So,
here I was. Head in one hand, cigarette in the other.
Through
the open window wafted laughter and yelled conversation. All mixed with
whatever royalty free music was playing.
Just
noise. Happy noise. Relaxed noise. Don’t give a damn about me noise.
My
pint, of whatever was cheapest out of a proper hand-pull pump, teetered on the
rounded edge of the grey concrete step where I’d wearily plonked my suited
arse. My couldn't be-arsed arse. Couldn't be bothered with the laughter, the
conversation, the music.
My jacket was still inside, on the back of the high
stool. I hoped no one would nick it. Actually, I didn’t really give a flying if
they did. Did I really want the damn, pain in the arse job that forced me to
wear this stifling uniform every day? Roasting in summer and totally inadequate
in winter.
I yanked at my tie. Sodding thing. I pulled it and it curled around
my neck like a thin snake going in reverse or a stripper’s feather boa
caressing a hopeful client. Stuffing it in my trouser pocket I didn't noticed I’d
mainly missed and it dangled, limply, like everything else in my limp bloody
life.
Cigarette
half burned down and pint down to half a pint I half looked up, half registered
the other sad faggies and half smiled at the blonde girl who half smiled at me
before turning away.
Emma
had gone that morning. Not a surprise really. I don’t suppose I was really all
that bothered. I just couldn't be arsed, word of the day, with the fall out.
The practical stuff. Who had the dog and who had the house rabbit. No children,
thank God. That may make it a bit cheaper. How much were divorces nowadays? Not
that I knew how much they used to be. Never done this before. Never had to.
As
I say, I’m not really bothered. In all honesty, she was a bit of a cow. I don’t
know why I’d never seen it before. I suppose, like I say, again, I couldn't be
arsed to see it.
I
wondered, for as long as it took me to have a drag, if it was my fault. I don’t
think it was really. No, I don’t think it was.
As
the brown taste of liquid hops slid down my throat I summed it up. I gave her
money, I shagged her, I emptied the bins. I didn't get drunk much without her
and I tolerated her stupid friends. I had the odd cigarette out in the garden,
resting my elbow on the sticky out bit of the brick wall. Her mouth would go
all puckered-hens-arse and I’d shrug and give a lazy James-Dean-esque smile.
Its alright darlin’ I’ll be back in behaving myself
soon and we can forget all about my misdemeanour. It’s been a hard day y’know.
I just need 5.
Well,
sod her, I’ll damn well smoke, lots, in the lounge. Yes, that front room that I
won’t have to call a Drawing Room now. Up yours.
The
blonde looked at me again. Fully this time. Right in the eyes.
“You’re
Martin, aint ya?”
I frowned.
“I
suppose so. I don’t really know any more I suppose I'll be keeping my name, if
who knows what else. I don’t want the nest of tables – I hate those. Useless bloody
things. They wobble.”
Blondie
frowned back at me.
“Whaddya
talkin’ ‘bout? Yer Em’s hubbie aint ya?” I noticed the slurring this time.
Great, she was pissed and I really didn't feel like discussing it. How did I
get into this? Christ.
The
ash had burned right down. I had been too busy thinking about past smokes than
actually smoking this one. Crap. Holding itself in a soft, grey column for a
second longer, it suddenly dropped. All over my left leg. Crap, again.
I
angrily brushed it off and then, slightly less angrily, brushed off Blondie.
“Yeah,
I am.” I forced a smile, “I’m off in now. See ya.”
I
slid the last of my pint down my throat, leaving remnants of foam to slide down
the inside of the glass. It came to a rest in a murky cream pool at the bottom.
As I
hauled myself up to stand I suddenly realised that my seat was probably used as
a piss place by those even more unfortunate than myself. I then found I didn't really care.
Standards
were slipping already.
I
briefly wondered when I’d find myself holed up in a grubby room, or two,
surrounded by piles of ancient newspapers. Is this how it happened? You started
off happily sitting on a pub’s pissy doorstep and gradually turned into Howard
Hughes. Without the megabucks.
Blondie
smiled and shrugged and swayed and I did the half smile thing.
Didn't want to encourage her. God no.
I
turned my back on her, and the other sad sods huddled together on the pavement.
All complicit in their mutually-binding, antisocial behaviour. Up two steps and
I bloody tripped over the last.
I
shot into the room doing that half run skip thing. Desperately trying to keep
upright. I did and everyone cheered. I'm not sure at which bit; the stupid
dance or the rescue. One would be at and one would be with. A difference. I didn't care. Just punched the air and laughed along, A pint was waiting for me
by my empty, jacketed stool. Great. I raised my glass.
Cheers everyone. I'm a free man. Hip hip hooray...
