The big things don't matter.

 

 *

 

 

 Bar

 

 

 

As I get older, I see  that the big things don´t matter, only the details. If the details are sure, everything else follows through, geometrically amplified- right?

* 

I'm sitting in my little office overlooking the wharf, analysing marketing strategies. I'm working on a strategy for selling sweet alchoholic drinks to teenagers. If it's successful  there will be many more achoholic teenagers, and teenagers having accidents and fights and the shareholders will be happy.

The phone rings.

"It's Billy."

 

"Yes Billy."

 

"I'm downstairs."

 

"I'm working."

 

"Fuck off."

 

"Come on."

 

"Fuck off. I want a drink."

 

"Fuck off Billy."

 

"Come for a drink."

 

"Christ Billy, I'm working."

I think he smelt a weakness there in my tone. Like many base characters, he has an instinct for a weakness.

"Come on, I'm downstairs. I've got a fiver."

 

"Jesus Billy."

 

"Come on man, don't be a cunt."

 

Give me two minutes.

Billy looks a complete disgrace. His is hair matted, his jeans are filthy and there is an odd black smear on his cheek which is long and bulbous at one end and doubly bulbous at the other. Yes, you can guess what it resembled.

 

  "Jesus Billy, I say. Did you sleep under a truck?" You know, I almost feel sorry for him sometimes.

 

 Billy just looks down to his feet: two broken trainers.

Anyway, soon we are at the Prince of Wales, a cavernous pub from way back. We are the only ones there apart from the old guy who is always there and the ashen faced barman who lives there too.

 

 "God Bless the Queen!" the old guy cries across the room, raising his glass.

At the bar:

 "Mine's a pint of bitter."

"So's mine," says Billy

The drinks appear; "thanks Billy."

 

Billy looks coyly at the floor.

 

"You fucker Billy," I say, as I hand the barman the money.

*