Tight Fisted bastard

Tight Fisted Bastard

Where had that twenty pence piece gone to? He knew it couldn't be far.
He'd only just dropped it for chrissakes. The bounce off his boot
wasn`t very hard, so chances were it was close by. After all it's not
as if they have a smooth edge or anything, its trajectory should have
been curtailed by the fact that in the design of a twenty pence the
opposite was true. So it should be visible, obvious, or at least
possible to locate without too much effort, but no. The strangest
thing. He knew no-one had picked it up, he'd been watching for that
one. No, no chancing bastard had slipped it into their pocket. He knew
that much - for sure. So where was it? The edge of the doorway he was
standing in was the most likely place. He bent down and ran his fingers
slowly round - it was probably standing to attention supported by the
right angle that consisted of the upright masonry and horizontal
pavement. Nothing. Damn. The pavement cracks, yes that was it, it had
to be. The elusive coin just snuggling in one of the cracks, defiant
and daring any-one desperate enough to bend down far enough and
discover its whereabouts. And there was no-one more desperate than him.
Just then the bus rounded the corner. He was caught between a rock and
a hard place - either board the bus twenty pence down or carry on the
search, which was proving fruitless, and wait another age for the next
one. Oh well at least it wasn`t a fifty!
'Day saver pal,' he said, throwing in one pound fifty pence into the
ticket machine. It was after half nine so he was entitled to the cheap
rate ticket.
'Sorry mate its gone up- a pound eighty cheap rate now,' says the
driver with the sort of controlled aggressive tone of voice that you`d
expect from some-one who had taken too much hassle over a price rise he
personally had had no control over.
What gone up? Surely not. Disaster. He examined his remaining change.
Two pound coins and a fifty pence piece. That would mean that if he put
the fifty in he would be getting done out of twenty pence. Not another
one. No way.
'Hang on a moment pal and I`ll just go and get some change,' he says to
the driver and dives off the bus into a shop. To his horror there`s a
queue and a stressed out looking young Asian lad trying to cope on his
own. He barges to the front but still has to wait until the first woman
gets her groceries bagged up.
'Give us some change pal,' he pleads, 'its for the bus,'
'No change without a purchase, sorry, and there`s people before you,'
the young guy tells him to the chorus of tut tutting and shuffling of
impatient, outraged feet.
Unbelievable, there was nothing for it, he`d have to put in fifty
pence. He fished it out his jeans pocket with his index finger but was
too flustered and in his haste the fifty pence went flying through the
air and plopped down a large storm drain. The driver had had enough. He
shook his head, closed the doors and pulled off into the stream of
traffic heading up Leith Walk, wondering to himself, not for the first
time that day, if it wasn`t time he found himself another job.

Two pounds twenty pence. That`s what he was down. The nerve under his
right ear was twitching. Two pounds and twenty pence and he hadn`t even
hit town yet. He was furious. So much so that he had to stop himself
from stomping up the Walk with a face like a wronged Spartan warrior.
After all he knew only too well that serious headcases in this part of
the city did not confine themselves to pub closing times when meating
out pain to any-one who looked as if they were acting wide and giving
them the eye! But two pounds twenty.
He decided to go for a pint and try calm down. The 'Volunteer,' wasn`t
far. One pound fifty pence a pint, not bad. Ten pence dearer than
'Finley`s' during the long happy hour but needs be must. They`d done
the place up since the last time he was in. Noticeably so. Tastefully
as well, not like when you hear that some place or other is getting
refurbished and it either ends up looking exactly the same or like one
of these horrible new-age, trendy establishments - a poser pub/cafe
type bar now so typical of the 'rejuvinated'old port of Leith. His
heart skipped a beat. What if they`d put up their prices?
'Nice decor my man, is it still the same prices?'
'Yeah,' the barman grins, 'still the same pal.'
Relieved he handed over a five pound note, checked his change and went
for a seat.
The guy sitting opposite reminded him a wee bit of Ken Dodd. He wished
it was, he would have introduced himself and got his autograph. What a
guy. A hero. A true legend if ever there was one. Pity he hadn`t gone
to prison though. Like the living god that was Lester. No, he must have
stumped up some of the cash. His uncle knew him from the Liverpool club
scene years before and he had told a story about Ken Dodd that had left
its mark. After a show one time all the acts had stayed behind for a
drink and Ken being forced to pay at the bar [too early in his career
to command a free bar tab] had ordered a single orange juice for
himself and his long time girlfriend. Two straws. Imagine. He wished he
could find some-one like that. She hadn`t even complained. There must
be another like - minded catch out there just for him. Statistically
speaking. Surely. Last date he had been on the girl had given him such
a strange look when he had merely neglected to pay for her cinema
ticket and sweets and asked her for change of a pound note to get the
bus home! What was wrong with her? Oh well it takes all kinds.

