St Eubrie: Anywhere I Lay My Head (1009 hits)
Category: NoneRating: 2 on 25 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Stagger Lee (View user info) at 2006-08-16 11:52:27 EDT
As soon as I walk through the door of the Dirty Habit, I know I'm not welcome. Or perhaps it's my expectation of rejection imposing itself on my actual reaction. Either way, I feel it; an instant and arching hostility. Heads turn from the bar, eyebrows are raised, a couple of calloused fingers scratch at leathery cheeks. Then they turn away without a single hail, though I know at least half the people seated in this goddamn dump.
A snatch of music drifts over from the ailing jukebox in the corner as I made my way to the bar, but it only plays a couple of bars and then quits. Familiar faces reveal themselves in the gloom, almost as if they were still memories. Leonard Mason, publisher of the filthy local rag. Bastard tried me in his paper long before it got to the courts. Jacob Penn, old coot and bullshitter extraordinaire; sinking booze as though the bar's going to run out. The greasy old man who runs the Auto Repair place, can't remember his name, is sitting next to Penn and going drink for drink. Two old drunks, killing each other with companionship and old stories. Fine by me. A gaggle of about two dozen other assorted customers pollute the dim interior of the bar.
After they see it's me, they turn away again.
I sit at the bar and wait until the bartender, Blackwell, oozes his way over to me. If his so-called friends were kinder they'd tell him to do something about that haircut. He looked ridiculous, a caricature of the Britain he left behind yet is incessantly proud of. As if being from England makes him special, or as if offending the small-minded bastards at the Baptist church was somehow an achievement.
"Yes?" he asks, treating the word as something toxic, to be handled with gloves and stored in a sealed canister.
"Scotch. Ice. In a glass." I allow the disdain I feet for him to colour my voice. He narrows his eyes at my blatant condescension, but doesn't comment. He turns and busies himself with a grimy-looking bottle and an even grimier-looking glass.
Blackwell turns back and slides the glass to me.
"Seeing as it's you," he says, "Can't give you a tab. Four-fifty."
I say nothing, speak not a word; merely raise an eyebrow.
"Come on, Melberg," Blackwell said. "You know I gotta do this." He lowers his voice in a disgusting parody of conspiratorial confidence. "The other patrons wouldn't stand for you getting a tab."
"The years are taking the shine off your accent, Blackwell," I say, and slapped a five-dollar bill on the bar. "What would your dear mother say?"
"My ma's a bitch," Blackwell sneers, and took my five. He doesn't attempt to make change, and I don't ask for it.
While I was engaged in this charming conversation with Blackwell, Mason has sidled over to Penn and begun to talk quietly to him. If Blackwell doesn't get that juke fixed soon, he's going to lose a significant chunk of his business; people won't come here if they can't gossip effectively.
I sip my drink and grimace; Blackwell has done me no favours. He sidles back along the bar; Penn orders a drink. Blackwell makes change for Penn, and speaks to him softly. They both glance my way and look away hurriedly when they see me staring at them.
I return to my drink. When I look at them again, I catch Mason watching me again. This time I look away, and shake my head. Sometimes it would be nice to be wrong about people. I down the rest of the scotch in one gulp and put the glass down, resisting the urge to hurl it across the room into Blackwell's deceitful face.
The reception I'm receiving is almost funny, considering the filth that live in this town. It's simply because my crime took place in public. My crime was unable to slip below the wall of secrecy that prevails in this town. It existed far too high on the radar to be shuffled aside, so I had to be tried and convicted so that the illusion of wholesomeness could be preserved.
I stand, and scrape my stool against the floor unnaturally and unnecessarily loudly. Heads turn, and I experience an unjustified sense of satisfaction and importance. Even as I feel it, I know it's not warranted. Sure, they vilify me; yet they vilify me without any sense of personal significance or attachment. I'm here to stand as proof of their own moral judgement. I'm proof that they can rail against the occasional evil.
I walk towards the exit, feeling all eyes in the Dirty Habit turned upon me. Real or imagined, I feel their gazes, their oppression. Judgement. Always judgement. Mason watches me walk out and he sips at his drink, swirls it round in his mouth and considers me. He does not drop his gaze, no matter how I eye him. Finally, I relent and look away; victory becomes his in an acrid show of concession on my behalf.
I push the door open, and the low-hanging sun cuts into my eyes. It sits in the sky, bisected by the horizon, casting its dimming light across the street, sending long shadows scuttling away from it. I move down the street, feeling my way across the side of the building like a blind man.
I almost fall onto my car. I fumble for the doorhandle, struggle to insert my keys. The smell of the industrial strength cleaning fluid that they used to sanitise my used vehicle assaults my senses. I finally manipulate the door into opening, and practically tumble into my seat. The engine coughs into life and I fasten my belt with hands that feel detached and alien.
If you go far enough away, you'll be on your way back home. So I've heard. I can't see where exactly that might be right now.
The car pulls out from the curb. I ease it into second gear, my head awhirl, and my mind gone elsewhere. And then it happens. Adrift in a sea of speculation, already in an unsuitable frame of mind to concentrate on the road in front of me. I sneeze, violently, and my head dips towards the wheel and my eyes close reflexively.
