The Start Of The Worst Summer You Ever Had
Wednesday is books. And writing. Today, a new short storty...
Richard liked to say that he was the only one with a real drinking problem: Two hands and only one mouth! His was an incredible thirst, an insatiable drive and you could never imagine yourself ever being able to compete, let alone wanting to. In fact, you could nearly die just trying.
It soon became very trying indeed.
One day, a five-litre bottle of whiskey was sat there on the doorstep, apparently a prize from a raffle – but there was always a little story and there was hardly ever much actual proof. Apparently the golfclub were good cunts eh, for making sure on that promise…
And you were lucky too, because this was basically his contribution to the rent, even if you’d have preferred some actual money. But money would have been actual proof. Whiskey was a better wee story.
Also, don’t hold out on that rent-contribution once received eh. Be a bit rude not to open it for a little tipple, wouldn’t it? Well, you’ll never know because this was suggested as he was opening it.
Soon, anyone that entered the room was commanded to take a shot.
You went to the movies – to see whatever was on. Just to not be there. You got back as late as you could, had plenty of things on your mind besides all this mess, so you went for a walk around the block before turning up back home to that flat.
And there he was, holding court. In his rugby shorts. His elbow propped up on a makeshift bar. Showing people how he could bend it both ways, laughing at his own jokes as big bellows of smoke circled up as if to put a thought bubble around the cliché of it all. Not that much thinking was going on.
And the downstairs neighbour didn’t have any interest in being there but made the mistake of living directly underneath all this noise, and the bigger mistake of checking to see what the noise all was anyway.
So he was called up and just as soon as he made it across the threshold, he wished that he hadn’t. He turned down the first offer of a shot and was immediately called a faggot. And yeah, that could be shrugged off but then another taunt, and more questioning on both his lack of desire to drink and his sexuality. Next thing he was slugged in the side of the head. No reason. Well, there was always a wee reason. There just wasn’t ever much actual truth.
“Smart cunt, looking down on us for having a good time”.
You then had to drag the slim weight of him, by the feet, to the door, then lift him up and carry him downstairs apologising profusely to the gathered housemates below. They were screaming at you because they needed to know what was wrong with you all. And you could have been given all the time in the world and you’d never be able to answer that one.
The police would be getting a call, they said. Fair. And the landlord too. And you’d be hearing from him again, the last time he called it was about four in the afternoon and it woke you up so that didn’t impress him so much.
Back upstairs, the weight of a cold new world was on your shoulders and the whiskey bottle was on its ear. A slug to the side of its head had toppled it too. And there was no reason for that either.
He was dancing to the Curtis Mayfield you’d put on the stereo.
“You always know the tunes to chill me right out” he said, big puff of smoke up into the air and that soulless grin that said nothing yet somehow spoke in volumes.