Tiny Tim's Turbulent Times

Tiny Tim was your normal run of the mill, average school boy; of course he was by no means a Saint, but he would never dream of bunking classes, and he had never even had a detention. He was not the sort of boy who was cocky enough to be considered one of the ‘cool kids', nor was he anywhere near intelligent enough to be accepted by the nerds. Poor Tiny Tim was not even puny enough to be welcomed by the dweebs who were threatened by his average physique. Instead he was one of the few who were left isolated, consumed in their own bubble of thought, and for the most part went unnoticed. But on this particular day Tim was convinced this was all about to change.....



Tim was slouched at his desk, he had not put pen to paper all day, and he had barely been bothered to listen to teacher yak on and on all afternoon- he was far to excited. Tim kept running his plan through his head over and over again; he had spent weeks putting it together. Now, today being the day he intended to pluck up the courage and see it through he kept telling himself that there was to be no room for mistakes. He stared at the clock on the wall; to him it seemed to be ticking backwards 10 seconds every time it went forward 1. It was nearly 3:30, he knew soon the bell would ring and signal his release- in anticipation he grabbed his rucksack with one hand, pushed his chair out slightly. By now he was feeling so intense his leg was trembling, the sound of his foot tapping against the floor was almost hypnotic and beads of sweat began to trickle down his forehead. Finally, after what seemed a lifetime the end of day bell sounded and Tiny Tim was off in a shot.


Tim knew that time was against him, it always seemed to be. He was convinced that time hated him-was somehow punishing him, that was his reasoning as to why no matter how early he got up in the mornings he always ended up being late. He knew that he couldn't kill time; he had tried before but could never seem to locate it. In that sense to Tiny Tim, time was a coward. Tim had even tried to beat time by somehow manipulating the equations of the travel graphs he vaguely remembered from his maths and physics classes, but he could never seem to get his head around them. Remember readers, Tim was not too clever, that is after all why he was at a state school.


Because of these short comings Tim had to ensure that he was well prepared. Preparation and guesstimations, these were the only weapons he had to hand. Hence the reason why he had his rucksack- no children of literature- it wasn't full of revision books so he could swat up for the all important exams he had coming up next month. Instead its contents were a change of clothes. Tim knew it would do him no favours if he turned up to where he was going in school uniform. As he ran across the school yard Tim unbuttoned his tie with one hand, zigzagging and stumbling as he pulled his school jumper off over his head.


He only stopped for the briefest of seconds to get a sweater and trainers out of the bag before he carried on, he slipped on the trainers and as he continued his sprint threw his school shoes over his shoulder. He didn't care about those, they weren't important right now. They had never fitted properly and besides they were a cheap pair from Primark- ever since he had bought them he kept having persistent nightmares of him being surrounded by a sea of poor deprived Chinese children, pleading with him- begging him to be less stingy with his money and buy a decent pair so they could earn more than a pittance a shoe for their slave labour, and maybe one day get some sort of education. Tim ran right out of the school ignoring the huddle of other kids who appeared to be doing something very interesting to a younger boy at the bus stop. He ran and he ran, and was soon out of breath, but he was on a mission. Tim felt like Forrest Gump he was running so much.


Then the thought entered his mind, maybe he too should grow a massive beard like Forrest did. It might actually look quite cool on him. Was Tom Hank's real or fake? It was probably fake- but maybe a fake beard made of real hair. If this was the case, was it human hair, or possibly horse hair? If it was human hair then did they find a guy with massively long hair and convince him to shave it off, or did the producers get a runner to go round various barber shops at night and steal hair from the bins? Tim slapped himself across the face at this point as he knew his curiosity about Forrest Gump's beard could go on forever. He'd just have to Wiki it when he got home. It would bug him now unless he did. But that didn't matter right now, as Tim turned the final corner he stopped, clutching his chest as he finally started to breathe again. He had reached his destination.....


Tim smiled in relief as he looked up and saw the green sign of O'Neil's newsagents, he had done the easy bit; the tricky part was still to come. Now he had to actually go in and buy the pack of smokes. Tim played it out in his mind what he would do ‘be cool' he thought, ‘just go in and act like you do this all the time- no big deal'. Tim then questioned himself about how exactly he was supposed to act like he did something all the time, when he had in fact not done that same thing at all. He didn't have a clue how someone who did it all the time would act. Sometimes Tim really did hate the brain he was lumbered with. He knew if he was going to do this he'd have to do it alone. He sighed and headed for the door.....