Oh no. Tom the Puss was across the other side of the road and he`d seen
him. Tom was waving and miming the actions of a parched navvy guzzling
his first pint and pointing over at the 'Elm`s' door. Last time he had
been drinking with `the Puss the bastard had sloped out when it was his
round. That had cost him one pound eighty six pence. He shivered at the
memory. Not this time though. No way.
He waited `till the lassie had poured the first pint of Carlsberg then
changed his order to Stella while walking towards the toilet. He would
definitely not be buying the first round. It was two pounds twenty
pence for Stella and one pound ninety for Carlberg, which `the Puss
would be getting in return. Hah, thirty pence to the better. He nearly
smiled.
Thank god he`d put on his fisherman's jacket with the gigantic pocket
across the chest, it meant his fags wouldn't get crushed. He left two
in the packet for token crash purposes and returned to the bar.
Well that wasn't so bad after all. They had had four pints each, which
of course meant that he had managed to claw back sixty pence of the
money which the unscrupulous, deceitful bastard that was Tom the Puss
managed to extort from him at their last meeting. And Tom had pulled
out a full 50g pack of Golden Virginia!

He knew it. The noise a one pound coin makes when tossed into a pile of
coppers is usually unmistakable. The smile on the dossers face, his
grateful thanks and the flash of gold when he transferred it from hat
to pocket confirmed it. A pound coin! Was she mad? Didn`t she read the
papers? God save us! These people earned five hundred pounds a day
[minimum] from begging. The blood rushed to his head and the nerve
under his ear was doing the cha-cha. It was in the 'Evening News' for
chrissakes. He felt like running up and grabbing her shoulder, making
her see the error of her ways but ach that was just the drink. A fool
and their money were, after all, easily parted.

You would think they`d get more mature people to work in decent
bookshops. This was Watermans after all. These smaning adolescents
were puting him off the Roy Keane autobiography. He`d had to put up
with it every time he came in to read a chapter. What did they have to
find so funny? Boyfriends more than likely. His legs were getting sore
quicker as well. Did he have something on his face? Did he need to blow
his nose? Just what was that security guard so interested in? This
place was getting to him. Still he`d just have to stick it out, another
five chapters left. No way he was buying it. No way. It was sixteen
pounds ninety nine pence. That was nearly seventeen pounds! Time out
for today though, the Sekonda on his wrist said nearly three o`clock
and the happy hour in 'Finlay`s' finished at four.

The barmaid was okay, she smiled and said hiya and knew how to pour a
decent pint. Not like that other one who put about a half inch of froth
on top of the beer - unsuccessfully attempting to pass it off as good
head. At least as far as he was concerned. He always asked for it to be
topped up. What was the point in buying a cheap pint if the beer only
reached halfway up the glass! Defeats the damned purpose for
chrissakes. No way was he accepting that. No way. Excuse me could you
fill that up please. Every time. He suspected that she was making a
face each time he requested the proper measure, but he couldn`t be
sure. If she was, she was good at it. Like some people can mutter under
their breadth and you think they are insulting you but you can never be
wholly sure. But lets face it who cares? Certainly not him. These kind
of people were nothing to him. They thought they were being smart. And
maybe they were. But if the truth be told, its far better to be
insulted than to have to put up with being done out of a full pint. He
winced at the thought.
He couldn`t believe it, he had thought they were extinct. A dead
species of scroungers. But sure enough there they were. The Salvation
Army. In full regalia. Selling 'The Warcry.'In Finlay`s of all places.
Hadn`t they read the sign - Strictly No Colours To Be Worn In The Bar.
He put his hand in his pocket and felt the familiar weight and outline
of two pound coins, three fifty pence pieces, a twenty pence piece and
two tens.
'Sorry no change ,' he says to the embezzler.
Why do they let them in? Unbelievable! Surely every-one knows about the
corruption involved in the collection of money for good causes and
charities. He felt like downing his pint and leaving but the Sekonda
indicated that there was another twenty minutes of happy hour left yet.
Not to be wasted, after all 'The Cat &; Bagpipes,' charged one
pounds fifty pence!
He consoled himself with the recollection about his friend Davy the
Gypsy King. What a stormer he had pulled off. 'The Meanest Thief In
Scotland,' according to the Daily Record. Hah! what a man. Twenty stone
of pure power lifting muscle and a kick ass attitude that made Ozzy
Osbourne look like a choir boy. Davy had posed as a genuine do-gooder.
They trusted him. Hah! How had the Record put it :-

