by underswansea


Bishop was settling into the kitchen chair. It took him a good six beer to feel comfortable, sometimes more. His good neighbour knew this. If times were right Bishop’d stay and they’d laugh until dawn, sometimes cry or scream at the world. The knives would stay put. That was the difference between a drunk among them and a drunk in the presence of others.

‘I don’t think we die, I think we wear out our fucking welcome,’ he said, ‘we become like the Edsel or the fucking fax machine. Did you know I still have a fucking fax machine? I tell my suppliers I’ll fax the order. They say email it. Then I have to type everything into the box. What fucking good is that – where is the fucking saving?’

He went on, ‘Shit man the world is different now. I’ve tried to keep up but where has it got me? No fucking where, that’s where!”

Bishop laughed, ‘Let me ask you this; where did we go from productive members of society to drunken complainers?’

They both laughed.

‘Are you saying we were ever members of society?’

The beer was flowing. They’d be hung-over, sure as hell. They both had things to do come morning, but nothing pressing. So they said. So they went on.

The jobs were at bay the bosses were tucked in; time had stalled along with the hate that flowed through them during day.

They kept track for a while and then said fuck it. The tins piled up to an amount they couldn’t believe come morning. But they did believe because they’ done it plenty before.

Bishop knew he’d worn out his welcome long before. So had his neighbour. That’s why they enjoyed the laugh.