The Eternal Quest for a Decent Pint (2)

Pints had a moral code. As soon as the barmaid handed him the glass, he could see its integrity. You never knew what was coming out of the pump. Sometimes the lager was flat and soapy. It might even need handing back, saying, “It’s a bad pint.” Many were average. Not this one. He raised the glass, admiring the foamy head, and drank a long mouthful.

The pint was sheer class.

Eleven-thirty on a Saturday morning. Another member of the bar staff, some art student with long hair and a moustache, was putting out menus onto the tables, slotting them into wooden holders. An elderly man with a Schnauzer on his lap gazed into the middle distance, sipping on a pint of Guinness. The man had the same wispy white beard as his dog. It was uncanny how much they looked alike. A family came in. A young couple with their baby, followed by a set of grandparents. They seated themselves at a large round table in the corner. More family members came in to join them.

A song by Lana Del Rey played from speakers he couldn’t see. He sipped the pint. Almost down to the halfway stage. He kind of liked the song. He wished he didn’t but it was okay and he couldn’t argue with that. Nor the calibre of the pint. He finished it and ordered another. The barmaid seemed surprised to see him. “And a pack of cheese and onion crisps, no, scrap that, salt and vinegar,” he said. He checked out her arse as she bent down to reach for a packet, seeing how it was firm and curvy, something to grab hold of. She turned to put a packet of cheese and onion on the bar. Fuck sake. She hadn’t heard him change his mind. Leave it. Can’t be bothered. The barmaid poured the pint and held out the card machine. “She’s not too shabby, eh?” he said. The barmaid pulled a face. “Who?” Not wanting to make small-talk. Probably thought he was a weirdo. Single bloke by himself in the pub not long after opening. Bit of a red flag. Well, don’t fucking open the boozer at 11:00am then. Why set a trap for the innocent, unsuspecting dysfunctional newly single male in his early thirties? How are we supposed to know better? We’re fucking blokes. “Del Ray, she’s alright,” he said. The barmaid, who he realised was also studenty with her tattoos and bangles, gave a shrug. “Not my music to be honest. It’s just what they play in here.” 

And that was that for the conversation.

Done and dusted.

A curvaceous caboose never to be caressed. Out of bounds.

Not much of a chat-up line anyway. 

“Fair enough,” he said, tapping the card and going back to his seat. He could smell himself. The fumes of alcohol wafting upwards like the illegitimate son of Fungus the Bogeyman or something. Compost Bloke. Effluent Geezer. His head span and he had to catch himself. Fasten your seatbelt, laddie. Don’t drift. Thoughts wandering. Whispering to lie down in the pub and have a nap. Forty-winks wouldn’t work. Sleep could creep up on you when going back on the piss after a heavy night’s session. He woke up in a park once. Had been walking across the grass after a two-day bender and realised he couldn’t stay awake. He half remembered flopping down to give himself five minutes. When he woke up, it was almost dark and he had the shock of his life to see this fella sitting cross-legged next to him, peering with these intense black eyes. Were they black though? Black eyes? Fucking making it up. He thought he was seeing things. That the fella was an apparition, only he was speaking, saying actual words that made sounds. “This is my park,” the fella said and he went on about the rules, vis-à-vis sleeping and not sleeping on the grass in the park, which was in fact not a public space, insomuch as it being his abode, living quarters, place of residence.

Tried to explain that this was a temporary power nap and there was no intention of moving in on his territory, claiming squatters’ rights on the patch of grass, embarking on a sovereign act of unchecked aggression.

Pulled out some fags and offered him a tab.

They smoked and chatted about homelessness, sleeping rough, and it was hard to make sense of what the fella said because he was paranoid, talking in short, manic bursts, and he kept going on about people wanting to take his park away from him. It’s what everyone had in common, wasn’t it? Wanting a home. Fear of losing it. Having a place to call your own. And if you can’t have that, a roof over your head, well, what then? So, the two of them ended up walking to the shop. Bought the fella four cans of Stella for his generosity in allowing a stranger to kip in his park. Clearly mental as fuck. Should’ve been in care, an institution, but all those safety nets were pulled down so people wound up on the streets, in the shop doorways, alleyways, huddled on the seats of the early morning trains, crawling into bins even to hide from the rain and the storms and the freezing cold, desperate for shelter or, in the summer, when the weather was warmer, a fucking park. Care in the Community. The Big Society. All a sick joke really. The homeless were a necessary warning sign. Serving the purpose of the machinery of State: Play the Game and be a Good Consumer or Else…

Sup the pint.

Mandy kicked him out. Unbelievable really.

Or not. Quite the opposite.

Drinking and cheating and lying. It wasn’t on.

And now he had to phone his mum.

Fucking shame of it. Back living with his mother in his thirties.

Sort it out.

A screen came down from the ceiling and a barman fiddled with a remote. The music in the speakers switched to the sound of a crowd roaring and the voice of a football commentator. They were showing the footie. An alright game too. A reason to stay for a couple more hours. Not deal with hearing his mum yap-yapping and going on at him for breaking up with Mandy. Listening to how he’d never find anyone better.

The family on the table looked over at the giant screen and seemed disappointed. They hadn’t realised the footie would be on.

He tried to watch the match and act like he was interested, sipping the lager and eating crisps. His cabin case and sportsbag next to him as if he was off on his hols. That’s what he thought he’d originally bought the case for—fun holidays. Not to hurriedly pack when given the heave-ho. He checked his phone and Mandy hadn’t messaged him or called. Sitting there, he had this distinct sense that she was deadly serious and it started to sink in, having to live with his mother, never seeing Mandy again, and he wondered what he’d gone and done.

Why had he stayed out last night? Copping off with a girl at work who did his head in.

None of it added up.

And a family right there at the big table, all together, breeders, procreators, generations mixing and laughing and chatting about what they’ve been doing, all functional and happy-clappy.

Rubbing his nose in their marriages, pregnancies, mortgages and unity.

Fuck sake.

He went to the bar and ordered a pint. He’d lived round here for two years and never come to the pub before. If only he’d known they served the best pints he’d ever tasted. Pure euphoria. He felt sad that he’d missed out on untold high-calibre sessions and now, because of Mandy and her refusal to compromise, to exhibit a modicum of forgiveness at his all-too-human foibles, he had to venture across a cruel city to his mum’s and reside elsewhere.

Apart from the occasional dud, a pint was always waiting for him. Understanding. Empathetic. A shoulder to cry on. A friend to laugh with. They rarely let him down. Quit booze. As if! He couldn’t live without pints.

Not when they tasted like liquid birdsong.

(Part III here https://www.abctales.com/story/mark-burrow/diving-ocean-lager-3)