On reflection
By will2
- 729 reads
It was Saturday morning. The early clouds of dawn had been blown
eastwards by a fresh breeze and now the sky was painted the lightest of
blue. Daniel stood at the corner of Allison street and Victoria road
waiting for the pubs to open. He stood impatiently unable to think of
anything to do in order to fill the time which remained till the
opening of pub doors.
It was still only nine minutes to eleven and he had already been
standing there for four minutes. Four whole minutes already. What to
do. With every minute which passed he needed a drink more and more.
Just one to settle him down but standing on the corner of Allison
street and Victoria road with nothing to do was making him distinctly
nervous.
He walked up the road a little to look in a shop window. Any shop
window. So he found himself looking in the window of a jewellers shop.
The sight however, of forty one watches all with non-moving hands very
quickly became unbearable.
Eight minutes till the pub doors would open. May as well have been
seven hours. He should have gone down The Gallowgate way where the
market is. Bear the company of every alky in Glasgow. At least there
were pubs that way which opened at eight. Anything was better than
this.
Every now and then a flash of remembrance of the night before would
assault his mind. He needed a drink. Hung over from the night before.
God! The night before! Getting thrown out that pub for calling that
fucking arsehole of a barman, a fucking arsehole. Nightmare. Six and a
half minutes to go. He caught his reflection in the shop window.
Christ, he looked rough. Even rougher than he felt if that was
possible. Granted, he had been wearing the same clothes for the last
week and a half. As with all the other benders he had been on, most
nights not bothering to undress he would fall asleep on the couch, or
on top of his bed. Waking up in the morning hopefully with not much
time to wait before the pubs would open again. He couldn't remember the
last time he had a bath. A bath remember that?
He suddenly started to itch, an urge to scratch off the dirt which
covered his skin. And then there was his face. Great blue bloated bags
hung below his eyes. His whole face looked bloated. His hair cemented
by dirt and grease stood up pointing in various directions. He hadn't
shaved for days and unshaven his stubble grew on his chin like green
mould on a stale piece of bread.
At last he had found something to occupy his mind before the pubs
opened. His appearance. A large pot belly pushed out his shirt. He
pulled his stomach in for a couple of seconds before it slowly having
maybe gained a life of it's own, gradually inflated itself back to it's
normal size.
He was also losing his hair. Recently his hair had started to cut
itself and with the raising of his forehead the lower became his self -
esteem. Was that really himself who stood there looking back? Was he
really that short? He had never been tall, but short? The more he
stared at himself the more he became shocked by his own appearance. In
the reflection of the Jewellers window he resembled a withered ,
crinkled, hunched, fat and small old man. And he had only just turned
thirty.
He needed a drink. He looked at his watch .Four minutes. Maybe they
would open the doors early.. The pub he had decided to go to that
morning was just around the corner. Two and a half minutes away but he
didn't want to stand directly outside the pub, didn't want to give the
impression he was waiting for the pub to open. That just wasn't done.
Better to arrive from a few minutes walk away.
But god he had never known time to drag like it at that moment. He had
got up too early. That was the problem Now he was having to learn his
lesson the hard way. He sighed.
The fucking ridiculous licensing laws in this country. Almost a second
millennium and still one had to wait in order to get oneself pissed.
The Great prehistoric United Kingdom of Britain where tradition always
prevailed over progress especially if common sense would be the loser.
In order to waste a few more seconds, he launched himself into a mental
tirade against the country where (for the moment) he was forced to
live.
Three minutes. Thank god, nearly time to head. Distracted by a fleeting
sensation of elation he turned round and foolishly imagined he saw
Deborah. No big deal really as he normally imagined he saw Deborah two
or three times a day.
Every second girl he saw with short blonde hair became Deborah. This
was just another. Apart from the fact it was Deborah. Hang on a minute.
His heart missed a beat. It couldn't be Deborah. The girl now had her
back to him looking in the window of the butcher's shop she had just
walked out of. She was the same shape. Same size. The hair was a little
longer than he remembered and then she turned her head and he realised
it was indeed her. Deborah!
Thank you God. If ever there was one person he needed at the moment it
was Deborah. He felt so low, Deborah was a godsend. His first instinct
was to call across the road to her but he stopped himself from doing
so, preferring to try and walk up behind and surprise her.
She probably missed him as much as he missed her. Such was fate. In
years to come they would look back and laugh " remember that Saturday
morning when we met again outside the butcher's shop. Ha, ha, ha. God
was smiling on us that day..........."He walked down to the traffic
lights, keeping his eye on Deborah who continued to stand in front of
the butchers shop. He had a better view of her now. She looked as
beautiful as ever. As he waited for the lights to change it warmed his
heart to think of the times they had spent before, the winter nights of
old for example when they would snuggle up in bed together where they
would read a book and then each other, or walking in the park,
completely at ease with one another company. Since when had he been
that happy? The only woman he had ever truly loved. The complete and
only love of his life. The woman who lived in his heart every minute of
every day.
