Part 7 of the Miserable Bastards series
Mikey is returning like a conquering hero, arms high singing the Rocky theme tune.
This is lost on Bam, she’s never seen it.
“Alright smart arse,” she says.
Frank is serving up another whisky.
Suddenly there is movement at the end of the bar.
Pat stands up.
Wobbles.
Wobbles.
And down he goes.
Straight back and flat out on the floor.
Christ.
Frank is over the bar. “I told you, Patty, for fuck’s sake. You need to stop doing this.”
He’s throwing a pint of something over him. Is that water, or lager?
There’s a pause.
Pat’s up like a resurrected Jesus-Christ-Christmas-miracle.
“That’s the third time this month, Patty. You do that again and you’re barred. The last thing I need is an actual dead body leaving this place.”
He passes Pat some napkins to dry off and Pat’s out the door.
My whisky isn’t tasting any better.
Bam is looking at me.
“Was it like this when you were drinking at the posh end of town, Al?”
“Well, a wee bit different but not that different really. More expensive drinks but people are people, you know.”
“Yeah, I get that. My ex’s family, by the way, they were so up their own arses. I was thinking, you live in a cul-de-sac in East Kilbride. Your parents started out in a two-bedroom flat shared with another family. What do you think you are, the second coming of Jesus? Fuck off.”
I’m laughing.
“Aye, I’ve seen that before.”
“Well, no one’s perfect I guess, but there’s only so much I can handle.”
“Don’t you like people?” I ask.
She looks thoughtful for a moment.
“Aye, but some folks are a bit much, you know. This girl I’m seeing, Al, she’s a total sweetheart but she’s always texting, phoning, sending me pictures. I’m just like fuck’s sake, aye. I see you, but I’ve got a life to live.”
“You still painting?” I ask.
“Oh aye, I’ll never stop that. Got a couple of paintings in a gallery downtown. I sold one, £200. Not bad; the gallery takes a cut but that was the first one.”
“Fucking congratulations, pal. That’s amazing. I always said you were talented.”
I raise a drink to her.
“Thanks, Al.”
“See, I did two: one was about light, redemption, love, and the other about darkness, hurt, pain. Guess which one sold?”
“The darkness?”
“Aye, miserable bastards round here.” She chuckles.
We raise our glasses and toast.
“Miserable Bastards.”
“Just like us.”
“Yeah,” she smiles, “that’s where all the good art comes from.”
“Aye, I’m proud to be a miserable bastard.”
We’re laughing as Mikey comes over.
“Right, I’m offski. I’ll be back later though.”
“See you, pal.”
And with that he’s gone, as a couple of late afternoon day drinkers come in and take a place down the bar. Bam is away to serve them as Frank comes over.
“Right pal, I’m away to see about this bike. I’ll see you later.”
And he’s gone.
I’m sipping on my whisky and the jukebox rolls round to Mr Brightside for about two bars before Bam changes it.
I tell her, “With great power comes great responsibility.”
She laughs and puts on the Spice Girls and starts laughing.
I give her a look and we compromise on The Hold Steady, Constructive Summer.
She tells me, “You are sure stuck on that song, Al.”
“Aye, it’s a favourite.”
I finish my drink just as the last chords and feedback from the guitar fades out.
“Fucking love that song, thanks pal.”
She smiles.
“Nae bother.”
I’m up out of my seat in one smooth motion, then just a bit of a stumble but I’m fine. I laugh as she shouts after me:
“You be careful, you don’t get two miracles in one day.”
I laugh and stumble to the door and open it out to the street and the blinding lights.
Jesus Christ, it’s such a change of scene that I am almost completely disoriented. The working day is finished and the pavement is full of hustle, noise and energy.
And I’m back adrift again.
(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
Paul Andrew Sneddon 