The search was on today for the perpretator of what has been described
as the meanest robbery in Scotland. Self styled Gypsy King David
McDonald (aged 30) disappeared with a lorry load of aluminium ring
pulls that had been collected in Dundee to help the needy. Charity
worker Ross Young, who described the act as despicable, explained that
Mcdonald, who has connections in the scrap metal industry, drove off
with the truckload which had been mainly collected by schoolchildren
and failed to return with the cheque......'

A stroke of genius. Pure class. What the charity worker really meant of
course was that it was despicable that none of the money had found its
way into his already illegally bloated bank account.

He counted another five beggar/buskers along Rose St. That was two
thousand five hundred pounds on one street alone. He took the
opportunity to rid himself of that foreign coin he had
uncharacteristically been caught out with. He nodded to the 'god bless
you' he got from the old cadger.
There was a new sign outside one of the basement pubs which was
advertising late summer bargains. Stella was being offered at one pound
sixty pence. Nice one, he`d have to take advantage.
'Two pound thirty please sir,' requests the barman.
'Eh, but its says ....'
'Sorry sir the offer only applies Sunday to Thursday, it does say so on
the board.'
He felt his fourth boiling rage of the day rise up from the pit of his
stomach and tears started to well in his eyes. How could he have been
so stupid. It was them damned beggars. They had unnerved him. He hadn`t
read the sign properly.
The barman couldn`t believe what he was seeing. What a state to get
yourself in over the price of a drink, he was thinking to himself. It
honestly looked as if this odd looking guy was about to burst out
crying.
'Erm, listen I eh, didn`t know, sorry I, ehm thought it was one pound
sixty pence. I`ll come back another time.'He walked out leaving the
pint on the bar and made his way to the familiar territory of 'The
Cat,'where he knew for a fact the happy hour was in progress. Close
call that. Too close.

'That`s nothing to do with me pal,'said the bus driver sternly 'it
wasn`t me driving and it wasn`t this bus. So you either buy a ticket or
you get off. Simple.'
'I know it wasn`t you' he retorted drunkenly, 'but I just wondered if I
could get home for free since I`d put in all that money.'
'Look you shouldn`t have got off the bus and you`re supposed to have
the correct money, tells you on all the buses - correct change
only.'
'But how was I to know it had gone up? Its so unfair, all that money
and no ticket.'
'Listen, its no use whining at me, if you`ve got a grievance write to
the company. Now do you want a ticket?'
'Yeah suppose so, its just so, so very unfair. Fifty please.'
'Its sixty now and that's only going to get you half way down the
'Walk'.
'But.'
'No buts.'
'Okay sixty I`ll walk the rest.'
'Fine by me pal but don`t think your staying on after your stop, cause
yer no, OK.'
'Yeah, yeah.'

By the time he got to his flat he was soaked to the skin. The rain had
really started belting down. Still it was better than puting in another
twenty pence into the coffers of the extortion racket that masqueraded
as Lothian Regional Buses.
As he opened the flat door the warm air struck his face. His cold and
wet body feeling the benefit of a warm house. Damn he`d left the
heating on. How many unnecessary units had that used up. No-one in the
house. He was getting really careless. What a day. He decided to have a
bath and go to bed. No point in wasting all that hot water.
The chink, chink, chink the three twenty pence pieces made when they
landed in his massive jar gave him the best feeling of the day. That
was four hundred pounds and eighty pence he had in there now. It would
soon be time to bank it. Another five hundred pounds. His target of
twenty thousand pounds in the bank by the time he was thirty seemed
attainable. But his mood soon relapsed into melancholy sadness with the
realisation that it wasn`t enough. It would never be enough.