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Short Story


A.C.

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I've censored rude words out for TWO so there's a fair bit of asterisked-out swearing in this. Not sure if it's "humour forum" but I hope you enjoy it. I wrote it in January 2002 according to "Properties".

 

 

 

*****************

 

 

 

Boom. Boom. Boom.

 

Check my watch, the time by my accurate wrist is ten-thirty-three and twenty seconds. Three friends and I are drinking hard and doing what’s known, charmingly, as “t*** dancing”. You must dance badly, in a camp fashion and ignore the obvious stares of the “cool dancers” calling you a w***er behind your back. Then again, this is Taunton, not a cool place so maybe we’re getting away with it.

 

We have:

 

Steve Thomas.

He’s twenty-eight.

Six-foot-four.

The maddest hair ever: he ought to sue the Double-Take Brothers.

 

Mike Evans.

Twenty-nine.

Five-foot-nine.

A cokehead f***-up.

Nice guy sometimes, when high, a t*** when he’s not. I hate him but he’s a friend.

 

David Summerhayes.

Also twenty-nine.

Also five-foot-nine.

Also a cokehead f***-up.

A nice guy more often than Mike. Actually, Dave’s a top fella but he’s always pissed or stoned or buzzing on something so it’s hard to remember.

 

Me.

Twenty-five years old.

Six-feet-one and a bit.

Curly brown hair down to my shoulders.

Everyone thinks I perm it but I don’t.

My ensemble tonight runs to a pair of glasses which I’ve been wearing for about five years now (fashions come and go but I have very little style). A cream-coloured bowling shirt over which I’m wearing what I like to call my “poet shirt”: a long (well, it reaches mid-thigh) collar-less over-shirt made of hemp. Cream trousers of the “cargo-pant” variety. Light brown Clarks Wallabies.

 

Yeah, I know I’ve given myself the best description, but I always skip lists in stories.

 

T*** dancing. Our lack of social grace is made up for by absolutely f***ing NOTHING. We’re ostensibly going to college studying for an HND in Marketing. In reality, most mornings are spent in a blood-shot hangover, most lunch times are spent in Mike’s car toking on his weed, and most afternoons are spent at the snooker-hall. Our classmates look down on us as we look down on them.

 

Ten-thirty-four. Another round of beers, always bottled Bud’ – easier to dance with without spilling. Another cigarette, always Marlboro’ Reds – in Vietnam films they have them in the band on their helmet which is a pretty cool. Or Jack Nicholson in Cuckoo’s Nest with his classic “rebel” way of keeping smokes in a rolled-up T-shirt sleeve. They might have been Lucky Strikes though. Doesn’t matter.

 

The songs we dance to would probably be best described as Chart/Club/Commercial-**** but this is fine. T*** dancing needs camp tunes and we’re doing it all tonight: the spins, the pointing at each other wearing huge grins, the piggyback rides.

 

Dave’s already kissing an east-European-looking girl in corner seat, probably trying to persuade her to come into the toilets with him to chop out a line. She probably will.

 

Mike’s feeling the effects and is leaning on the balustrade of the low podium we’ve commandeered, staring blearily at girls.

Steve and I, however, are going for it: proof positive that drugs ain’t no good for dancing. I see a girl, probably no more that five-foot tall, a size six, maybe size eight but only just, brunette, short black dress – totally goddamn perfect in my inebriated condition.

 

She walks over and shouts in my ear, “Yaw gawyaw, aroogay, cannahanafag!”

 

I take her arm and guide her away from the dance floor and loudspeakers.

 

“What?” I shout.

 

“You’re gorgeous. Are you gay? Can I have a fag?” she repeats.

 

“If you say so. No I’m not. Yes you can.” Is my attempt at a witty reply.

 

“What?”

 

“I’m not gay!” I shout. I light two Reds and hand her one.

 

Ten-forty-two. We’re dancing. Me camply, she sexily. My cigarette falls out of my mouth but I ignore it and hope she doesn’t notice such un-coolness. Flames start licking my chin and I realise that the cigarette is in the pocket of my poet shirt and the hemp material is lit-up like a bonfire. She helps me tear it off, we stamp the flames out and I kick the shirt into the corner.

 

I’m pleased to see she hasn’t taken me for a complete loser and continues to dance with me. Steve turns up with more Bud. We drain these and hit the floor once more. She must think I’m strong because she suddenly leaps up and wraps her legs around me while I carry on dancing. Then, she leans away from me and, arching her back, takes her arms from around my shoulders.

 

I drop her.

Boom.

 

I didn’t hear her head hit the floor but I felt it through my wallabies.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Twenty-to-one or thereabouts. We’re kissing. The same seat that Dave and his eastern-European beauty occupied until he led her to the toilets. When they returned they chatted with us for a few minutes before Dave suggested that they go to his car. He visits the toilets first and the girl, in an attempt not to appear sluttish, begins discussing Dave as if she knows him.

