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
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
posted by Matt at 4:16 PM
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