64. Who the Fuck is Hugh?
It’s amazing what people forget.
Work gave me a day off yesterday. Said it was because I’m doing so well. They’d put a picture of me up in the lobby. Thumbs up. One word underneath: Success.
Gave me a chance to go to The King. Find Hugh. See if I can help him. He’s been on my mind for weeks.
Picked up a Ginsters Buffet Bar from the 24-hour BP garage on the way.
Got there just after eleven. Same smell as always. Ordered a red and asked if Hugh had been in.
Barman shook his head.
“Who the fuck is Hugh?”
Silly bollocks. Decided to wait. Picked a table by the window and ran through the script again. Keep it simple. Tell him I’m concerned. That I miss him. I can help him.
Finished my glass. Ordered another.
Did we argue? Fall out? Don’t remember. Doubt it. About what?
Ordered another.
Sat there long enough to watch an old couple come in, drink, laugh, argue over the jukebox, and leave.
Could’ve saved them the drama. They both still like shit music.
No sign of Hugh. Ordered another. Probably for the best. He might not want my help. They get like that, don’t they? The lost and losing.
Ordered another. Waited a bit longer.
Hugh didn’t show. Hope that means he’s sorted himself out.
Saw Warwick on the way home, said he’d been to see the footy. Asked him if he wanted a nightcap. He seemed keen, so we headed back to mine.
After a couple of turbo shandies on the deckchairs, he told a wild story about the game. Made him tell it again so I could write it down. He disappeared for a piss as I was scribbling. Realised he’d taken too long, so I got up to find him.
He was in the kitchen, fucking around by the bin cupboard. Said he was admiring my Winia dishwasher. Asked me about the annual consumption. Told him: 261 kWh, 3360 L water. Drying class A.
He whistled. Rightly so. Panic over.
We had a few more drinks back in the living room, watched some old 80s TV adverts on YouTube. Then he left.
Didn’t like him poking around the bin cupboard like that. Went to look at the damage. At the hole. It stared into me. Screaming. About the size of a decent pork pie.
Kicked the bin away and pulled at the plaster till I could reach in and grab the hammer behind it. Still there. Still magnificent. Still feels powerful.
next: 65. Warwick’s Oopart
previous: 63. Sober and Cold with Misery
Hello, I hope you’re doing well. I’m a professional artist specializing in comics, sci-fi, fantasy, book covers, and character design. I’m looking for commissions..I can help turn your novel into a comic also i work on covers, logos, pages, panels, and also adult works. Can I show you my works?
Ohh Jolon- I’m not sure it’s what it seems on the surface