Chapter Text
Fuck, this was embarrassing. Mortifying in fact. How the hell had it come to this? Unfuckingbelievable!
As he stood the mandatory two metres away from the other desperate souls in the queue at the foodbank, Timmy pulled the collar of his coat up higher around his neck – more so he could try and just fucking disappear than for warmth because the weather was surprisingly tropical for Yorkshire in May. Who knew?!
He checked that his ‘facemask’ was in place as he shuffled closer to the equally adorned, freakishly tall guy directing foot traffic at the front of the queue. There had been strict instructions about food-bank protocol on the leaflet given to him by Jodene, the kind lady from the Citizens Advice Bureau, and God forbid anyone who flouted this! One trampy-looking bloke had already been asked to leave because he was clearly three-sheets-to-the-wind, wearing an old pair of faded Spiderman undies as a mask, effing and jeffing about ‘Thatcher’s Britain’ - whatever the hell that meant.
Jodene had visited Tim’s bedsit the day before in order to assess his eligibility for foodbank donations. She poked around the tiny, bleak living room/bedroom/kitchen space while he filled out a basic questionnaire:
Name: Timothée Hal Chalamet
DOB: 27th December 1995
Nationality: American/French
Marital Status: Single
Occupation: Actor (currently unemployed)
Reason for Referral: Theatre closed due to Covid-19. Unable to claim welfare benefits. Can’t afford to eat.
Amount of savings: £63.45
Current Income: fuck all!
She glanced at the form, had a quick check of his almost-empty cupboards (two Pot Noodles, a tin of Aldi beans, a Fray Bentos Pie and a jar of olives) and declared, “Well the good news Tim is that you are eligible. The bad news is that I can only issue you with three emergency food vouchers for now. You really need to think about a longer-term solution.”
The only ‘longer term solution’ he could think of right now was throwing himself into the River Ouse. He’d actually considered ‘Only Fans’ as a last resort although the people who would pay to watch him jerk-off must surely be pretty desperate. Or how about the fucking virus to just fuck off and the fucking theatre to reopen again?!?
When he’d landed the part back in December, he thought he’d made it at last. All those years of bit-parts in ‘Law and Order‘ and character roles in obscure arthouse productions had finally paid off. To play Hamlet in a historical city with a 13th century castle as a backdrop was a dream come true! The Rose Theatre Company had set him up in a swanky riverside apartment with three months wages upfront. February was spent rehearsing with the opening night scheduled for the 25th of March – but then CV19 had happened and the world had, well…shut down.
So it was ‘tatty-bye’ to the swanky apartment and ‘hello’ to the foul, grotty bedsit in a HMO – which stood for ‘House of Multiple Occupancy’ but may as well have stood for ‘Horrible Mouse Odour’ or ‘Horrific Mental Ordeal’ – take your pick.
As for the money, well in typical 24-year old boy fashion, he had blown it all on clothes and clubs in the first month. The airports were closed so the option of going back to NYC and throwing himself upon the mercy of his parents was out - and besides, he was too embarrassed to ask for help. So here he was – waiting in line at a foodbank, feeling like a complete loser.
“Next!” called the tall guy with the floppy dark-blonde hair as he beckoned Timmy with his finger. “Voucher please,” he said, deep voice muffled by the very professional-looking face mask, unlike Tim’s make-shift thing fashioned out of a Louis Vuitton scarf.
“Hey, are you American?” asked Tim, shocked and delighted to hear a sort-of familiar accent after months of trying to decipher the complicated lingo of North Yorkshire.
“Err…yes I guess I am. You need to use the hand sanitiser, there. Voucher please.” And he held out a rubber-gloved hand without giving Timmy any eye contact.
Timmy frowned and handed over his referral form and voucher. He watched as the grumpy giant scrutinised it and tried to just fucking breathe because he was feeling suddenly enraged by this condescending big bastard, looking down on him – physically and metaphorically! It took all he had not to shout, “Shove your twatting food parcel up your arse you lofty knob head!” (He’d learned some Yorkshire lingo over the last three months) but then ‘Lofty’ said, “First time here? Ok, wait at the side there and I’ll show you what to do. Give me a second,” before calling over a chubby woman in a floaty kaftan to take over door duty.
