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.
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.
posted by Matt at 3:03 AM
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