until he came upon two very the two plots he'd been looking for.

Lister knelt down in the snow, which was so cold it burned his skin through the holes in his trouser knees. He reached out his hand and brushed the snow off the tombstones of his stepfather and grandmother. He often wondered if his real father was somewhere in this cemetery as well. He smiled sadly and held up the flowers.

"Hi," he said softly. "It's me."

Lister paused, as if expecting to hear a response from the stone. When none came, he continued. "You'd be really happy at me, dad—gran."

The night literally remained silent as the grave.

"I got a job today," Lister said, smiling. "At Sainsbury's. That's where you used to always go to buy your snuff, gran. I'm a trolley collector. I start training tomorrow. Thanks for helping me. I knew that I couldn't have got the job without you. I mean, who'd hire me? I can barely spell me own name!"

Lister imagined that he heard their laughter again, and it sent a chill up his spine that had nothing to do with the cold. "Remember my first day of school, dad? You and gran brought me there and I didn't want you to leave. You dragged me halfway across the room because I was holding on to your ankle, screaming and crying for you not to leave me there. And I told the teacher my name was Little Munchkin, 'cause that's what you always called me? And then after you died, I called the gym master 'daddy' in front of the whole school?"

More snow had fallen on the tombstones. Lister brushed off the flakes again. "Getting that job doesn't solve all my problems, though. I've still got nowhere to stay tonight. I don't know what to do."

Suddenly, something caught Lister's attention. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a paper floating along the ground, in a breeze that had been nonexistent a mere second ago. Lister made to go retrieve the paper, but amazingly it floated right to him, and he caught it deftly in his hand.

Lister turned the paper over. It was a flyer. A flyer advertising a block of flats not far from where he was. Lister looked at the price they were asking and groaned—he knew he wouldn't start off making that kind of money. When he scanned the bottom of the flyer for a phone number, his heart skipped a beat when he read the name attached to the number.

"Mavis Pearson?" Lister said in disbelief, staring from the flyer to his grandma's headstone. "She was your best friend! She gave the eulogy at your funeral!"

Lister beamed. "Yes, this is it! I know she'll give me a deal when she sees me. I remember that she liked me—always brought me sweets. She won't turn me down. I'll stop by tomorrow after work."

He couldn't believe his luck. Things were really starting to turn around for him. Suddenly, Lister was blinded by a bright light shining straight in his face. He held his hand up to his eyes and squinted at the approaching figure.

"Oy!" a policeman with a voice like gravel called. "What're you doin' here?"

"Nothing," said Lister innocently, tucking the flyer into his pocket. "Just visiting my family. Would you mind lowering that light, guy?"

"Don't be smart," said the policeman. "I know that you're up to no good. Now clear out. The cemetery's closed."

"I don't mean to sound rude or anything," said Lister. "But I'm not leaving. I have every right to be here. I know that visiting hours go until six."

"Well, I say that it closes at dusk," growled the policeman. "And I also say that it's my job to clear out any visitors."

"What about them?" said Lister, nodding towards the elderly couple in the distance. "Have you told them to clear out?"

"No, they're fine," said the policeman. "It's my job to send out young hoodlums."

The police officer looked more closely at Lister's face. "Do I know you?"

Lister honestly didn't know if the officer knew him or not, he was blinded by the light in his face. "I dunno. Lower your torch and I'll tell you."

"Don't be smart!" the policeman bellowed again, lowering his torch slightly. Lister took a quick look at the all-too familiar officer and hid his face again.

"No, I don't think I've ever seen you before," Lister mumbled.

"Well, I have," said the officer. "Aren't you the punk who pissed on my car and then ate the last donut—my donut—with the pink frosting and sparkles when you were in the waiting room?"

"No," said Lister quickly. "You must be thinking of some other donut fiend…"

"No, it was you, Lister!" bellowed the cop, reaching for his bobby stick. "Now clear out before I call in reinforcements!"

"Okay, okay," said Lister, holding up his hands in defeat. "Just give me a minute to say goodbye."

Lister pressed the carnations to his lips and laid one each in front of the tombstones. "Bye," he whispered, so the policeman couldn't hear him. "I'll come back tomorrow."

"That's long enough," said the officer gruffly, hauling Lister up by the back of his coat. He dragged Lister back up the path he came and towards the tunnel.

"I don't need an escort," said Lister, breaking free. "I know me way home."

"Good," growled the officer. "Now get out. And don't let me see you again until you have a new donut for me!"

Lister went back up the tunnel until he reached the main street again. He stood at the corner of the street, wondering where he could possibly go to spend the night and not freeze to death. He rubbed his hands together, thinking of how much a warm bed would mean to him that night. He decided to go back to Sam's house to pick up his stuff, and maybe they'd let him stay one more night.

Lister trudged through the snow until he came to the house of his friend from school, Sam Mirkle. Just as Mrs. Mirkle had promised, his stuff was waiting for him in a small heap on the porch. Lister climbed the steps up to the front door and picked up the small bundle. He took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

After a moment, a harassed looking Mrs. Mirkle answered. She took one look at Lister and promptly slammed the door in his face.

Lister heard Sam's voice on the other side of the door, and a heated argument where he could hear his name mentioned several times. After a few moments, the door swung open again and Sam was at the door this time. His light brown hair was sticking up in all directions. as usual. He smiled wearily.

"Hey, Dave," said Sam. "Sorry about her. She really doesn't want me to let you in. She threatened to ground me for the rest of my natural—"

"Tell her I got a job," said Lister, loud enough for Mrs. Mirkle to hear. "And I only need to stay one more night!"

"You got a job?" said Sam, laughing. "Now I've heard everything. Where at? What nutcase had the guts to hire you?"

"I'm a trolley boy at Sainsbury's," said Lister, pulling the flyer from his pocket.

"I just found out that me gran's best friend is the landlord at these flats here. I know her pretty well. She'll give me a good deal. I was kind of like her grandson, too. I bet she'll be really pleased to see me."

"I suppose you can stay one more night," said Mrs. Mirkle grudgingly, pushing a grinning Sam aside and holding the door open. "Now get inside before I change my mind."

Lister stepped gratefully into the warmth of the living room and took off his shoes. He dropped his clothes in a heap on the couch. "Thanks, Mrs. Mirkle."

"Yeah, thanks, mum!" said Sam cheerfully.

"Just one more night, David," said Mrs. Mirkle, bustling off to the kitchen. "We were just about to have dinner. Are you hungry?"

"Starving," said Lister, following her and Sam gratefully into the dining room. He took his usual seat at the dinner table beside Sam, where he noticed that there had been an extra plate set.

"David, would you mind saying Grace?" said Mrs. Mirkle, placing a napkin over her lap.

"Sure thing," said Lister, and both Sam and Mrs. Mirkle looked surprised at his lack of protest. "I'd love to."

"What's got into you, mate?" asked Sam, pushing Lister's shoulder.

"It's a lot easier to say Grace when things finally start to go right for you," Lister responded. Mrs. Mirkle gave Lister a small smile as the three of them bowed their heads. There was a long silence before Lister said, "Now, how's it go again?"

Fin.

AN: Many thanks to my friend Bex, aka Sunrise over the Tango Factory, for helping me with a lot of the research that went into this story, clarifying facts, and all that jazz. Thanks, Bex!

Reviews are welcome and appreciated!