Near starvation has a way of making even the most radical revolutionaries compliant, so Timmy reluctantly did as he was told and stood to one side of the lobby in the church hall that had temporarily become the venue for the emergency food bank. He perused the fading flyers on the pinboard (Knitting Club, Dog Walking Service, Creative Writing, Yoga for All, Finding Love in Later Life) and did a mental relaxation exercise he’d learned at stage school while he waited to be shown the ropes.
“Hi. Sorry about that. I’m Armie. Nice to meet you… Timotay is it? Like the shampoo? I won’t shake hands for obvious reasons but come through to the hall and I’ll explain what to do.”
Tim followed him and muttered, “Just call me Timmy.” He was starting to feel a little hot and claustrophobic in his coat and mask and had a massive urge to just walk out of the fucking place.
But when he entered the main hall, he was surprised to see that the set-up was really efficient. There was a table serving tea and coffee in disposable, cardboard cups; there were foot-print stickers on the wooden floor to mark out the ‘socially-distancing’ parameters; all the volunteers were wearing medical grade masks; the food donations were all clearly marked - vegan, gluten-free etc; Radio X was playing in the background and the room smelled of freshly baked bread - and in fact it was not at all as he’d imagined.
Armie (what the fuck sort of name is that, Timmy wondered) gestured him over to the refreshment table. “I’m guessing you’re a coffee man because, correct me if I’m wrong, but is that a New York accent I detect?”
Timmy laughed. “Actually I’ve become quite partial to Yorkshire tea over the last few months but I’ll take whatever’s going. And yes, New Yorker born and bred.”
Armie handed him a black coffee - and that’s when Timmy noticed his eyes. Oh holy fuck, his eyes! Blue-within-blue-within-blue, long, dark eyelashes, slight crinkles when he smiled – oh God no, he thought – I cannot fall for the foodbank volunteer guy!!! Aren’t they all like religious nut-jobs with nothing better to do?
His hand shook a little as he took the coffee and tried not to think about THE BLUE EYES!
“Ok, so come this way. Now that you’re registered, you’ll just need to hand over your voucher at the door. Then you come and get a drink. We normally have a social club going on with bingo and a quiz three times a week but we’ve had to postpone that for now. Then you come over to the food tables, here. We try and put together a parcel that best suits your needs. So do you like to cook? Any food allergies or intolerances?”
Timmy trailed behind like an obedient puppy and tried hard to work out how he was going to confess to this fucking dreamboat that he only had a microwave and a kettle in the HMO-hellhole, so ‘cooking’ was out of the question.
“No allergies but…err…I only have like really basic kitchen facilities…” His embarrassed blush went right up to his hairline and he was, for once, thankful of the facemask. Mr Blue Eyes (no longer ‘Lofty’) frowned slightly then smiled and said, “No problemo Timo! Follow me!” and strode off towards a table in the corner.
Timo? Oh good God, even his voice was seductive. How he had gone from hating him to horning on him in ten minutes flat was anybody’s guess. Blame the lockdown.
“Here, look, I can put together a parcel of microwavable things. Healthy stuff too. And there’s a lot you can do with a kettle and a jug you know.” Timmy just sipped his coffee in silence for fear of blurting out something ridiculous and watched as groceries were packed into a sturdy, hessian bag with ‘York Hammer Trust’ printed on the side.
“What’s the Hammer thing?” he asked.
Timmy was quite the expert at reading body-language and was bemused to see that Mr Confident-I’m-In-Charge was slightly thrown. Interesting…
“Err…Hammer…that’s me. It’s a family thing. We like to support local communities.”
Timmy felt bad but he just couldn’t help himself – that was the funniest fucking thing he had heard in a long time. In fact he hadn’t laughed in weeks but for some reason that just tickled him. He threw his head back and pulled his face mask down. “Armie Hammer? That’s your name? Your actual name? Armie? Hammer? Like the toothpaste?”
“Says the man whose name sounds like a French porn-star.”
Timmy couldn’t argue with that and they both burst out laughing - and the world around them disappeared. He might well look like fucking Quasimodo without the mask on for all he knew but if the eyes and the voice were anything to go by, Mr Hammer was one sexy motherfucker for sure! Two more vouchers to use – and then what?!?