Writing again...

Finally, I feel back in the mood for writing. Yesterday, after being on several trains and buses I got the chance to really sink in to Raymond Chandler's The Long Good-bye. And it really motivated me to work on Don Findy. Chandler's eye and attention to detail is one of the highest I've ever experienced. It's also made me reconsider writing Don Findy as a third person narrative. I have been experimenting with the first person and below are my results. I aim to write for at least an hour every day from midday (or thereabouts).

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As soon as I walked through the battered door I could feel their eyes like floodlights being turned on for an evening performance. Knowing at least twelve people were watching me created another layer for me to walk through, making it harder to reach the bar. I slung my coat over a stool, and propped against the bar, putting my hat in front of me.

A grubby bar man in a thick woollen red and grey striped sweater waddled towards me. He had thinning grey hair and a thick grey beard. He looked through me without speaking.

‘Double Jameson please,’ I said.

He picked up a brandy glass from a shelf behind the bar and poured himself a drink. He stopped and sipped as if I hadn’t spoken. He placed the glass to one side and picked up a whisky glass. He scooped some ice into it.

‘No ice thanks,’ I called over.

‘Excuse me?’ he grunted.

‘Just a double Jameson please. No ice, no nothing.’

He gave me a stare that a high school kid might give another kid he’s jealous of, on sports day. He tipped the ice back and poured me my drink.

‘That wasn’t so hard, was it?’ I said when I was clutching the drink, at least now he couldn’t do anything to it.

He grunted before saying it would cost me a fiver.

I pulled out a purple note with the Queen’s head on it which made him flinch slightly. He returned with my fifteen change and slammed it in front of me even though I had my hand held out.

I took a sip from the water speckled glass and appreciated the warmth. I looked around.

Tucked away in the corner, to my left, was a fat man playing darts with another fat man. They were coughing for twenty people by the sounds of it. Behind me, and slightly to the left, was a youngster in a baseball cap and tracksuit playing a fruit machine or rather, from the words coming out of his mouth, the fruit machine was playing him. Between button bashing he would sip from the glass of cider he had beside him. To my right were three men sitting around a table, all at the same side, so they could see a small screen that was showing some football match or other. The three men had the same beer in the same type of glass. Their jokes were mainly themed around sex and how much they could drink.

There were more men scattered around but I couldn’t see a single female in the place. There was a pillar that partly obscured my view of the right side of the bar so I couldn’t see who was sitting along there.
The time was now coming up to ten and I was waiting around any later than five past. I’d finish my drink and go to the toilet opposite, just in case she was sitting along the right side of the bar. If not, home.

There was a thump behind me and I shifted to see the youngster swearing at the machine.

‘Fucking cunt,’ he observed.

Obviously, a late learner.

I turned back to the bar as he turned to move away from the machine. He struggled into the seat beside me and drank the rest of his drink. I watched him from the corner of my eye as he looked me up and down. He paused before tapping me on the shoulder. I looked at him and could smell the booze before he even began talking.

‘Ex…Ex-cuse mesir, could you possibly lend me some money for another drink?’

He was talking in the way that a lot of young people do when they’ve had a few – loudly. Not on purpose or because he was getting aggressive, it just happened.

‘I can’t lend it to you, as I’m not likely to see you again,’ I said, which caused him to frown.

He spread his hands onto the bar and buried his head into them.

‘But I’ll happily buy you a drink,’ I said.

He cranked his head up and smiled at me.

‘You sir,’ he began, ‘are a true gent and I’d just like to say-’

‘All right, shut up. Just get the barman over here will you?’

He whistled, ripping a hole through my head. Nobody looked at him except the barman who came waddling over wearing an annoyed expression.

‘Hello, Tony,’ said the youngster, ‘Tony, Tony, how are you me old mate?’

‘What do you want Cory?’ mumbled the unimpressed barman.

‘I want,’ he shouted before slumping back into his hands.

‘The same again,’ I said.

The barman turned slowly to show me his angry face.

‘I’m serving this gentleman.’

‘And, I’m ordering for him.’

Cory stuck his hand up limply as if to signal it were true.

The barman walked to a chiller behind him, pulled out a bottle of Magner’s and opened it with a bottle opener he had attached to his patchy brown trousers. He walked back to Cory and was about to start pouring the drink into the glass beside him.
‘A fresh glass please,’ I said.

He made an ooh noise in that sort of la-di-dah kind of way before shuffling off to do what he was told. He slammed the fresh drink onto the bar causing some to flow over and down the sides of the glass. Cory shot up and smiled at the drink. I took the bottle from the bar and smiled at the barman as I emptied the last few drops into the glass.

The barman tried not to look me in the eyes as he looked up from the till and told me I owed him £2.95. I waited until he walked back to me to collect my money before telling him I’d like the same again. He mumbled something before saying, ‘You’ve still got yours there.’

I shot the whiskey and placed the empty glass on the bar. He picked it up and, as he did, I said, ‘A fresh glass please.’ He stopped on his way to the whiskey, as if he wanted to say something. He didn’t. He poured the whiskey and placed it just out of my reach on the bar.

‘Seven ninety five.’

I took a five pound note from my pocket and dug at the bottom for a handful of change. I counted out two pound coins, a fifty pence piece, a twenty, a ten, two fives, two two’s and a one. I then placed them into his hand, making sure most of the coins missed, spilling to the floor.

‘You wanker,’ he screamed.

I could feel people’s eyes chipping away at my back. I smirked at the barman. Cory laughed before sipping his drink.

The barman walked around to the front of the bar and grabbed Cory off his stool forcing him to the floor.

‘You’ve had a fucking nuff,’ he spat and tried to pull Cory to his feet - he moved like an unset jelly.

I spun off the stool and stood up sizing the barman. His size was short and round, mainly built of fat.

‘You just served him that drink and he’s going to drink it. Let go of his hood.’

‘Or what?’ said the barman tugging at the hood.

‘Didn’t your mother ever tell you to look after your teeth,’ I said.

‘Is that a threat?’ he said tugging at the hood as Cory tried to get back into his chair.

I grabbed the barman’s hand and pulled it from the hood.

‘You don’t come into my pub ordering me about.’

‘That’s your job, to be ordered.’

He grew angrier but didn’t want to react. He couldn’t move his wrist. One of the football three had clocked what was going on and had signalled to the other two. They stood up and made their way over. That short walk seemed to take them ages and I couldn’t decide whether to let go of the barman’s wrist or keep hold of it. I kept hold of it.

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I'm not sure how, or if, it will fit into the final piece I just had the idea to write about Don Findy waiting for someone (in this case it's Toni - Kim's wife). I see it as a positive exercise to keep me writing and probing ideas of my character and his surroundings.