H Darts ch 6

The next few weeks went like this.
We lost. We lost. We lost. We lost. We lost. We lost.
We lost six weeks in a row.

"We're not doing much to destroy the bastions of straight culture, are
we?" I said to The Poet one night when he had come to visit me. We were
alone. 16 was off somewhere on the pull and Captain Vegas was at home
with Leia Organa.

The Poet shook his head forlornly. "Not an awful lot, no."

"By the way," I said, asking something I had wanted to ask for a long
time, "what exactly is a bastion?"

On my words The Poet leapt up into the air, suddenly. This surprised
me although to be honest it had been on the cards all evening. He had
been twitchy and on edge ever since he had stepped through the
door.
"Now is not a time for definitions," said The Poet. He was still
leaping. "Now is a time for action. We need to act. We need to
act."
I agreed. So I had an idea.
I work the night shift. I start at 9pm and I finish at 7am. I sit in a
chair in an office with an earpiece attached to me ear and mike
attached to my mouth and if anyone calls for the time of trains I tell
them. That is my job. I am a customer services operator.
However, England being what it is, the way the sun and moon circle our
country on a daily basis and the way light turns to dark not so many
people call while I am at work. Occasionally there is the click of
connection at around 3am and someone tries to talk as if it is the
middle of the day and not 3am at all. Usually they went to know the
times of the trains to Newton Abbot.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" I scream. "IT'S 3AM. YOU SHOULD BE IN BED. NOW
IS NOT A TIME TO BE CALLING FOR TRIANS. DON'T YOU HAVE A LIFE. PLEASE
RING AT A SENSIBLE HOUR. GOOD-BYE."
So during the night I have plenty of time on my hands. It just so
happens that The Poet works with me therefore we both have plenty of
the same time.
"We'll take a dart-board to work," I said to The Poet. That was my
idea. The Poet was still leaping up and down in the air and more than
anything else I hoped the idea would quieten him down.

"Brilliant," jumped The Poet. "That's brilliant," jumped The Poet
again.

"We can practise there," I said.

"Yeah," jumped The Poet. "I see," he jumped. "Brilliant. Good
idea."

"Can you stop jumping?" I said. I was beginning to get annoyed.
"There'll be complaints from downstairs. You know what they're like in
the newsagents." I could already imagine the sign outside the shop.
"POET JUMPS ON FLOOR. PRIME MINISTER PLEDGES SWEEPING AID PACKAGE FOR
DEVESTATED AREA."

"We'll take the dart-board tonight," I said.

"OK," jumped The Poet, but it was a smaller jump, not quite so
high.

"Don't worry," I said. "We'll win one day."

"Do you think so?" hopped The Poet.

"Yes," I said.

"OK," said The Poet. To the naked eye he was still. It was only a
trained eye such as mine that could detect the tiny leaps his body was
still making. But that was OK. I couldn't expect any more. I wouldn't
have expected anything less.

Later on at work I asked The Poet why we were doing this. We were
sitting well away from the floor manager right at the back of the call
centre. We had fixed the dart-board firmly to a wall and one after the
other we were throwing darts at it.

"Doing what?" Thuck. The Poet threw a dart.

"This whole darts thing." Thuck. I threw a dart.

"Do I have to explain?" said The Poet.

"Yes," I said. Thuck.

"OK," said The Poet. Thuck.

"Explain," I said.

"It's a way of getting out of the ghetto," said The Poet. Thuck. "At
the moment gay culture is separatist, on its own, not part of the
mainstream. That's a hangover from the sixties. Identity politics has
only resulted in the commodification of our culture, a place for wise
niche marketing." Thuck. "It's time for integration." Thuck. Thuck.
Thuck. "Even here at work, people accept us to our face, but you know
there's a certain distance there."

"I don't know," I said. "Do you think gays
and straights can ever be friends without sex getting in the
way?"

"It's that old When Harry Met Barry question, isn't it?" said The
Poet. Thuck. "That's all liberal humanist horseshit." Thuck. "It's
about people. About individuals. About getting on. Thuck."

"What did you say?" I said.

"What?" said The Poet.

"Did you say thuck?" I said.

"That's just your imagination. Thuck." said The Poet. Thuck.
Thuck.
Then the call centre manager appeared. He was short and round and
suffered as Mussolini, Napoleon and Hitler suffered, although he did it
with an absence of absolute power.

"Are you two playing darts?" he shouted.

A dart flew from The Poet's hand and landed in the board. Thuck.

"It's not an actual game," said The Poet. "We're just
practising."

"The playing of darts is not allowed," shouted the small round man who
wished he was Mussolini. "This is a place of work."

"As I said," said The Poet, "we're not actually playing. It's serious.
We're in a team. Thuck."

"What did you say?" shouted the call centre manager.

"I said, we're in a team. Thuck," said The Poet.

"Did you call me a fuck?" shouted the call centre manager.

"I think he said thuck," I said. "It surprised me as well."

"Thuck?" shouted the call centre manager.

"Good shot," said The Poet. "You should be on the team."

"What?" shouted the call centre manager. "What?"

"We'll stop playing if it'll make you happy. Thuck," said The
Poet.

"You said it again," shouted the call centre manager.

"It was definitely a thuck," I said.

"Give me that board," shouted the call centre manager. He strode over
to the wall and pulled the board off the wall. He strode off down the
aisle with it under his arm like a tiny Russian astronaut with an
American spy satellite.

"It's a pity. Thuck," said The Poet. "I really felt that we were
improving."

"Do you think so? Thuck," I said.

"Yes," said The Poet. "Good shot."

"Thank you," I said.

We work nights and sometimes it can get to you.