George shuffled along the wet pavement grimacing as he struggled to draw another puff from his rain-drenched cigarette-end. Eventually he gave up and threw it forcefully into the gutter. Looking up slowly and blinking through the rain, he was relieved to see the familiar blue-red glow of the neon bar sign ahead. He shuffled towards it.
As he entered the tiled hall, he came to an unsteady halt at the snug door and fumbled about his overcoat irritably for a handkerchief. On finding it, he used it to mop his sweat and rain-soaked forehead, one heavy-handed stroke clearing his watery e
yes and stout-stained mouth.
Satisfied that he was now more presentable; he took a deep breath, and swung the door open; a little too firmly as it turned out, for it crashed loudly against the heater on the left of the doorway.
George winced over-dramatically, and whispered apologies to no one in particular. By way of a response he received nothing more than brief stares from one or two people and no more than apathy or disdain from most others.
He grasped the bar edge and squinted along the bar to see who was ‘on’. This was crucial, for if certain bar staff were working he would not be served. Finally the one called Pat approached him, a frown deepening on his forehead:
‘What is it now George?’
‘Alright Pat, how are y…’
‘I thought I told you not to come back’
‘I know, I know Pat, Just give us a wee bottle of dark and I’ll get out of your way, I…I know you’re busy’
Pat glared at him for a few seconds and George stood before him head bowed like a vanquished gladiator waiting for the emperor’s thumb. George rubbed the back of his hand along his dry and cracked lips. He didn’t notice (or care about) the unpleasant looks he was now attracting from other people in the bar.
Pat shook his head slowly, and for one horrible moment George thought that he was being refused.
‘You’ll be getting me the sack one of these days George’
Pat reached under the counter for the bottle and slipped it neatly into a brown paper bag twisting the top expertly whilst sliding it towards George.
‘Five-twenty-five’
‘Eh! Did he put it up again?’ rasped George, with rare venom in his voice.
‘Do you want it or not?’ Pat murmured irritably, reaching for the bottle.
‘It’s alright Pat s…sorry ‘bout that’ whispered George as he handed Pat a fistful of loose change to sort out.
Pat rolled his eyes and blew air out of his mouth at George
‘You know what you are George?’ ‘A pest!’
George rubbed his chin meekly and nodded his head resignedly.
‘I know Pat…I know’
Pat quickly slid the coins across the shiny bar-top and counted out the five pounds twenty-five for the wine and took an extra pound from it as he usually did. It never really bothered Pat much to do it: why should it? He thought grimly, George was too drunk to notice and besides, the likes of George should be grateful that Pat even served him!
He threw the change down on the bar and George fumbled with it and rounded it up without looking at it.
The full article contains 570 words and appears in Journal Friday newspaper.
