You Would Say That, Wouldn't You?: January 2009

Friday, 30 January 2009

Sleeping It Off

Sleeping It Off ( A version of this story was published in Powder Burn Flash 143, 30 January 2009)

Sleeping It Off by Paul Brazill

In the beginning is the sound. The light comes later.

The sound is a thump, thump, thump that goes on and on, over and over again.

I open my eyes and shards of sunlight slice through the blinds. Squinting, I focus on the worn Mick Ronson poster and the familiar red flock wallpaper. Once again I’ve fallen asleep fully clothed on my sofa, tangled up in a tartan blanket which has seen better days, and nights. The coffee table and the floor near the sofa are littered with the usual debris of beer cans and whisky and gin bottles.

I pick up a can of Stella, lay back and steadily sip.

Memories of the previous night trample over my thoughts with dirty feet.. Eventually, I turn on my side and look around the room.

As well as the alcohol, the table is covered in a fair amount of Colombian marching powder and in the corner of the room, next to the CD player, holding a glass of what looks like gin and tonic, face down in a pool of puke, is a man.

And he’s dead.

***
The evening was melting into night and dark, malignant clouds were spreading themselves across the sky. I pulled down the metal shutters and locked up Las Vegas Amusements as a battered yellow taxi cab spluttered to a halt in front of the arcade.

I shuffled into the back seat of the cab as the driver struck a match on the NO SMOKING sign and lit his pin sized roll up.

”Astros?” said the driver.

”Aye’, I replied, nodding, “Same shit,different day.”

”Didn’t you say that yesterday?” he smirked.

The taxi snaked it’s way along the sea front, past pubs, greasy spoons, gift shops and amusement arcades, as the rain began to pour. We pulled up outside Astros as a leathery bottle blond struggled to control a black umbrella which fluttered and flapped like a big black bat trying to escape from her grip.

***
I was nestled on my usual bar stool, calmly contemplating the evening’s third double whisky, the ice cubes shimmering, glimmering and glowing in the wan light, when I briefly turned my gaze outside to where the rain fell down in sheets and the wet pavement reflected the pub’s flickering neon sign.

Dressed in a white linen suit and a gaudy Hawaiian shirt, a blast from the past that was positively seismic burst into the room. Tony Amerigo, a man with a face like a blackcurrant crumble, a liver like the Great Barrier Reef and the smell of a soggy mongrel, sidled up to me, shuffling and sniffling, moving in close and conspiratorially like a double-agent in a Harry Palmer film.

”Jesus Christ,” I said.

“Close but no cigar,” said Tony. “Thought, I’d find you here,”

“Long time no see,”I say.

”Sounds like a Chinese take-away,” replied Tony.

“Aye, You could make that into a joke. Albeit not a particularly funny one, I say, slowly tearing up a beer mat.

I took another gulp of whisky and headed toward oblivion, like dirty dishwater down a plughole.
***

In the early hours of the morning, when I awoke back at my flat, a Scott Walker song was playing at a low volume and Tony was laying on the floor foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog.

And then he went into convulsions.

I drained a glass of gin, turned over and went back to sleep.

***
I sit up,turn on the television, take the drink from Tony’s hand and slowly sip it until I start to feel like one of the kids in the old Ready Brek advert.

It’s almost opening time.