With one push the door swung open and Tim strode in, it was going well so far, he thought. But then, unexpectedly, to Tim anyway, the man behind the counter looked up from what he was doing and glared directly at him. Tim hastily spun around 180 degrees and faced the drinks fridge. He almost shat his pants. ‘Fuck! Game over now wise guy- all this way for you to pussy out just cos someone looks at you?' Tim hated it when his brain taunted him. But he knew his brain was right, it always would be because it had the power over him to tell him that was so, no? What was Tim to do now? He knew it would be odd if he spun round and carried on as normal. No, he needed to tweak his plan a little. That's what all great schemers did; adapt their plans to compensate unforeseen events. He had to think fast. What would someone buying a pack of smokes also buy from an establishment such as this? The first answer that popped into his mind was a can of Irn Bru. He sure could do with one right now, but no, that didn't seem quite right. Then suddenly- Bingo!! To Tim it clicked- it was so obvious. He turned to his right and headed down the isle to the adult magazines.....


NB Now to the reader, I am not a judging person. You may or may not have been in a position similar to this where you have found yourself browsing the porno mags in your local corner shop. If you have that's fine- it's a free country after all. Who knows, you might have even gone on to purchase a particular one that really caught your eye. They really do have insightful articles don't they! I wouldn't know, but I'm trying to bond with you here and in doing so am reaching out to a level that is frankly below me- joke. Either way, if you have, you can relate to this, if you haven't, then you won't. You also won't get any real insight to the experience here, or any tips on how to go about buying one without humiliating yourself. After all this is intended to be a universal read so I do not want to offend anyone. Therefore, and I'm sorry if I disappoint- but I will not be going into any detail about what was on the cover of these ‘adult picture books' nor shall I be providing any titles. However if you are now bored and semi frustrated why not play a fun game. Google any combo of naughty words you have in your vocabulary and see if you can come up with a great name for a porno mag yourself. Who knows, you might go on to make millions...lets have a little break now while you try.....done? Good. Now let's continue.


After a few minutes of browsing Tim finally settled on a said magazine called ‘Big ******** ***** **** **** with carrots' and headed back to the till. He placed the magazine down on the counter. The man, who we will call Malachy, even though that wasn't his real name, just frowned. Tim could now feel himself prairie dogging, but luckily he finally entered the amount- £3.95, a bargain really, into the till.




"Anything else, mate?" grunted the man. Actually no wait, he had a lovely Southern Irish accent. Scrap the grunt.




"Errrr, and a pack of 10 smokes please.. mate?" squeaked Tim back in his best attempt at a husky deep booming voice.




"Ok....what sort?" was Malachy's reply.


Now this completely threw little Timo. He was certain he had seen in many T.V programmes people going up to a bar, asking for a generic pint of lager and subsequently being served a pint, no questions asked. He knew for a fact that there were several different brands of lager, each with varying volumes of alcohol- check before you buy, drink responsibly! Why was he now being forced to submit to commercialism and chose a particular brand, for one he didn't know any off the top of his head.


He had to think, again. Over twice in one day, way more than what guys are normally used to. Where had he seen people smoking? OF course! The trampy older tarts at school always hung around the bike sheds, puffing away. In fact thinking bout it they spent most of their time there. There were rumours amongst the younger boys that they were running some sort of employment scheme, offering all kinds of jobs to boys in exchange for money, or something. Didn't really make sense why you would give money to a girl and then get a job of some kind off her in return. They also categorised these supposed jobs alphabetically right from an A job abbreviated to ‘AJ' right down to a ‘ZJ'. Tim assumed that a ‘ZJ' was most special, as when he enquired to what it actually was the reply was always the same. ‘If you've got to ask, you can't afford it', but that was a mystery that could be looked into later. Besides he wasn't getting or doing any kind of job until he was at least 16, he knew his rights, if anyone tried to force an ‘AJ' or any other kind of ‘J' on him before then he would get the E.U on their asses.


Anyway, as he was picturing the events of the last paragraph a name suddenly popped into his head, ‘Marlboro!' he exclaimed half surprising himself. Malachy just smiled and took them off the shelf. Who could say no to the allure of a Marlboro cigarette, them being as mild as May and all, besides everybody knows that 52% of high school smokers in the USA choose Marlboro. As soon as Tiny Tim received his change, which amounted to £1.54, which was still a lot of money for a kid his age, he sprinted out the door. The little panic he had when he first entered nearly cost him, his old foe, time was back on his case, breathing down his neck. Tim knew he was running out of it; time that is- not his neck, which would just be weird. He now had to initiate phase 3 of his great scheme so headed off to the allotments, which unfortunately for him meant a wee bit more running time.


As he once again began running he knew now, finally after all this time how Charlie felt when he found Willy Wonka's golden ticket. He ran and he ran, the further he ran the more convinced he became that he actually was starting to grow an uber cool bushy beard. He ran right through the park, not even in the slightest bit tempted to play on the slides, it was all swings and roundabouts to him. He even ran right past Mr Johnson, who was perked in his usual place on the park bench watching the children with a smug grin on his face. It was the first time though that Tim questioned why Mr Johnson did in fact spend so much time there, seeming as he had no children of his own. But that was a mystery that could be investigated another time.....


