The Ticket Booth

The Ticket Booth-Prologue

My life is average. Well, I mean...yeah. It's average. It's really bloody average. I have poop eyes, poop hair, and pale skin with poop freckles. Just a whole lot of poop. That's a nice way to describe my life. My mum ran away from her boring home town in Canada and went to England seeking adventure. She got knocked up, got a flat in London, bought a paint set, and called herself an artist. One day while I was at primary school she got shot. In the face.

That lovely story brought me to be raised by my crazy uncle Zack. He's sixteen years my senior so naturally all my friends thought he was hot. ick. Unlike my mum, his sister, he was too much of a bum to move away from boring old Avonlea. Oh. Did I mention? My mum moved from Avonlea. It's really quite astonishing how many gingers live there. They move there because they think they're cute or something dumb like that. Well picture this, I was an orphan and moved there. HA! I win the Anne of Green Gables look-alike contest.

Sorry if you don't know what I'm talking about. Anyways, the first eighteen years of my life were rubbish basically. Absolute rubbish. That's why I moved in with my single 30 year-old aunt after I graduated, also the last of my family left that I could run away to. Guess where she lived. PE island, Canada. Good old Prince Edward Island. It seems to me the fates just really wanted me to relive Anne of Green Gables or something completely rubbish like that.

That brings me here. Selling tickets. At a ticket booth. For a boat ride. Under a bridge. A bridge that "encompasses island history" or some joke like that. In short, it's a bloody riot. I get to sit here and talk to a total of twelve, that's pushing it, people a day. Sometimes if I'm lucky and the rides are off schedule, I get to see the rusty old ferry ride under the rusty old bridge, but that's only if it's not foggy either. So here I am thinking about my average life and sipping 99¢ coffee from the gas station that is cold and bitter. Just like my heart. HA! Good one, Calla.

"Attention Calla at the home base, I repeat, attention at the home base. We have a code blue," came the dull voice of four-fingered-Frank over the walkie talkie.

"What in the bloody name of all that is good and holy does that mean?" I screeched back in annoyance. I really don't like interruptions to my thoughts. Especially deep comparisons of my coffee to my soul. That's as deep as it gets.

"Calla you know I can't understand you with your fancy accent when you get frustrated at me on the walkie," he replied. I could tell his brow was ruffled and he was giving me the 'I'm trying to be your father' look.

"I'm British Frank, not a member of the royal precession. Now would you care to tell me what a code blue means?" I shot back slowly so he would understand. Honestly, don't these people come from England? I don't even sound that posh anymore.

"Oh it just means close down the booth and come down to the boat," he said innocently.

"Fine," I grumbled back and began the process of shutting it down. First close the window, next lock the back door. Oi, my job is hard.

xXx

On the boat I learned some rubbish news. My rubbish job was about to get a lot more bloody rubbish. Frank, it seems, has a nephew from Vermont. Did you know that was a place? I didn't. Anyway he's probably really gross and he's probably going to hit on me and it's not going to be fun. See, they're adding a gift shop and I'm being "promoted" to gift shop manager and he's gonna work the booth. Bloody, great.

He comes Thursday and seeing as it's Thursday, he comes today. Frank lost part of his brain when his hand and one finger got bit off by a caribou because he somehow failed to mention this to me. Until twenty minutes ago. It's too bloody early.

So now I have to wait for him to show up and then I have to leave until they build a gift shop.

What's this bloke doing. "OI, YOU BLOKE RIGHT THERE HANDS OFF THE LEVER!" I screamed at the random guy with a caterpillar on his lip trying to pull the lever to lower the platform for the boat. If that's down and the boat drives past the island loses a boat and I lose a job. Great he didn't hear me and now I have to be responsible.

I ran out of the booth and towards him. "Oi, did you not bloody hear me? I said hands off the lever."

Suddenly the most beautiful creature I'd ever seen turned to face me. See, somehow I'd mistaken a cigarette for a mustache. "Oh, sorry, this? I didn't realize what it was sorry."

"N-no it's fine it's just if that platform goes down, the boat sinks and I wouldn't have a job anymore and I sort of need this job. Employment on this island is otherwise non-existent," I rambled.

"An accent. Sweet. I can dig it. I'm Cole, Frank's nephew?"

"Who? Oh, right. You're the bloke four fingers failed to mention till twenty minutes ago." Suddenly, Vermont burst out laughing and I thought I'd lose him there for a quick stretch. I curled my lip up at him and flared my nostrils in a 'Can you not' fashion and said " I'm sorry, 'Murica, did I say something funny?"

"FOUR...FINGERS?!? THAT...IS THE FUNNIEST...THING...I'VE EVER HEARD...IN MY LIFE."

"Well that's rubbish because that tells me Vermont, wherever that is, doesn't have, what we call, humor here in Canada."

"Sorry," he said wiping his tear that wasn't there (pretentious) spitting his cigarette onto the ground (slob) and winking at me as he ground it into the dirt (douchie) "I just haven't laughed in a while and my senile uncle seems to be a great thing to start with."

"Yeah well get over it, you won't be interacting with people much from now on that job is rubbish."

"What about you I was told you we're being promoted? I'll have you," he was really laying it on thick with the eyelashes and the pouty lips.

"Oh please, brown eyes, you don't even know my name. Besides, you don't even have me. Not until someone builds me a bloody gift shop. Now if you excuse me, I'm out of here."

"Wait aren't you supposed to teach me how to do it?"

"You work in a ticket booth. People say ' I want a ticket' you say 'give me the dough' they give it to you, you put it away and give them a ticket and then when you're done you close the window and lock the door on your way out. Its sort of self explanatory," I said dully. Then, tossing him the keys over my shoulder I called back, "Good luck Yankee and welcome to Canada."

"Wait! What is your name?" Called back.

"Calla. Like the Lily."