Another Night Out

 

“Scuse me, do you mind if I ask what you’re writing?”

He looked exactly like “Bible John”, the Barrowlands serial killer of the late sixties. They never caught him. The side-parted red hair, the pearly, over-lapping teeth, glinting under the beer-lights. He had a satchel over his shoulder and an expensive looking coat. He stood over my table, swaying to the music. He was very drunk.  

“What? Oh, nothing really. Just thoughts.”

I’d taken my notebook out of my pocket while my friend Brian had gone next door. Brian was doing a gig with his band and was having to sort out the films they would be projecting at the stage during the show. This was necessary as no one in the band did anything except play and look at the floor. I’d not written much of anything in the notebook. In fact, all I’d written were a couple of paragraphs describing my complete inability to think of anything to write about.

“Me and my pal were wondering what you were doing. I seen you was writing. You’ve got nice handwriting, by the way.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

“Are you a poet or something?”

“Well…”

“I don’t mean to be nosy…just I saw you writing things down. I have a notebook for work but, you know, Saturday night.”

I knew it was Saturday night.

“I’m with some friends. You saw I was with some friends. I’m not just sat here on my own like a…They’re playing a gig here tonight, next door, but they had to go and transfer a file.”

“A file? What sort of a band is it?”

“Er, “dream-pop”.

He spat some foamy lager on the floor.

“Fucking "dream pop"? What the fuck is "dream pop"?”

“Shoe gaze, then. I thought ‘cause you were young you might know the American name.”

“I’m no American, pal.”

 He was suddenly serious. The jaw tightened; his eyes narrowed. Bible John. They never caught him.

“No.”

“I’m from Glasgow.”

“I can tell.”

“You can tell, can you? What were you writing?”

“Nothing, really. Nothing was coming.”

“You’ve got nice handwriting though.”

“Thank you.”

“Were you writing about us?”

“What? No.”

“My mate’s pretty pissed though, isn’t he?”

He laughed. It felt like a trap.

“Is he?”

“C’mon. He just spilled a pint of beer all over the table. You musta seen that, the pissed prick.”

I’d watched the whole thing. There were three of them: satchel, his friend who was a monkey in an expensive coat, and an inexplicably beautiful girl, who was in some way attached to them. The monkey and the girl had been dancing and whooping, as though they were in a club instead of this sticky floored bar and, in the process, had sent a full pint flying. Bible John just looked on, laughing, while a bar staffer appeared, hot and harassed and holding a mop. The girl melted away.

“I didn’t see him do that. I mean, I can see the puddle now.”

“Not very observant, are you? For a writer.”

I gave a silly shrug.

“You sure you’re a writer? A lot of people say they’re writers.”

I paused, wondering where this pointless conversation was going. His face crumpled into laughter.

“’Course you’re a writer, mate. Look at you.”

He was very near my face.

“So, what are you doing, on a Saturday night, sat on your own, writing in a notebook?”

He wasn’t letting it go.

“I used to go out and write all the time, but I’ve been stuck in the house for two years and I just wanted to get out, you know? Soak up some atmosphere. Hasn’t really worked out though.”

“That’s what it’s all about, though, eh? Getting out there. Connecting. Soaking up life.” He was doing a little dance now, to match his affirmative words. His fists bobbed in front of him.

“Yeah, you know.”

“Spying on people when they’re drunk. Mocking them. Making them look stupid. Is that it?”

Oh, fuck this.

“Yeah,” I said, “if they’re being drunken pricks, why not?”

A moment.

“Show me what you’ve written.”

“No. Fuck off.”

“Show me what you’ve written.”

“I’ve not written anything.”

“I can see it. I can see your exquisite penmanship.”

“Wal, what’s going on?”

His friend approached now. Bald, a beard, the expensive looking duffel coat. He'd danced his way back from the toilets, though no music was playing now. Here come the pint upsetter.

“Talking to this writer.”

“Writer, is he? Have I read anything?”

“You’ve never read a book in your life, ya bam.”

They both dissolved into laughter. They were fizzy with drink, spilling over with it. The pint spiller had foam collecting at the corners of his mouth, bubbles on the sharp, wet strands of beard hair. His eyes were oily and pink, and his pretty teeth shone through the animal blackness of his beard. He looked very young, despite, or perhaps because he was bearded and bald.

Satchel man made a play for the notebook. He didn’t look tough. He was tall and neat, and also had pretty, white teeth. Was I going to have to fight these idiots? They had twenty years on me, and I’m not one of nature’s bar room brawlers, but I wasn’t about to be threatened by this pair of wobbly lightweights. I put the notebook in my coat pocket and folded my arms. I’d had enough.

“You’re not very friendly,” said Satchel. He looked put out. The teeth blinked.

“No, I’m not friendly. I'm unfriendly. If I was friendly, I wouldn’t scribbling in a notebook in a bar on my own on a Saturday night, would I? It’s obvious.”

I stood on the balls of my feet. If either of them had shoved me, I would have fallen into the window behind me. But they didn’t. I tried to make myself look bigger, like a cat might. My friend came back from the other bar and sat down. As he looked up, the glass’ lip resting on his, he saw the worst Mexican standoff in history.

“Alright?” he said.

“These gentlemen were just leaving.” I knew as soon as I'd said it, it was something Barbara Windsor would say after a steely eyed confrontation down the Queen Vic. The two Scots collapsed into wheezing laughter as my manly authority punctured and collapsed. Brian, my friend, my betrayer, began to laugh.