Tim perched behind one of the sheds in the isolated allotments, and had a brief scan of the area just to make sure no one was around. When he was sure he was convinced he reached into the blue and white stripy plastic bag and pulled out the carton of smokes. He opened them, throwing the plastic packaging to the ground, yes Tiny Tim was a litter lout, and should have received an on the spot fine if it was a fair world we lived in, naughty boy. But he didn't cos we don't so get over it. He took one of the succulent cigarettes out and placed it to his lips....


NB Now I know what your thinking, your thinking ‘Hang on a minute, this is going to be a waste of time. I can remember a few paragraphs back, in O'Neil's; he never asked Malachy for a lighter, how's he going to smoke it?' Well, if you are in fact thinking that, without going back to double check, then well done on remembering the names, you've obviously taken some of this in. If you're not thinking that and it's completely slipped your mind then shame on you. Pay closer attention to the story next time. But you have to remember reader, right way back almost to the start of the story, one thing about Tim that I mentioned.... He was very prepared for this little escapade, which has now been dragged out by your constant questioning and desire to pick out plot holes. So this is that happens next....



....He then reached into the bottom of his rucksack and pulled out a box of oven matches. Not very glamorous but it was the best he could do. He struck a match against the side of the box; it lit first time, with out breaking- get in! He placed the burning head to the end of the cigarette, turning it so it was lit evenly cos he was a natural. Tim then inhaled, gingerly at first, ‘not bad', he thought as the sweet Smokey nectar encircled him. He then took another, longer drag, this time the smoke completely filled his mouth, his lungs He closed his eyes, it felt so right and yet so wrong at the same time, he had never been so relaxed. Suddenly the so right feeling began to fade and he became overwhelmed in so wrongness, he couldn't breathe, the warm sensation had turned to the sensation of burning almost, it was like the skin was melting at the back of his throat, he began to panic, coughing, spluttering. He quickly tossed the rest of the cigarette away. He could no longer control himself, he knew it was inevitable, he leaned against the side of the shed and before he knew it, Tim had been sick, completely erupted like a human volcano, tragic.


He wiped himself clean, not in that way, and composed himself. That had, in all been one of the worst experiences he had had in his short life. He no longer saw the appeal of it, it wasn't cool. What just happened to him wasn't cool at all. He took the pack out of his pocket and tossed them away as far as he could. He then picked up the bag which still contained the adult picture book; did you come up with a name? He looked at it, what was he thinking? He wasn't ready for all of this. One day he might be, but he knew now that he wasn't. Trying to impress people he would only probably know for a few more years wasn't risking his health over. He shouldn't have to pretend to be something he wasn't just to fit in right? He laughed at how stupid he had been caught up in the excitement, of an idea, a fantasy. A fantasy that was completely different to reality.


He gave one last look at the magazine and went to toss it away, but as he swung his arm through the air, he found himself unable, unwilling even to let go. He took the mag out of the bag and skimmed through it, a grin spread across his face. He might not be ready to experiment quite so much now, Tim thought, but surely he would be one day, maybe not tomorrow or the day after but soon. Until then why not take things a bit slower, try things that might not harm your health as much? With that he folded up the magazine, placed it under his arm and headed home. He had already had quite a lot of excitement for one day, but now he was ready for a totally different excitement altogether...


Well that was Tiny Tim's Turbulent Time. I hope you enjoyed the tale. Who knows, maybe one day we will check in on many years from now and see what other kinds of scrapes he's gotten himself into. But now you're probably thinking, that's it what was the point of all that?


Maybe there is a moral to the story. Maybe the moral is it's much better to be yourself then do things just to be part of the crowd, to be accepted. Maybe its that cigarette companies are evil, and that they shouldn't encourage people to buy there products and do serious harm to themselves and others. Maybe it could even be if you are going to buy cigarettes, don't buy them off Irish people because they obviously tamper with them, they would never normally be that bad. It could even be that the moral is you don't have to spend a day running around to figure out your not going to grow a huge beard over night. Who knows you decide. Above all maybe there is no moral to the story and it was just for your enjoyment.


I'll finish with a brief note on health issues. The purpose was not to say whether smoking is right or wrong or anything like that. But if are conscious about smoking, or you think you know somebody who is smoking too much- chain smoking maybe, try and get them to try cigars instead- one cigar is the equivalent of four cigarettes. If that's not that thing, and I know they can be costly or skanky why not suggest trying weed instead. It's been proven that one joint does less damage to your body than a cigarette. Just a suggestion.

Fin.