In My Local

IN MY LOCAL

She's cracking up. She thinks he's a comedian. All this evening was
supposed to be was a quiet drink in the pub. The two of us. And then he
appeared out of thin air. I went to the mens and then to buy drinks at
the bar and when I returned there he was, Hey Presto! Sitting in my
seat, opposite my girlfriend and she was in hysterics. I mean, she was
holding her stomach.

I have to say, she looked happy. I stood there holding my pint of lager
and her half pint of cider, a packet of pork scratchings clenched
between my teeth, watching as he leaned forward, elbows on the table,
shaping his hands to emphasise what he was saying. She looked at his
hands and then his face and I could see she was excited by what he was
telling her. Then he stretched out his arms, made this all expansive
gesture and I swear to god she screamed. The whole pub - this amounted
to six, seven of the regulars - turned their heads to look at my
girlfriend and this comedian. She was screaming and, worst of all, it
was a dirty laugh. I mean, really dirty. Vulgar.

He took the pack of cigarettes on the table, visibly relaxing, pleased
with himself.
I hadn't seen his face yet. He inhaled on the cigarette and cocked his
head to the side as he exhaled the smoke. I bet he was pleased with
himself alright. Allowing perhaps a little self congratulatory smile to
emerge as he watched her catching her breath. No, I hadn't seen his
face but it would be smug and ugly. The self satisfied demeanour of
models in mail order catalogues, the guys hanging on the walls of the
Barber's I go to, of comedians with their audiences and canned
laughter. They're all one and the same, trust me I know.

It hadn't escaped my attention that I don't think he had bothered to
ask her first before taking the cigarettes which were in fact my pack
of B and H. He passed her a cigarette and she leaned forward as he lit
the fag for her with my lighter. She was smiling at him, giggling
slightly. Saying something like, That's so funny.

I bet it was.

Never, in all our time together, had I heard her crack up quite like
that. Put it this way, if I had been blindfolded and led into a room
and was sat down and then a tape was played of a woman cracking up and
I was asked to identify that person, I would not have known it was
her.

They dragged happily on my cigarettes.

He leaned forward on the table and started talking again. Hands moving.
She leaned forward and their heads were close, bordering on intimately
close. I mean, how could she do this to me? What had I done to deserve
this treatment? We had come to our local for a quiet drink and here I
was watching her as she flicked her hair with her fingers, trying to
force it into a style, a going out style.
She wanted to look attractive for him.

She was watching his every movement. Hands and face. Face and hands.
She was loving it. Loving every minute of his pox ridden conversation.
It was as if they were friends, as if she had known him for a very long
time. But then, she had known me for a very long time. I was her
friend, her boyfriend and never in all our time had I heard her that
hysterical.

I sat on a stool by the window, placed at an angle across from them. I
could see his profile. See his colourful, over the top purple coloured
clothes, made of this fine linen. It was the shoes that did it for me,
though. They were bright red and they reminded me of tap dancing shoes.
But shinier than any a real tap dancer would wear. Ridiculously so. And
I wondered if my girlfriend had taken a good look at those shoes and
saw how stupid he generally looked in what amounted to a costume. I
couldn't believe the landlord, Frank, had allowed such a weirdo into
the pub. The regulars were usually quick to intimidate anyone who
entered our pub who obviously had some grand idea about who they
thought they were. People with ideas, shall we say, above their
station. I considered going over there and asking him to show her the
shoes. Did she really want to talk to a man who was dressed like such a
twat?

Oddly though, it seemed wrong to interrupt the two of them. They were
obviously having such a fabulous time together. I wondered what he was
saying. I never knew she had it in her to laugh so naturally. Although
I doubted anything could be that amusing. Earlier on this evening we
hadn't had an outright argument as such but I sensed she didn't want to
come to the pub with me. She had said as much. Telling me she was
tired, worn out by her day at the office. I said a drink would help us
relax. All she kept saying was that she felt tired and she wanted a
bath and an early night. I persuaded her to come to the pub but while
walking I had to ask her what was the matter. She said nothing was the
matter. I told her that she had a face on her. To this, she said, - No,
I don't, I'm fine. And so I said it again, that she had that face on
her and I also told her that she shouldn't have said she wanted to come
out if she didn't want to, if she was going to sit in the pub with a
face like a slapped arse.