The lights seemed to take ages to change. No wonder, he had forgot to
press the fucking little button thing! As he reached out with his
finger his heart was thumping in his chest, a mixture of delightful
anticipation and fear and then his heart stopped completely.
As he continued to keep his eye on Deborah , a man walked out of the
same butchers shop. It was a man he had seen somewhere before. For a
moment he couldn't quite place.............Richard. It couldn't
be...but it was, his old boss Richard. The Brummie Yank. But what would
he be doing with Deborah? The realisation hit him the same as if he had
walked out into the road and been knocked down by a truck.
The lights changed but Daniel didn't see or hear them. Richard had
walked out of the butchers shop with a big grin on his face, holding up
a small white plastic bag. This proceeded to crease Deborah up in
hysterics. What Daniel wondered could Richard have bought out the
butchers which could cause so much hysterics? Sausages? Pork Chops?
Pork chops aren't funny. Black pudding, perhaps? Then a cold shiver
shook Daniel's body. Richard still holding his apparently hilariously
funny bag in his hand and placed his left arm around Deborah, and
kissed her passionately on the lips.
Especially since it was Saturday morning. It was all such a shock. He
had never seen her act in such a way. Kiss so passionately, well at
least not with Daniel. This depressed him even more. He stood at the
traffic lights oblivious to everything except his ex-girlfriend and his
ex-boss.
Deborah still laughing herself silly, took the little plastic bag
offered to her by Richard (Bacon?, Mince?) and put her arm in David's.
They then walked up the road away from him arm in arm.
A sudden rage overcame him. That fucking Richard bastard. He would kill
him. Now. Take his funny plastic bag (chopped liver?, Tongue?)and shove
it down his throat. He straightened up and waited for the lights to
change once more. Then he hesitated.
He looked down at his clothes. He was a mess. He was in no state to
beat the shit out someone. Even if he said so himself. He was half-glad
they hadn't seen him. and this thought angered him even more. Why
should he care what they think? They were the bad people. A couple of
sluts.
But perhaps it would be better to confront them when he was a little
bit smarter. He probably smelled. The green man lit up but still he
didn't cross the road. He stood and let emotion after emotion travel up
and down his body. He probably smelled. Numbness. Shock. Rage.
Loneliness and now shame. He probably smelled.
In fact on reflection it was perhaps a good thing they hadn't seen him.
He still couldn't get over the way they acted. The way they kissed, the
way she pissed herself laughing, that pissing yourself laughing laugh
which is only possible when you're in love.
As the traffic lights changed once again he glanced one last time at
them walking away, hand in hand up the road. Then he turned and slowly
walked away in the opposite direction.
Half an hour later he sat in the corner of a small pub drinking his
second pint. There had been times in his
life when he had felt low, but surely honest to goodness he had never
felt this low. Like a piece of dog shit not good enough for other
people to stand on. There was almost a quiet contentment in this
fact.
That at least he couldn't feel any worse, be as low or as depressed as
that moment. Thing's could only get
better. He finished his second pint and ordered a third.
Like a needle stuck in a groove of his brain, the image of Deborah and
Richard walking hand in hand up the road played over and over again in
his brain. Apart from the image, thought's started to run riot in his
brain and with every thought came a question and for every question
came an answer.
Question - Why didn't he realise sooner? Answer - Because he was a
thick bastard. Question - How many other people knew? Answer -
Everyone. Everyone except him. Question - What could he do about it ?
Answer - Get drunk. Get so fucking drunk he'd pickle his brain.
Which he did. One drink, one pub led to another. He drank as fast as
the alcohol would go down his throat. Beer, Whisky, Vodka, cocktails of
alcohol he drank until he couldn't even talk in a straight line. Later
on, in order to get served he went to dark dodgy pubs where they would
serve a camel if it had a quid. The anger which seethed and boiled
inside grew with every drink. The drunker he got the angrier he got.
The angrier he got the drunker he got. He wanted violence, needed
violence. Kick the shit out someone, anyone. The next cunt that says
something to me, as much as looks in my direction, I swear, I'll rip
his fucking head off.
At twenty minutes to midnight, he sat swaying on a bar stool of a back
street pub in Govanhill. He took another cigarette out of his pocket
and after a few minutes managed to light it. He took long difficult
drags on the cigarette oblivious to the smell. "Here mate" said a small
old man standing next to him tapping him on the shoulder.
"What!" replied Daniel.
"Yer fag" Daniel ignored him
"Yer fag" the old man continued "It's the wrong way roon. Ye've lit the
filter' son"
Daniel took the cigarette out of his mouth, looked at it and then
looked back at the old man. It was the last thing he remembered
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