by Nick Patey

"What are you looking at?"

The tattered coat on a stick's mouth straightened barstool pigeon stiff.

"No one drinks here anymore. Except the old boys, I mean. The governor's killed the place."

The voice paused thoughtfully.

"Too stupid for words!"

I pulled myself on to a seat at the bar nervously, and stared absently at the red towel in front of me.

"The bastard behind the bar wouldn't work in an iron lung. Wouldn't piss on you if you was on fire."

I fixed my eyes thirstily on the older man's glass.

Behind the bar, an unshaven man in is early thirties appeared. He emptied the contents of an ashtray into a garbage can, tightly gripping a cigarette butt between his teeth.

"What'll you have mate?", the bar man breathed.

"A middy of moselle thanks", I answered.

The older man coughed convulsively and spat, then lit his fag impatiently.

"Where’s mine then?"

"Another one Mick?", the bar man asked the older man, not waiting for a reply.

I somehow managed to extricate what remaining change I had left in my pockets, and placed it precariously on the bar.

"Take it out of that please", I said when confronted with the much needed drink.

I attempted to raise the glass to my lips, but soon realised that my shaking hands and acute self-consciousness prevented me.

"Got the hippy-hippy shakes mate?", laughed the older man in between swigs and drags.

I fumbled for a cigarette with my right while the tingling finger tips of my left felt around in my pockets for a match. Rather than stifling the older man's attempts at conversation, my reticence to participate in a dialogue merely intensified them. At this point in my existential proceedings, I would have much preferred to endure a mutual, if paranoid, silence.

"Why can't you ski over in Asia?", the older man questioned me eagerly.

"I'm sorry. I didn't quite catch the question", I apologised.

"It's a joke, get it? I ask a question and you try to work out the punch line", he explained aggressively.

"Oh, I see. I don't know. I'm sorry", I replied, still trying to focus my scattered attention upon the successful downing of my glass of wine.

"Cause all the slopes are over here. Ha ha ha . . .", laughed the older man, collapsing into a coughing frenzy.

I managed to get the glass to my mouth and drain its contents in one gulp.

"You like a drink than do you?", remarked the older man, having recovered from his coughing ft.

I ordered another wine, hoping that this would provide the gentleman with a satisfactory answer.

"Same again buddy?", boomed the chain smoking bar man, his guileless smile revealing the absence of a front tooth.

"Yes thanks", I replied, relieved to have finally ignited my cigarette after having wasted four matches in the process.

"I've got another one for you", the older man chuckled as he rolled himself another fag.

I swallowed my wine in two mouthfuls whilst studiously avoiding eye contact with either the bar man or the garrulous old man.

"Thirsty are you pal?", remarked the bar man, preparing to pour me another glass of moselle.

After a fitful reaching in and out of pockets, and an almost ritualistic search through an empty wallet, I discovered that I was broke.

"I'm sorry. I've got no money . . ., I mean . . ., I can't afford another drink", I explained anxiously.

"I'll fix our friend up", spoke the older man reassuringly. "What'll it be? It's my shout."

"A middy of moselle thanks", I found myself saying, amazed at my voice's sudden and almost unconscious, clarity.

"A middy of moselle for me mate, and a rum and coke with no ice for yours truly", laughed the older man, as if speaking to himself.

"No worries Mick", the bar man smiled.

"Hunt's the name. Call me Mick", the old man offered me his tobacco stained paw.

"Freeman", I said nervously, wrapping my sweaty fingers around his tight and sinewy fist.

Having presently alleviated my financial crisis, Mr. Hunt decided that it was time for another 'joke'.

"A guy loses his prick see, and he goes to the doctor to see about getting a replacement. Anway, the doctor lets him see some samples. The first one's wrinkled and shrunken, so the guy asks if he can have a look at some others. Anyway, eventually he sees a big, long, thick one that he takes a fancy to, and he says, 'I don't mind that one. Do you have any of those in the white?'", the older man guffawed into his glass, almost spilling half of its contents in his excitement.

I laughed politely and finished my wine.

