The elderly light (ii)

I also hate the idea that I am in any way better than these man I see, mostly men, nearly always men. The men who lean, those who stand, those who sit. When I first started here I hid my learning, not knowing how wrong of me it was to do so. I was a giggly ingénue, stumbling over their jokes with a bright and hopeful earnestness. It took me some time to work out that they were actually funny, and that I could ditch my pretence at bonhomie, that I could feel a glow of, if not comradeship, exactly then at least a degree of…
Aha, I nearly said acceptance. That’s never really been high on the list.
But there is a pleasing element of collusion, it’s there in the wifely phone calls deflected, in the ejection of bumptious, lager-weary young lads, in the helping into taxis, the sly one after lasties when all I want to do is go home. In the quick wink and the knowledgeable palming of coins. A complicity in incredibly minor pieces of devilry which let us all think for a moment that we’re masters of our destinies. That we’ve got one over on the nebulous them.
Acknowledging anything else would, I think, be a bit too much to bear.
I think I realised this in maybe my third or fourth week here. I’d been listening to some casual insults flickering between a couple of roofers and a pair of domino playing old geezers, Jack and Ted (and I truly believe that it is only in these pubs that good, solid names like Ted, Bert and Harold survive, clinging grimly on to existence like the last few drops of mild in a dimpled glass. The day we hire a barman called Bradley or Jake, civilisation will end) when Jack rose suddenly and placed a domino with an air of finality and a distinct click on the glass topped table. He stood, and without a word to anyone, left.
“What was all that about?” asked Big Pete, a swag bellied brickies.
“First time he’s ever beaten me” replied Ted, shortly, looking distraught.
We’ve not seen Jack since.

The elderly light (i)

I know what you’re thinking.

No, really, I do.

You were thinking, what’s he doing in here?

I admit, this isn’t the most salubrious of establishments. Not for Malky such fripperies as food of a lunchtime, no-smoking areas, guest beers and clean, shiny toilets. Clean anything, for that matter.

You’ve been here before, or somewhere very much like it. It’s an archetype. Two fruit machines. One threadbare pool table. Slightly sticky tables. Elderly light wheezing past net curtains stained yellow. Old men dotted about the place like discarded coats. The click and murmur of dominoes from the back room. You’ve been here before. You may not have stayed very long but that, in my opinion, is more down to you being a snob than anything ele. So long as the lines are kept clean (and I’ve worked plenty of places far funkier than this who neglected to) a pint of Stella’s a pint of Stella, when all’s said and done.

Me? Well, I’m not an ambitious man. I admit I cut a somewhat singular figure when set in this context. You’d be expecting a woman with a vast shelf-like bosom and a direct manner perhaps? Or a gruff old geezer with a hole in his throat? Sorry, you’re stuck with me. I never have to get up early, and Malky’s somewhat creative with his books, so come the end of the week it’s a pile of crisp notes and no one the wiser. Which suits me fine, for the time being.

What? Of course I have plans, it’s just that I don’t feel like acting on them right now. Everyone’s in so much of a rush to make their mark. It worries me slightly. The same way as when I was at school I used to look at my bright eyed and motivated fellows, choosing their subjects and fretting over prospectuses in the certain knowledge that they wanted to be a doctor / lawyer / whatever. Marine biologist. That sort of thing. I’d always think, how do you know?

So yeah, it’ll do for the time being.

Plus, it may seem dull to you, but to me everyone who comes through that door is interesting. Don’t frown at me like that. I’m not about to tell you that everyone has a fascinating story to tell or any sub-Joycean nonsense like that. Most of them do have an interesting story, unfortunately it’s just the one, and there appears to be no upper limit to the amount of times it can be retold. No, they’re interesting because of the choices they make, or rather, don’t.

Look at it this way. Would you take a seat at the same seat, in the same pub, at the same time, every day? What drives a man to do that? What possible eruption of chaos has fed this maniacal desire for routine, for control? And don’t feed me the alcoholism line. I know what an alcoholic, a proper alcoholic, looks like. You can tell from the eyes. If it’s them you’re after I suggest the benches set into the side of the market, or possibly the park. No, these old boys desire simply order, the drink’s secondary. Most of them can make half a pint last two hours, sitting it on the table and staring at its black depths as it sits, and settles, and sucks the elderly light down into itself.

There’s a story in that, maybe, but not in this. It’s a fine distinction

The pitch

You’re being presumptuous she said but she said it in a magnificent way, her head tilted back and her nostrils flaring at the final, dismissive UMPTIOUS. He shivered in something like awe and she left and swept away down the corridor, heels clicking and undergraduates parting before her like a badly-dressed Red Sea. He turned back to his notes:

L has often thrived on sticking a jackboot through the skull of people like me, re: MB incident, truly angry or laughing? Prostration? MUST RESOLVE.

So when her lunch break started he was lying prostrate on the floor of her office, a hopeful daffodil clutched between his hands. He saw the door open, caught the full impact of her joisted cleavage from his floor-level view and shut his eyes tight. Her boot caught against his hip-bone and she skewed, hard, against the marble floor, he heard something crack; and then the wail of a female, deeply hurt, filled the corridor. He stumbled to his feet and started trying to stammer apologies but they tailed miserably off against the wall of noise. Eventually he got to his feet and stumbled off, brushing aside students and still muttering, to have a sandwich and collect his thoughts.

Woman vs Pigeon

There it was again, its two small dead eyes regarding her through the bakery’s glass front. Head cocked onto dirty grey sloped shoulder. Feet scratching at gum bedecked block paving.
The problem being that she knew, and the pigeon knew, that sooner or later the heat would become too much. It was backing up already on the shop floor, the ovens had been pumping it out for a solid three hours, and she could feel the sweat starting to bead.
It wasn’t so bad in winter, it was a comfort and a friend, filling the bakery with warmth and a steamy fug. But this was June, half past eight in the morning and already the sun was pitiless. The front would have to be opened, it was only a matter of time. She knew this and she knew that the pigeon knew this.
It was only two nights ago that Shirl had said something about reincarnation over bacardi and cokes, and she was beginning to think that her sister might have been on to something. That man on the telly, she’d said, the one with the purple shirt. He said there’s only so much energy to go round, so you have to come back. Makes sense.
Makes sense. The pigeon reminded her of her Ron, two years dead and an inveterate thief of pies, pastries and anything she’d bake at home. She’d taken the job to get her out of the house and away from him, then he’d moved on and she’d stayed put because what else was there to do? Yes, there was something in what Shirl said. The pigeon stared at her, tap-tapped the sheet glass with it’s beak, scratch-scratched its feet and she was sure that its dead dead eyes were saying come on Carol love, you can spare a steak slice for me, can’t you?