Part 2: Dinner
I’m off the bus and walking down to the station. I got off a stop
early just so I could walk down the street, get a feel for the city
and feel the energy. It’s a different place from home, that’s for
sure, but it’s like slipping into an old pair of shoes. Down past
the bars, restaurants, takeaways.
The street is getting busier.
You can just feel the rhythm.
The sun is sinking down behind the tall buildings, shadows
stretching across the pavement. Couples, groups of women
and men, all ready for the night.
And I’m there. Phone goes.
“Alright, Frankie, what’s up?”
“We meeting at the clock, eh? I’m here,” he says.
“Aye, well, it’s 18:13, pal. I got a couple of minutes. I’m outside
actually. See you in a moment or two.”
Cheeky fucker. Gets there early and then phones to see where
I am. As I’m walking into the station, I walk by some bemused
tourists. You can tell some of them a mile off that they’re not
from here.
They look at me hopefully.
The guy’s got slicked-back hair and a beer belly, but the woman
is a knockout with a beautiful smile.
“Taxi Rank. Taxi Rank?”
She speaks with a strong Italian accent.
“Aye, doll, just through there,” I point and direct them out to
Gordon Street.
I watch them go, and I’m heading over to the clock.
“There he is, still a bawbag,” I say.
“Oh here he comes, motormouth.”
Frankie’s laughing and we shake hands and embrace. Well, as
much as West Coast of Scotland fellas do.
“How the fuck are you pal?” I say.
“Brother, it’s good to fucking see you. I have had one hell of a
day. I’m ready for this.”
“A bite and then some pints?” I offer.
“Fucking absolutely.”
We had talked about going to the wee Chinese place outside the
station, and I’d been looking forward to a few beers from out
that way too, but it seems he’s got other plans.
That’s how we ended up here. In a bar in the corner of one of
those attempts at an upmarket shopping centre.
There’s no other customers here, just us.
I’m looking around the bar.
“Frankie, mate, what the fuck is this? There is naebody here. No
eye candy whatsoever.”
He snorts.
“Thought this would be a good place to start, you know, catch
up before we get into it,” he says.
“Alright, pal, seeing as it’s you.”
I have a look at him. Hair still as white as can be. I think he has
had white hair since he was 18 or something. He looks different,
though. Underneath that coat, he’s gone suit and booted.
He looks different.
“You’re looking good, big man. Smartening up these days.
Congrats on the job, man. How’s it going?” I ask.
“It’s tough. I got promoted, mate. I’m coining it in, man. I’m
just wanting to look the part, but it’s tough.”
A waitress brings over the menus and we order beers. The
chicken burgers are £35.
This must be the most expensive shitehole in town.
“In the last month, I’ve been in more uptown bars, trying to
impress clients. Honestly, pal. I’m fucking fried.”
“Christ, man, you should have said. Just be yourself, eh? C’mon,
let’s get out of here. Let’s go find some soul.”
(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
Paul Andrew Sneddon 