Conversations Between Man and Signpost: First Night

A story of R. Edgar Morris: drunkard-philosopher and moralist, who every night after last call waits for the light to change and holds conversation with a signpost he mistakes for a fellow delinquent.

“Yeah, yeah, goodnight, goodnight--2am and all comradery can be depended on…for ‘bout a block out from the bar. Hmph…”

(Mumbling to myself again. After the world has strutted to bed/laying down it’s pretty head…one finally finds it quiet enough to talk. Here--)

“Here!”

(Red light, and my heels feel like cue-balls…I’m still standing up, aren’t I? Close an eye like a good fellow…yes, just one street-light now…and it’s standing straight up. I’m up: still vertical. But, someone has definitely put a touch o’ the ol’ English on Eddie Morris’ heels.)

“Damn English…”

(Well, one thing about 2am, no one around to see ol’ Eddie hangin’ lankishly over the brink of a curb, holdin’ on by his toes to keep his polished heels from spinning out into the middle of the street…hold on, there’s another fellow on the corner here…let’s hope he’s not English"did I say that aloud?)

“Ahem…eh, have I seen you somewhere before?”

(Was he here last night?--remember to close one eye, right: he’s one man standing there, not twins. Gangly lookin’ fellow, isn’t he? Ugly too. Must be even more far gone than I am to wear his coat swashed slap-dash over his shoulder like that; looks like a bag the wind hung on him…yeah, he’s far gone: look at him swayin’ to and fro with his left arm stretched out straight as a board, clutching the grit on the corner-wall like he’s afraid of falling up.)

“Well, it’s nice to have company. Nice to catch your breath at a red before the plunging into the cold dark again, all the way home. You live around here?”

(Whew, this wind is going to blow us both away; can’t make out what he’s mumbling.)

“On the bright side, (got to talk louder if he’s going to hear me) ANYONE ELSE COMES UP, THEY’LL THINK IT’S THIS GALE THAT’S MAKING US SWAY AND NOT THAT WE’RE SMASHED…not that I’m saying you ARE, or admitting anything as to MY own person…just, what people may surmise…

“Right, to hell with ‘em. RIGHT? Right.”

(He’s swaying more. Wonder if he’s going to be sick…or is that just me too?)

“Long light--Oi! It’s turning yellow! Why didn’t you tell me?!”

(Whupupup! Into the street with the cue-balls. I’m veerin’ to starboard…and all he does is blink while his coat flies up over his head.)

“Dumb as a post, eh?”

(Shhh--damn, said that aloud too. Guess he didn’t hear. Somehow makes me chuckle…dumb as a…hehe. Feels like the joke’s on me for some reason.)

“Well, I’m in the street, an’ there’re no cars anyway--screw it, I’m headin’ for the other side, you game?”

(Still standing there. Leanin’, swayin’ in the wind.)

“YOU’RE A CONSISTENT BUM, I’LL GIVE YOU THAT: YOU’RE ALRIGHT. See you around, maybe, OLD DOPE!”

(Limey lookin’ b*****d...never did actually say if he was British, did he?)

© 2017 Slim FitzGerald

Author's Note

The biggest interest I have in this work is as a experiment in first-person-present, limited by the entire narrative being told using only the internal and external monologue of the main character.