when a hefty
wallop hit my back.
“Here, son, take my seat: I’m heading.”
I turned to see a sun-beaten Farmer John
tip his pot glass over on the bar, nod his head at the barman, then at me, as
he slid from his stool.
Score!
With much appreciation, I accepted what
appeared to be the best seat in the house: my back leaning against the corner
wall, my beer within reach from the bar. This was me for the night, perfect
vantage point to take in the local entertainment. A rowdy pool showdown with
some young boozed-up locals, the typical cluster of primped chicks walking
awkwardly in their blistered heels, stollies in hand, and bags under their
arms. A group weaved their way towards the ladies’ toilets together. Why do
they do that? I wondered. Oh, to be a fly on the wall.
After surveying the scene, I soon
discovered it wasn’t unlike that of any other pub; the smell of desperation was
rampant in the local meat market of singledom. Boys with their mates, caked on
aftershave, dressed in their Sunday-best denim. Girls with thickly layered
mascara, straightened hair and fake tan, all wanting to be noticed. Whispers
and glances from the girls, rough housing and hollering amongst the boys. I
lazily nursed my beer, motioning for another as I finished off the dregs. With
each fresh delivery, I soon discovered that this would be the highlight of my
night, and the hairy-arsed barman was going to be my new best friend. Boredom
wasn’t something I was going to escape easily until I noticed a whispered
gathering, and glances my way.
Hello?
A group of four friends all nursing their
raspberry Vodka Cruisers with straws were all sniggering comparatively and
elbowing their blonde friend. I lifted my eyes from my beer and they all turned
in a fit of giggles.
I smiled; would they ever know how
incredibly easy it is? You simply get up, walk over and talk to a guy. It was
never really more complicated than that and just as I silently mused, two of
the pack got up from their seats and walked over to the bar, squeezing in next
to me, yet pretending I wasn’t there.
“Two more Cruisers, thanks, Merve,” called
out the blonde, before casually turning to me and acting as if she had only
just discovered my presence.
“Hi,” she said, accompanied by a
high-wattage smile.
“Hi.” I nodded my head.
Her shorter, dark-haired friend craned her
neck around to see me.
“You’re not from here, hey?” she yelled
out.
I set my beer back on the bar top with an
air of amusement. “Is it that obvious?”
“Um, yeah, just a bit.” Short and dark
snorted.
“And here I was trying to blend in.” I
smiled. “Guess it’s not working.”
The doe-eyed blonde chewed on her straw,
and shook her head. “Don’t try and fit in, you’re much better off if you don’t,”
she said coyly.
“Dude! What the fark!” a voice shouted.
One of the pool players stumbled into the
girls in an effort to get near the bar with his mate.
“Shorry, Ladiesh.” He tipped his
non-existent hat to them.
His mate laughed and said, “Man you are totally
fucked!”
“I am a pool CHAMPION!” He lifted his hands
to the sky as if speaking to the gods.
“Yeah, all right, Rory, keep it down,” said
Merve the barman, as he filled up their empty pots.
Rory dramatically cupped his hand over his
mouth. “Shorry, Merve,” he whispered … well, as quietly as a drunk could
whisper, that is.
The two extra bodies wedged in at the bar
only forced to bring the blonde closer, my brows lifting as her hand rested on
my jeaned thigh so she could balance.
I offered her my hand. “Ringer.”
A crease pinched between her brow as if
wondering if I was serious before taking my hand. “Jenny.”
She smiled. I smiled. Suddenly my whole
evening was looking up, until I overheard the not-so-hushed whispers of Rory
the pool champion that snapped my attention.
“Hey, Jools, see that Henry girl’s back in
town.”
“Oh yeah, fuck, what’s her name?”
“Miranda.” I
wallop hit my back.
“Here, son, take my seat: I’m heading.”
I turned to see a sun-beaten Farmer John
tip his pot glass over on the bar, nod his head at the barman, then at me, as
he slid from his stool.
Score!
With much appreciation, I accepted what
appeared to be the best seat in the house: my back leaning against the corner
wall, my beer within reach from the bar. This was me for the night, perfect
vantage point to take in the local entertainment. A rowdy pool showdown with
some young boozed-up locals, the typical cluster of primped chicks walking
awkwardly in their blistered heels, stollies in hand, and bags under their
arms. A group weaved their way towards the ladies’ toilets together. Why do
they do that? I wondered. Oh, to be a fly on the wall.
After surveying the scene, I soon
discovered it wasn’t unlike that of any other pub; the smell of desperation was
rampant in the local meat market of singledom. Boys with their mates, caked on
aftershave, dressed in their Sunday-best denim. Girls with thickly layered
mascara, straightened hair and fake tan, all wanting to be noticed. Whispers
and glances from the girls, rough housing and hollering amongst the boys. I
lazily nursed my beer, motioning for another as I finished off the dregs. With
each fresh delivery, I soon discovered that this would be the highlight of my
night, and the hairy-arsed barman was going to be my new best friend. Boredom
wasn’t something I was going to escape easily until I noticed a whispered
gathering, and glances my way.
Hello?
A group of four friends all nursing their
raspberry Vodka Cruisers with straws were all sniggering comparatively and
elbowing their blonde friend. I lifted my eyes from my beer and they all turned
in a fit of giggles.
I smiled; would they ever know how
incredibly easy it is? You simply get up, walk over and talk to a guy. It was
never really more complicated than that and just as I silently mused, two of
the pack got up from their seats and walked over to the bar, squeezing in next
to me, yet pretending I wasn’t there.
“Two more Cruisers, thanks, Merve,” called
out the blonde, before casually turning to me and acting as if she had only
just discovered my presence.
“Hi,” she said, accompanied by a
high-wattage smile.
“Hi.” I nodded my head.
Her shorter, dark-haired friend craned her
neck around to see me.
“You’re not from here, hey?” she yelled
out.
I set my beer back on the bar top with an
air of amusement. “Is it that obvious?”
“Um, yeah, just a bit.” Short and dark
snorted.
“And here I was trying to blend in.” I
smiled. “Guess it’s not working.”
The doe-eyed blonde chewed on her straw,
and shook her head. “Don’t try and fit in, you’re much better off if you don’t,”
she said coyly.
“Dude! What the fark!” a voice shouted.
One of the pool players stumbled into the
girls in an effort to get near the bar with his mate.
“Shorry, Ladiesh.” He tipped his
non-existent hat to them.
His mate laughed and said, “Man you are totally
fucked!”
“I am a pool CHAMPION!” He lifted his hands
to the sky as if speaking to the gods.
“Yeah, all right, Rory, keep it down,” said
Merve the barman, as he filled up their empty pots.
Rory dramatically cupped his hand over his
mouth. “Shorry, Merve,” he whispered … well, as quietly as a drunk could
whisper, that is.
The two extra bodies wedged in at the bar
only forced to bring the blonde closer, my brows lifting as her hand rested on
my jeaned thigh so she could balance.
I offered her my hand. “Ringer.”
A crease pinched between her brow as if
wondering if I was serious before taking my hand. “Jenny.”
She smiled. I smiled. Suddenly my whole
evening was looking up, until I overheard the not-so-hushed whispers of Rory
the pool champion that snapped my attention.
“Hey, Jools, see that Henry girl’s back in
town.”
“Oh yeah, fuck, what’s her name?”
“Miranda.” I
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