Crooked Fools

That fucking phone. I shove it in my pocket but miss and it clatters to the ground, lying in a shiny puddle on the dirty pub floor. Back bent, I lie gasping over my swollen stomach and swing my hand wildly under the table. Locating the puddle I slosh about until I catch the phone, my face is steaming red when I resurface. Forcing my phone into my pocket my fingernail catches in the jeans.

‘Prick.’

Catching my breath a steady burning starts to seep up my throat, making my neck sweat like a collared sauna. I toss the top of my pint back to douse the flames but the sweat keeps coming. Like salty gasoline, my tongue’s growing stale and my eyes are watering. Wiping them clear there’s a stink of piss.

I’m swaying freely now, rolling the weight of me around the circumference of my hips. I step back to steady the arc and hear droplets smatter onto my shoe. Grabbing hold of the wall to steady myself, I close one eye to take proper aim at where I’m looking. The urinal mostly. I can feel the stares of my urinal neighbour, a drunken nosey fool.

‘Not your night buddy,’ laughing at him as I go by. I throw him a clap on the back in good fun, but he gives me a big shunt back out the door, barrelling me shoulder first into a vending machine. I crumple to the ground.

‘Prick.’

Let’s see where we’re going next. Where’s my seat? I’m looking for a seat first. And a pint. I meander through the stools buckling up my belt. Greeting the couch with the full weight of me, it gives nothing back but the hard crack of wood from beneath the thin cushions. Once my phone is charged I am out of this kip. Home to bed. Only place for me. I need a charge.

She’s ignoring me, I can always tell. Whisking around, delighting on her favourites, probably with a good laugh at my expense. Here she comes, she’s getting closer, but she’d need to hurry. I am dying. Fit to burst. My buckle is boring a hole into my bladder. She’s definitely avoiding me now.
‘Hey. HEY. A. PINT.’ The conversation dies around me and a crowd of heads turn to me. ‘A pint I need.’ She walks off. ‘AND A CHARGE.’ She doesn’t turn around.

I need to get out of here. If I don’t get out of here I’m going to pop. Standing up I rock the table causing a spill, sloshing around like a storm in a pint glass. A hand makes to steady me.

‘Get away from me,’ I growl. ‘Prick.’

I raise my eyes from a brief rest and throw them around the room like a lazy prison spotlight. Casting my glare on a yard full of inmates splitting stones. I throw the middle half of the pint into me and search the swash for a plan. My head is heavy and there’s dust between my ears. I pin one eye on the table next to me and get out the words

‘Do you’ve a battery?’ No response. ‘It’s for me phone.’ No response.

It’s a hard time trying to land steady footing on a floor of cracked tiles. Trying to fix a point, I spot a fella’ at the bar with a bad hunch on him. A real crooked back that you wouldn’t forget. He used to do a job down the way with that bastard Sarah’s caught up with. Forget her. You couldn’t forget him though,

‘Crooked from the weight of all them lies you’re lugging,’ I cackle at him as I pass.

I throw my head back from the urinal and bellow laughter after that bent fool. Unsteady again, there’s piss stained down my jeans. Shite. I gather myself in a leery haze and press my head against the wall in front. I can see my pupils reflected back in the white tiles, the cold smooth ceramic dousing my head in a brisk wave of clarity. I need to get out of here. I buckle up my trousers, check my phone for a taxi, it’s dead. I need a charge and I’m gone.

My head’s falling limp around my shoulders trying to find her, but she’s gone. Pulled left and right, I nearly fall over but for my elbow catching the table. Head bowed, eyes shut, I raise my hand for her attention. A sticky stream of beer runs along my arm to my elbow. I grab hold of it to stem its hold on me. My sleeve is sodden. The table is sodden. Everything’s full of pint but my glass.

I open my eyes, almost stuck together from the weight of my brow. A dirty smell lingers in the air and I look around. I’m enclosed by stinking white walls. A cubicle. I’m hanging on by threads now and I need to use the last of them to weave an escape. Holding myself over the sink I splash handfuls of lukewarm oily water at my face. My shirt is soaked.

I hang my head over the bowl and let the water drip off my nose and chin, watching the droplets run pink down the sinkhole and I check myself out in the dirty mirror. There’s blood running from a cut on my nose. It’s time to go.

My shoulder is hanging off me, I can barely lift it, swinging loosely from my side I raise it by the elbow. A pitiful salute. Here she comes,

‘Just a phone to charge my battery. And a pint.’ She’s gone again. I wonder if Sarah’s still up. She always knew what to say, to a fault.

A commotion comes hurtling in the door, I can hear the shouting. My eyes follow the noise and I can make out a burst of red faces protruding from a quilt of jackets and sleeves. Looks like that crooked fucker alright. Nose slant across his face like a shard of glass. I’ll let him know.

A big gulp of air and I go right up to the fella’. Beetroot neck, veins bulging, staring straight ahead at the bouncer. His back looks far straighter now he’s upright. A tricky guise alright.

‘Here you crooked prick.’ I barely add to the din amounting from their clenched frenzy. He’s been warned. I take one step back and throw one fist forward. I’ve struck something. In a sudden blur, I’m consumed by a mass of falling bodies, raised knees, and ripped buttons. It’s warm in it all.

I open my lips and my mouth is filled with an icy bite. My arse is numb from the stone pavement. I take a few short breaths and go to open my eyes. No budging. Sealed shut. My cheek is pressed against a pebble dashed wall, tracing pointed trails along my face.

‘Prick’

I raise myself and blindly feel about. The brittle dashing is chipping away at my skin, but I grab hold of the ledge and reach for the window. There she is. The frosted glass staining red under my bloody fingertips, I trace along the iron-framed letters: Mulligans.

I pull my way down the path to the door. If I can just get a charge I can get out of here.