"Strike me purple! Another wine for me mate here. Thirsty bastard aren't you?", the old man looked at my empty glass with a curious mixture of horror, awe and admiration.

"So squire, tell me. Just what do you do for a crust?", Hunt asked as his laughter subsided.

"I'm a child minder . . ., I mind children", I answered hesitantly.

"What? You a baby sitter are you?", Hunt ruminated thoughtfully. "That's an odd job for a bloke. Still, it's better than those oxygen thieving dole bludgers wandering around advertising abortion for a living. It's a queer way to make a quid all the same."

My pregnant silence and the empty glass in front of me prompted him to order another round of drinks.

"You are married then are you?", Hunt continued his interrogation, believing that he who pays the piper calls the tune.

"No . . ., I'm still single", I replied.

"You're not a poof are you?", Hunt queried in a tone beneath reproach.

"No, I . . . just haven't met the right person yet", I answered before staring longingly at the empty glass in my right hand.

"Oh", Hunt paused, collecting himself. "I see you need a refill."

The older man shouted me another wine silently and breathed a smoky sigh of relief.

"I'm fucking glad you're not a horse's hoof. I can't stand the flap stapling fag dancers. Two bit brown nosed turd burglars the fucking lot of them. You can tell em by the queer way they talk from having sucked so much cock. Anyway, did you hear the one about the bloke who had a drinking problem?", Hunt spat, resuming the comedian's role.

"No", I replied anxiously.

"He kept missing his mouth. Ha ha ha . . . ", the old man chuckled, giving me a 'healthy' slap on the back.

I excused myself and went to the 'bathroom', letting my shrivelled penis drip sporadically into the trough. My eyes ruefully examined my excretion's sickly, pale hue. I zipped my fly to attention and braced myself for more of Mr. Hunt's 'jokes'.

"No one drinks here anymore", Hunt muttered. "Just drunks. The governor's killed the place. You wouldn't read about it!"

While I resumed my seat at the bar, Hunt paused thoughtfully.

"What did you say your name was?", Hunt asked.

"Freeman."

"Freeman, that's right. Freeman the baby sitter, I remember now. Middy of moselle isn't it?"

"Yes thanks", I replied.

Hunt bought another round of drinks and chuckled to himself.

"I love a bloke that loves a drink and a joke. The Missus can't stand it. Varicose veined battle axe", Hunt scratched his head awkwardly.

"The Missus's face is permanently buried in The Woman's Monthly. I mean, when I married her she was a top sort, you know. But now she looks like a female impersonator, and an ugly one at that. Law of gravity I 'spose, but fuck what an eyesore she is now. The sight of that menopause riddled cow naked is enough to drive you to drink!"

Hunt's face reddened with frustration as he paused to stub out his fag.

"Of course to top it all off, instead of a son, she gave me a four eyed pox box of a daughter. I can't marry the slut off. She's given to fat like her mother, and she's as thick as two short planks."

Hunt's eyes studied my face for some sign of understanding, or at least sympathy.

"You're still single. It'd be good if a smart, young bloke like yourself would give her a nice good fucking instead of the hairy, smelly mongoloids she usually roots around with. She's brought home wogs, boongs, spics, slant eyes . . ., never a fucking faggot thank god. She's so fucking stupid, she'd have to screw a sodding Einstein to produce a child that could even breathe properly. She's aborted all me grandchildren so far."

Hunt noticed my empty glass and expectant face.

My shakes had gradually subsided through Mr. Hunt's generous patronage.

The bar man slumped casually to the jukebox and inserted some loose change. He paused before making his 'usual' / 'customary' / 'mandatory'? selection. The opening bars of "Heartbreak Hotel" summoned the room to attention.

"That'd be right", Hunt mused, as he tapped his good leg to the rhythm. "I've got to shake hands with the wife's best friend. If you fancy another drink, tell Elvis to take it out of that."

Hunt handed me a fifty dollar note before limping to the 'little boy's room' with the aid of his cane.

"Another round?", asked the bar man absently, apparently unaware that he was talking to himself.