When my head comes up, there she is. A young girl, perhaps seven or eight, perhaps older, perhaps younger; I can't tell and it doesn't matter. What matters is that I'm going to hit her. I see her face, her eyes, the way she swivels her head when she notices me. She's been daydreaming, and she's stepped into the road, hardly aware of where she is or what might befall her out here. Her head tilts gently to one side as she considers me.
I slam my foot down on the brake, I nail that bastard to the floor, and I twist the wheel, but that's irrelevant now. My course to crash into her is plotted out, firmly, decisively. The car crunches into her and sends her sprawling across the pavement, kicks her into the gutter carelessly. Like refuse. Like trash.
The car grinds to a halt, stopping now when it doesn't matter. Stopping now as if nothing had happened, and it could've stopped any fucking time it wanted to. In some state of mind that approximates calm, I roll down my window and examine her. A thin trickle of blood runs from her ears. The setting sun casts golden light across her face, along with scattered patterns thrown from the leaves of the trees that line the road. Her eyes are closed, and her left arm is twisted strangely. But I learn nothing new from observing her.
I remember the faces in the Dirty Habit. The unspoken accusations in their gazes. The festering, relentless hypocrisy that would see a man like me prosecuted and convicted for committing a crime in the public eye, while all their crimes went unseen and unacknowledged. The righteous indignation that they would exhibit, the very indignation that they had exhibited when I was arrested.
I look down the street, back towards the Habit and the strip of stores along the road. The street is mostly deserted, but there are a few people roaming around.. A few heads begin to turn in my direction.
I reach a decision. I roll my window back up, slip my foot from the clutch and proceed sedately down the road, hoping that nobody notices my cracked headlight.
-------------------------
Jack_McCallum's intro: http://www.ubersite.com/m/91421
goferforhire's post (of some relevance): http://www.ubersite.com/m/91450
User Reviews
Submitted by Fey (user info) at 2007-02-19 13:07:23 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Crystle (user info) at 2006-11-01 19:50:52 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-08-21 12:17:17 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Thanks, bubba and beef.
I bet if I said bubba and beef out loud I'd feel like a real man. But I'm afraid to.
Submitted by charminglybeef (user info) at 2006-08-21 04:57:23 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
... always is.
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2006-08-18 22:30:32 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Excellent!
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-08-17 07:09:14 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Cheers, Woody.
You should check out gofer's segments, at least, because there is some overlap and he's quite good.
Submitted by DCWoody (user info) at 2006-08-17 07:00:40 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
If all of St Ubries stuff was of this standard I might even read the whole thing
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-08-17 06:47:27 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
He isn't necessarily a twat, but Melberg sure thinks he is.
Cheers, Drogo.
Submitted by DrogoRoch (user info) at 2006-08-17 05:32:52 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I didn't realise Blackwell was such a twat. Must sort out his hair.
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-08-16 21:28:01 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
ubetidid, Saccy, Susie, inion, whysenheimer, Sico, Hadley, Jack and Joedaddy: Thank you.
Gofer: Thanks, and I shall read yours directly.
fried-green: Thanks. Sorry I got your character's profession wrong. Perhaps this is in the future, or [insert bullshit excuse for my error here].
Saffron: Cheers, but she isn't dead. Check out gofer's latest post.
Submitted by fried-green-potatoes (user info) at 2006-08-16 19:07:38 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Nice set-up, Stagger... reminds me a little of Max Cady in "Cape Fear."
(Lorraine will be colossally pissed to hear that Lenny got a bump to publisher. She hated that editor with a passion.)
Submitted by Sacrilicious (user info) at 2006-08-16 18:45:14 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by goferforhire (user info) at 2006-08-16 17:57:53 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
http://www.ubersite.com/m/91895
Tag!
Submitted by Susie_Derkins (user info) at 2006-08-16 14:16:50 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
You never fail to impress me, Stagger. Well done.
Submitted by Saffron (user info) at 2006-08-16 14:12:29 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Poor Natalie. It's a wonder anyone reaches adulthood in St. Eubrie.
Submitted by whysenheimer (user info) at 2006-08-16 13:28:49 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by sicosemen (user info) at 2006-08-16 13:27:13 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
41st St. Eubrie Entry.
Submitted by inion_de_trua (user info) at 2006-08-16 13:22:57 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
you remind me of a real writer.
Submitted by HadToBeDone (user info) at 2006-08-16 13:09:50 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Indeed, good sir. I thank you for the note that brought me here.
Submitted by joedaddy (user info) at 2006-08-16 12:48:47 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
i support this non-circle-jerk series
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2006-08-16 12:23:54 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Good stuff. Waiting for the rest.
Submitted by ubetidid (user info) at 2006-08-16 12:02:13 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by goferforhire (user info) at 2006-08-16 12:00:49 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Classic, Stagger. I can see places for this to go already.
Mine is on the way, with thanks.
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-08-16 11:59:11 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
In good time.
I also probably should've made it clearer that the girl isn't dead. My bad.
Submitted by GodChicken (user info) at 2006-08-16 11:58:21 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
good stuff, but I would have liked to know what it was he did.