 

“You’re Mike aren’t you? He talks about you all the time. He says it’s great working for…whoever you work for. I can’t believe you guys have your own company box at the Grand Prix…”

 

She continues in this vein until Dave returns. She hardly draws breath, leaves no time between sentences for the brunette or I to speak. I think she realised fairly quickly that I’m not Mike and that in trying to prove she and Dave go way back that she’s f***ed-up. I’ve heard this bullshit story a hundred times. Dave doesn’t have a job, none of us do. A guy with coke and a car will say what he wants to these naïve girls: anything for a drunken scuttle in the back of his broken-down Cavalier. The car’s been in the club’s car park for about six months, I’m not sure if it’s Dave’s but he’s got the keys and, most Thursdays, will try to get a pretty young drunk high enough to come with him.

 

He returns, a small piss stain on his beige moleskins.

 

The brunette and I are kissing still. She’s got a hand down my trousers, I’ve got a hand up her skirt. Classy as hell, I know, but f*** you for judging me.

 

Five-to-one. She looks at her watch, “It’s ten-to-one already!” she shrieks.

 

I correct her, “Five-to-,” and she shrieks again. Louder this time.

 

“I’ve gotta find me mates!”

 

She jumps off my lap, wipes her hand on the seat, grabs my hand and we head for the exit. I spot Steve and Mike quite near the front of the coat queue and throw my ticket to them. The brunette joins the back of the queue and tells her friends to wait for her.

 

“Okay,” I say, “I might see you here next week?”

 

“What?” she shouts. She shouts too goddamn much.

 

“What do you mean?” I ask, “What do you want me to say?”

 

“Something like, ‘Here’s my number, I want to be with you forever,’”

 

“I’m not doing that,” ****, she’s a psycho.

 

“Why not?”

 

“’Cause I’ve got a girlfriend!” Which is actually true. I’ve got a top girlfriend. Unfortunately I’m what you might term a “late starter” in terms of girls so even though I’m with a particular girl whom I think I’m in love with, I cheat on her at every opportunity.

 

Boom.

 

It’s an over-hand right, not a bad punch. I’m sat on my behind and she’s storming out.

 

“Well, F*** YOU then!” I shout at her.

 

Steve and Mike help me to my feet, I can’t believe my glasses are still intact.

 

We make our way outside and stumble over to Dave’s shag-pad-Cavalier.

 

Mike opens the door and we’re greeted by a view of Euro-chick giving quite accomplished fellatio.

 

“Sorry love,” says Steve, “Mike’s been drinking too much and we need to use Dave’s car to get him home.”

 

This is a lie, but we know that Dave would only try to walk if we left him behind. Looking at it, he’s passed out anyway. She’s muttering incoherently and I pull her out of the car, “C’mon, I’ll take you to the taxi rank.”

 

I should have looked at her but the lights in the car park were out. It was only once we got to the taxi rank with the lights and the people and the brunette that the state of the eastern-European girl comes to my attention.

 

Her panties are around her ankles, one breast is hanging out of her open shirt and I’m fairly sure that’s a secretion from Dave on her chin. The brunette is talking to a bouncer who’s looking at me. He waves a couple more bouncers over.

 

“There’s been an accident!” I shout before making a run for the car park.

 

I find the boys and jump in the car with them. The Cavalier. F***.

 

“We’ve gotta go!”

 

“Hang on, I can’t find my keys.” Says Mike.

 

“We’re in the wrong car.” I say.

 

“This isn’t my coat!” cries Mike, “Some f***er’s got my coat and my car keys!”

 

“I’ve got your keys,” says Steve.

 

“Dave’s got us in some **** and we’re in the wrong car.”

 

“Gimme me keys!”

 

“WRONG CAR! WRONG CAR!”

 

“The key won’t fit! Hang on, bollocks! Shag-pad-car!”

 

“Out, OUT, OUT!”

 

We climb out and run to Mike’s mum’s Escort.

 

“The key still won’t fit!”

 

“****, they’re my keys, these are yours.” Steve and Mike swap bunches and we’re in.

 

“Drive you f***!”

 

One-twenty. There’s an ambulance outside the club already. Bouncers are prowling the car park and we race past. The brunette fixes me with a stare as we bounce over the speed-bumps.

 

“Let’s get food.”

 

“Twenty-four hour garage, crisps and cola.”

 

“And porn.”

 

“Crisps and cola,” I need to regroup, “Summerhayes, you f***, what are trying to do to me?”

 

But he’s asleep again. It’s not his fault.

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Then, she leans away from me and, arching her back, takes her arms from around my shoulders.

 

I drop her

 

Smooth.

 

Is this a true story AC?

Its very good anyway, I read the entire thing smiling/laughing.

I did read it all by the way, you suck Y2James. But I read slow so it took me around 5 minutes.

 

:thumbsup Thumbs up anyways

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Smooth.

 

Is this a true story AC?

Its very good anyway, I read the entire thing smiling/laughing.

I did read it all by the way, you suck Y2James. But I read slow so it took me around 5 minutes.

 

:thumbsup Thumbs up anyways

 

The parts about dropping the girl, setting fire to my shirt and getting hit are true. :-0 The rest is artistic license.

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I did finally read it and it was OK i suppose.

 

Lol, James is really pushing himself there to deliver what could be classed as a compliment.

Gosh-darn-it Y2J, AC spends so much time and effort writing that fantastic story and its that difficult to at least give him some good feedback?

:P

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