Deadline for Writers. 12 Short Stories in 12 Months – February– Prompt: Charge.

“I’m sorry?!”

Gerry stared across the counter at the gormless teenager—or perhaps a young man well into his twenties. It was getting harder to tell these days.

“You made an alteration, sir. That’s a £1 charge.”

He looked down at the receipt.

“Yes. I requested it without cheese,” he explained, enunciating carefully, as if attempting to negotiate with a malfunctioning toddler. “I ordered the House Special Burger, but without cheese.”

“Yes, this is it,” the server said, holding up the bag like a cat presenting a dead mouse. “So, it’s £10.99 in total, with the alteration.”

For a second, Gerry didn’t move. He just stared into the young man’s eyes, desperately searching for signs of recognition or even some basic brain function. He was disappointed on both counts.

“So… you’ve charged me a pound,” he said, “for… no cheese?”

“You made an alteration, si—”

“No, no,” Gerry interrupted. “I’ve removed it. You’re charging me for nothing. In fact, less than nothing. I’m being charged for negative cheese. Do you… do you not see how absurd that is?”

He looked around. A queue was forming, and judging by the glares, not a particularly supportive one.

“OK! Look, I’ll have cheese!” he cried. “I will have the cheese!”

“But it’s already made, sir,” the server replied, as if the kitchen had just finished constructing an interstellar probe and was now being asked to rebuild it from scratch using only a potato and a paperclip.

“So what?” Gerry gesticulated wildly, “Just grab a slice and chuck it in the bag! I’ll take it home with me. Even better—chuck in another ten, and I’ll get the burger for free!”

His sarcasm was completely lost on his adversary, whose face had contorted into a perplexed grimace. Gerry hadn’t even wanted a burger. He usually got Chinese on a Friday but had decided against it after receiving a £60 parking fine through the post. Apparently, the little car park he’d been using for years next to the takeaway had been annexed by a private firm, who now vindictively charged twenty-four hours a day. The photo was quite clear—there he was, driving away staring blankly ahead a full seven minutes after he’d arrived. Nearly ten pounds a minute to park seemed excessive, so he’d decided to go somewhere else.

And now he was being charged extra for not having cheese. Perhaps he’d get another letter later charging him for not using the car park.

“Well, I’m not paying for no cheese,” he said, slamming down a tenner. “Keep the change.”

“Thank you, sir, that’s very generous,” the server said with the blissful sincerity of a man who had never known irony, “but… sorry. I need another ninety-nine pence. You’re short.”

“You’re hardly a basketball player yourself,” Gerry chuckled. He looked around, hoping for moral support, but was met with tired, impatient faces. “Look, I’m not paying to not have something. The burger is already outrageously priced without having to pay an ingredient removal tax…”

“It’s one pound per alteration. It’s not tax. That’s already included.”

“Oh, that’s good to know,” Gerry said, voice thick with derision. “At least the tax is covered. Amazing. Look, just ring it through again as if there is cheese in it. I won’t tell anyone you haven’t charged for the thin air between the burger and the bun. Call it a gesture of goodwill. I’ll tell everyone this takeaway looks after its customers! Free cheese removal! Maybe they’ll even remove the bun at no cost, who knows? You can even keep your penny tip—imagine the possibilities! Think of all the things you could not have for that!”

“Come on, mate, he’s just doing his job,” someone in the queue called out. “It’s only a quid.”

“Are you a little short?” asked a kindly older woman next in line. “I’ve got a pound you can have my dear…”

“No, NO! I mean, no thank you, that’s very kind of you, but…” Gerry looked down the line, “I have enough money, but that’s not the point. It’s the principle. Surely you can all see that?”

“Jesus, mate, it’s just a quid…”

“Yeah, come on, the football starts in a minute!”

Gerry grappled helplessly for some support. Could they not see the absurdity of it all? The worst part was that all of them were constantly being ripped off, every single day. But as long as they were back in time for kick-off, who cared? They certainly didn’t it seemed.

Just last week, he’d paid £2 to not swim at the local pool while his nephews splashed about. Two quid for a screaming acoustic hell. Two quid for the privilege of sitting on a hard plastic chair, sweating in a chlorine-scented sauna, drinking terrible coffee from a cup so flimsy it was one excessive sigh away from collapse. “It’s just the way it is,” the receptionist had said.

And last year, the real kicker. He’d gone to visit his mother in the hospice but had left his phone at home and had no cash. The hospice’s car park had been ‘outsourced’ and was now pay-per-hour with the dreaded automated cameras. He’d had to leave and park twenty minutes away. By the time he got back, he was told his mother had just fallen asleep waiting. She died not long after, and though he did see her a few more times before it happened, he still felt robbed of some of their last moments. And, of course, from that point on he’d had to pay for the privilege to have them.

Just this morning, alongside his parking fine, his council tax letter had arrived. Another increase. And right beneath it? Yet another letter saying bin collections were being reduced to once a month. Oh, but any extra rubbish will incur a charge. Where on earth was the money going?

Everywhere he went, he was being charged to not have things.

Well, not this time.

“I tell you what, stuff your burger,” he said, “but don’t charge me for not taking it. In fact, you have it. Might as well eat it—they’ll probably dock your wages if you try to throw it away, a pound for each ingredient you didn’t use…”

The server blinked in a way that suggested it was the most movement his brain had done all day. Gerry turned to leave, the glares of the other customers burning into his back as he exited into the street and headed toward the layby where he had parked.

He looked up to see a uniformed man standing over his car, writing something onto a bright yellow ticket.

“Sorry, mate. Twenty minutes max. You’ve been here twenty-five.”

Gerry looked down at his keys. He imagined taking the longest one, lunging at the man, and slitting his throat open, watching as he desperately tried to stem the bleeding with his bright yellow parking ticket. “That’s sixty quid, mate!” Gerry would shout as the man gurgled with panic, “Though that’ll rise to £120 if you don’t pay it before you bleed out!”

But he didn’t do that. He just sighed.

“OK.”

“Hey, just doing my job mate.”

The attendant walked away toward his next victim as Gerry stood there, wondering if he had any baked beans in the cupboard at home. Probably not. He’d had no pound for the trolley last time he was at the supermarket, so there was a good chance he hadn’t bought any.

At least the parking was free. For now.