Exes and Sevens

*Excerpt from my novel-in-progress (ahem!) "Exes and Sevens"* 

Phil knew I hated being left alone at the bar. Especially after last-call, when the place was practically empty.  He couldn’t help it; he would never make it all the way to his bedsit in Clapham if he didn’t empty his bladder before we left. I went looking for him on our first time out, concerned after waiting twenty minutes at the bar. I found him hunched over the urinal, one hand propped weakly against the wall, the other shaking, cajoling, stroking. He was perpetually worried he hadn’t got rid of it all, that some of it was still only trickling its way down from his epiglottis in an O. Henry-twist.

My thoughts turned to the reason for my discomfort in sitting there: our curmudgeonly bartender, Marty.  It was just her and me again; the two of us and her sullen, implied misanthropy. Just like every other night. I shifted in my seat and watched her work. She emptied the beer trays, polished the counter, dried a fresh batch of glasses from the dishwasher - anything but acknowledge my existence. And I was a regular; we went there everyday. Not for the first time, I wondered why we didn’t just find a different pub. 

“Do you need some help?” I asked. She didn’t seem to have heard.

“You know I’ve always wanted to work in a bar?” I tried again.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve been to university.” 

It was a question and a statement. I knew what was coming. I tried to suppress the swell of pride, to adapt a tone that signaled ‘I know I could do better, but it’s one of those things..’

“Yeah, why?”  I said. Nonchalance is key.

“Did you study bartending at Uni?”

“Umm, no but a few of my mates used to work part-time at the union bar and…oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply that anybody can just swoop in and do your job. You probably need a specific set of skills that…You’ve probably been to Uni too for all I know – not that it would be a surprise or anything. Maybe you just chose to work here. Right? I mean why should someone with a degree not work in a bar? I think they should make it mandatory that all bartenders have some kind of formal education. I mean, what can you really do with a degree these days? Do you like Margaret Atwood?”

“Never read any. You think I’ll like her?”

I looked at her. Then I turned and fixed my gaze on the television. Marty was like the Sun. I couldn’t look her in the eye for more than a few seconds at a time. 

“Oh yeah, she’s great.” This is a trap. I’m walking into a trap.

“No, why do you think I would like her?”

 “Coz what’s not to like, I mean..”

“Coz I’m gay? Coz I have tattoos on my arms and a ring on my clit? Does that make me a feminist?”

Chip, you’ve met Shoulder, haven’t you? Oh that’s right, you live there. 

Marty crouched down to get something from under the counter. A cleaning cloth maybe, or her glasses. Whatever it was, she seemed to have misplaced it. I watched the top of her head move from one corner of the counter to the other and back again, searching, cursing, impatient. It was a comical sequence of bobs and dips and expectant ups and downs, reminding me of a hen pecking grains off the ground. Or a blowjob. A cartoon-hen performing fellatio.The image made me smile.

“Well, I don’t know that Atwood would approve of the term ‘feminist’,” I said grandly, “besides, feminists probably think tattoos are too conformist. These days, anyway. I mean, Cheryl Cole has a tattoo. Victoria Beckham has a few. Everybody’s got one.”

She stood up. I duly trained my eyes on my glass, and rattled the last of my drink.

“Oh so now I’m sheep. Part of the unthinking, unblinking, brainwashed collective.”

There was that question/statement thing again. I wondered if she wanted me to disagree. She would probably disagree if I disagreed.

“I was just trying to make conversation,” I said.

“It’s not in your skill set. Will your mate have another drink?”

“No, I think we’re done.”

“Ok, goodnight. I’ll let him know you’re outside.”

I lit up a cigarette and waited on the pavement. The night was wet and miserable. It made me feel better. Phil eventually walked out holding two cans of Stella. “For the road,” he said, holding them up. “She has a ring on her clit,” I informed him dutifully. 

*Want more Exes and Sevens? Excerpts here and here.