Sinister: on the back of a cartoon coaster, in the blue tv screen light

[ian]

the bar looks familiar, though i've never been here before.

there's a pair of plywood saloon doors to my left and, from
within, i can hear the opening chords of "jolene".

i regret not bringing a stetson, and catch a glimpse of myself in the
reflection of a beer ad.  far too neat.  i set about dishevelling
myself, and take a step inside.

i'm here to meet an old friend.  someone i haven't seen for a couple of
years.

i'm nervous.

i walk into a pillar.  a man passes and feels my arse.  i'm about to shout
out my customary response - "fifty quid and a bag of maltesers" - but i get
the feeling i recognise him, and follow him through into the saloon.  i can
see him sitting at a long chrome table, laughing loudly and ostentatiously
waving a cigarette.

and i can see who he's with.
i tell myself there's no point in backing out
now.  i'll go and talk.  my friend...my old friend...how i've missed you.

no...can't do it - "barman, a bottle of tequila".  the man who serves me
frowns a little and hands me a lemonade..."just the one, mind".  i open my
mouth to protest but he's already gone and like so many men in the past he
leaves me with my jaw slack and nothing to say.  i sip the carbonated
saccharin bubbles through the plastic straw provided and decide to make my
move... i shuffle across the bar, regretting my blatant attempt to grab
attention by wearing only a basque and a rafia table mat.  i wish i had a
nice duffle coat with a big hood that i could tuck myself inside...

<ahem>

my friend is alone now, but does not turn round.  instead, our eyes meet in
the glare of fluorescent light on an empty whisky bottle.  i stare for a
moment at the pleasingly adrogynous face, and attempt a smile, and the
sinister list turns to greet me.

coldly: "so....what brings you back here?"

"i missed you.  i never meant to go like that, without saying goodbye,
i...i..."

"you just didn't have time for me any more...yes, i know.  so many other
people left me the same way.  i thought YOU might be different."

..........

..........

"err....lemonade?".  those beautiful, ever-moving lips rearrange themselves
into a semblance of a smile.  the list takes the glass from me - "i'd prefer
a tequila, but thank you"..."oh, and sit down, and stop shuffling your feet,
and fold your hands"

"fold my hands?"

"just do it"

i take my place next to the list on a wobbly bar stool.  we talk of old
times.  of cabbages and kings.  i ask if it still owns the parrot, if it
looked after the pterodactyl i once made, if it remembers the time we ran
gaily along the streets of selly oak together.  it tells me i've put on
weight, says i'm too old to have started smoking and says it has managed
just fine without me, there are always new friends to be made.  it starts to
explain what it ate for breakfast this morning, about the really cute guy
that works behind the counter of the local independent record shop and oh
isn't he lovely and..

just as i'm drifting off, it says:

"Love is where you find it.  I think it is foolish to go looking for it, and
I think it can often be poisonous.
I wish that people who are conventionally supposed to love each other would
say to each other, when they fight, 'Please - a little less love, and a
little more common decency'"

and i remember why i came back to find it.  nobody talks to me like this any
more.

"another drink?" it nods, and again i walk over to the bar, this time
obtaining an economy-sized bottle of jose cuervo from an obliging bloke in
purple trousers.  i open the lid and take a deep breath of the fumes and,
for the first time, hear the song on the jukebox.  one of my favourites:

i remember a time when you told me
love is touching souls
surely you touched mine..

i look across at the duffel-coat, corduroy flared man-woman-list in the
corner.  did it touch my soul?  yes, in a strange sort of way, there's no
denying it did.

i re-take my seat, whisper the words "i love you" so quietly that nobody but
the ghosts in my mind can hear it, and hand over the bottle.  the list
doesn't reply.  nobody ever replies to those three little words when you
most want them to.

i light a cigarette, then put it out.  i'm to old to start smoking.

ian

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tomorrow will bring happiness
Or, at least, another day

Phil Ochs
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

oh, just a quick ps. that will totally ruin (or maybe improve?) the ending
of that mail, but stuart gardiner said:

* Andthe second was a sixty-something barman at the Sports Hall bar who
asked
*what an Arab Strap was. I said I didn't know. Well, you'd have done the
*same, wouldn't you?

actually no, i'd take great delight in shouting "its a COCK-RING".  but
perhaps that isn't something i should be proud of.

buy me a drink, sinister list, and i'll give you a pack of cheap fags


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