I'm fine, she said.

&;

There is nothing up with me.

What could I do as we were walking to the pub? Turn back home! Go to
our flat and stay in, order a meat feast pizza, drink lager and watch A
Question of Sport? Was that an option, given that we had made the
decision to come to the pub? Once we left the flat, that was it, we
were on our way, committed to an evening in our local and there was no
going back.

I watched as she leaned backwards and then hunched forwards. She didn't
look the least bit tired to me.

In all seriousness, I am a man with pride. A man has feelings too.
Emotions. Could I sit on the stool and watch as this fancily dressed
funny twat chatted up my girlfriend in front of my eyes, in my local,
with the regulars watching as well?

I'm not the fighting sort but every man has a limit.

So I got off the stool and walked up to the two of them. She was
gathering her breath. He was lighting another one of my cigarettes. I
stood there and had to speak before she had the decency to look up and
actually notice me. 'What's going on, mate?' I said. 'What are you
playing at?'

He didn't respond. She did though and I said, 'Yeah, that's
right.'

'Oh, don't get all smart,' she said. 'Where have you been?'

'I've been over there, watching you two chatting away to
yourselves.'

'Oh, sit down with us,' she said. 'Listen to him talk. I swear, I've
never in my life met anyone quite like him.'

'Is that right?' I said.

And I could feel myself going to do it, to really smack him one.

Then he looked at me. I hadn't seen him properly and, like I said, I
was expecting this smug, poncy crossbreed of a Les Dennis meets Jude
Law type and although I'm not the aggressive sort, I was still intent
on breaking this clown's nose. But he turned his head and I looked at
him properly and he had, I have to say, this angelic face of kindness.
I was ready to smack him as hard as I could and then he turned his head
and I saw him and the anger seemed to leave my body, my veins, the
anxiety and tension dropped off me entirely.

All he did was look up so I could see him and the tight fists I had
made with my hands loosened.

Without a word, this stranger put out the cigarette in the ashtray and
then put the ashtray, pack of cigarettes and lighter on the floor. He
then stood up and with a spring he leapt onto the table. I turned to
see Frank, the landlord, looking at us from behind the bar. He wouldn't
stand for that kind of behaviour in his boozer but I saw that both he
and the other regulars were as riveted by what was about to happen as
me and my girlfriend.

Standing on the table, the stranger looked at me and once more I was
overwhelmed with an unconditional sense of love and adoration. He bowed
to the landlord and then, after a swift double click of his heels and
tap of the red shoes, he started to dance. It was like no dance I'd
ever seen. Forget Fred Astaire. Ginger Rogers. Bucks Fizz and
Riverdance. This was dancing like nobody had danced before and I'm not
into dancing at all. Not me. But the shiny red shoes, right, seemed to
have a life of their own as the stranger leapt and bounded from table
to table, twisting in the air to land and perform fantastic, fast
tapping pirouettes.

After he finished the dance we were all speechless.

The stranger whispered an apology to me. He had a soft, East European
accent. He jumped to the floor, lit one of my cigarettes (what did I
care if he didn't ask first?) and then replaced the ashtray, lighter
and cigarettes on the table, and he left the pub.

Later that night, back at the flat, my girlfriend said I had made the
stranger leave before she could ask for his number, his address,
e-mail, even his name. It was, supposedly, all my fault. But I missed
him just as much. She said my feelings weren't genuine.

I mean, that sums her up in a nutshell. I know what I feel is the real
thing. Her feelings are vulgar, animal, whereas mine are pure.

Together we'll find him though. Sincerely, that's a fact.