Douglas in Brighton.
Doug is on a train to Brighton. He’d rather not be, but it’s not long to go now until he gets there. It’s no big deal – just got to meet a client for a drink and have a chat, and then jump on a train home. He’ll probably go in that pub by Brighton station later to watch the second half of the Fulham game. Doug could have gone to the match today, the conversation with the client could be continued over email, but Doug isn’t a fan of email tennis, besides, some things are worth saying, and listening too, over a couple of drinks, and he needs the work. There’s just one problem. Doug hates being in Brighton. He feels his chest tighten as he gets off the train. There’s just something about the place – pisses him right off. Even on a Sunday afternoon. He heads out of the station for the long walk down the hill to the sea, he’ll be headed well past the Wetherspoons and the Walkabout, the casino and the pier, and up to the restaurant / bar where he’ll position himself in the corner on the leather seats. Brighton. Doug spits the word out in his head. It’s full of t***s and weirdos, luminous laces and skinny jeans. He knows he shouldn’t judge but feels the insults flying around inside him. He just doesn’t like the place or the people he crosses in it. He’s never taken to it. Maybe because it’s too alien to his own culture. Maybe a drink will lift the edge off him, but the nearest bar is blaring out some kind of crap as a lesbian with a tattoo on her arm tries to reel him in. Her tattoo is a signature, the sort of thing he’s seen on the end of an email about if you don’t stand up for something you stand for nothing; it’s not the sort of thing you mark on your arm. Doug tries to breathe in some of the sea air, but even that seems poisonous. It’s not like Worthing where his mum lived for a bit. He used to love going down there. Here it feels more polluted, less pure. But that is Brighton for you. He hates it. Full of pricks and dicks. Doug crossed the road and walked past the casino. It would be different in there. High rollers mixed with the average Joe’s. He could sip a drink and swirl the ice around his glass, take a seat at a cash game and hold his own. Get dealt the cowboys and slow play his trips that he’d hit on the flop. Take the pot down. Or sit at the roulette table. Watch the board and follow the pattern. He believed there was one. It was more than pure mathematics and chance. You had to feel it. Wait a while. Lump it on red. Then move on to black jack. Choose the dealer carefully. A connection that gives you the edge. But none of that is for now. He had to meet James. He could see the pub / restaurant ahead and he suddenly became annoyed that he would probably miss all of the first half of the football…. but these things happen. He wasn’t going to let his client down. He was proud of his job. He’d see the second half anyway, at least, and he had a few games lined up in due course. He pulled open the restaurant door and went to the bar. One by U2 was playing. He ordered a pint and paid for it and went for a piss. The song was playing over the toilet speakers, too. Doug takes his pint and sits down. He can see a bored middle aged Doris staring out the window while her husband waffles away, droning on and on. The husband gets up and goes to the bar for a refill. The Doris looks as bored as hell. She tolerates his noise. Doug wonders how it ever got to that. It’s as stale as anything. The trick is to keep it fresh. Don’t take love for granted. Stay loyal. Doug was a loyal person. A faithful husband. A good friend. Beyond the bored Doris are four Yorkshire lads clustered around a table. They’ve come down to Brighton for a session. Maybe a stag do. Maybe a last minute dot com. They’re tucking into their lager. Loud and boisterous. Instinct tells him they are dirty Leeds. Hard f***ers whose dads worked the mines and whose mums counted the pennies and made the meals last. Working class lads. Could be Hull, Wednesday or Sheffield United – you fill up my senses – but Doug just knows they’re Leeds – sitting in here getting lucky with a sunny day today, but the heat wave is long gone – they’d be better off spending their wages in Ayia Napa but here they are paying over the top prices in Brighton and sneering at the pricks and the queens, southern softies who don’t offer gravy on chips, they don’t even come close to knowing what it’s like to be a hard f***er from Yorkshire. Every time the door opens Doug looks up to see if it is his client, and every time he looks up at least one of the Yorkshire lads looks at him looking up, and shifts a little more in his seat, and this goes on for nearly ten minutes and Doug weighs it up, this is how often Doug lives, the anger coiled inside him like a spring waiting to go, and the alcohol hasn’t soothed him yet, he’s all tight, wound up – letting Brighton get to him, so he pinches the bridge of his nose and tunes into the song playing now on the speakers – Lovin You by Minnie Riperton – and Doug tells himself it’s not long with James and the deal will be sealed and that means more work for him in a recession, he needs to be grateful, he’ll pay the bills and run the van and get to the football and have a holiday in the New Year – somewhere hot – and it won’t be long before he leaves here and find himself approaching the station, he’ll choose a homeless man and buy him a coffee before jumping on the train home enjoying some time out of the motor and the Sunday traffic, leaving Brighton behind him. The Yorkshire accents have disappeared now as Doug has control back and the door opens and James walks in and Doug rises to meet him, putting out his hand, anticipating that James will take it.
Walter
29th August 2009
Never Eat Shredded Wheat at: walterotton.co.uk
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