2. The Text Message

2

The Text Message

 

I’ve always believed there’s something incredible about a good pub atmosphere. A place where people go to unwind, socialize or wallow in their sorrow. A weird parallel universe, where excellent concepts and ideas are conceived yet somehow never see the light of day. As a keen ‘people watcher’ I could spend hours in the pub and never see the exact same thing twice. Incredibly though I’d rarely see anything completely new or fresh and herein lied a fascination; of a culture within a culture. The humble British pub. The fact I could drink alcohol in them and numb the ever-increasing loathing of my life was merely an added bonus.

‘The Pump and Truncheon’ was my favorite watering hole. The décor is old and mainly wood. They serve real ale and the music is both good quality and at a volume perfect for idle chatter.

                  My only remaining friend; Dan, is propped opposite me at the bar. “God, what a prick” he reacts to my boozy, possibly over egged rendition of Paul and the day I’d had. “I know, right? I’m just glad I don’t have to work with him all the time”. The conversation lulls before Dan looks around in a shifty way like a cheesy actor from an eighties TV show, that’s about to tell you a secret. I already know what follows this particular action, if a movement can be a catchphrase; this was Dan’s. “You want something… to, you know… take the edge off?” he whispers, whispering for two reasons. The first is that ‘The Pump and Truncheon’ is next to a police station and usually filled with police men on their down time. Not a place to be caught with drugs. The second is that half of the policemen in this town are as crooked as they come and everyone will want some.

I consider it but eventually turn him down. I know how these nights end (they don’t) and I’d rather go home to bed on this occasion, I’d already had several and was about to call it a night anyway. “Suit yourself mate, see you on Friday, yeah?” Dan is still whispering for no apparent reason, he winks before slinking off to the toilet. “Yeah, see you then” I reply and head for the exit. I hate being called mate I think to myself.

                Outside, it’s stopped raining but the temperature has dropped since I’d last been out. The cold air hits me and the alcohol in my system reminds me it’s there, forcing me to stagger a step to my left in surprise at the sensation. My head starts whirring, I take some deep breaths and try to focus my eyes on a figure across the road. The figure starts to un-blur and I realize it’s a girl, a beautiful girl in her early/mid twenties. She’s staring straight at me, dressed in jeans, trainers and over her top she has (of all things) a high-vis vest. Maybe some weird hen-do thing. One part of my brain offering suggestion to the other. I ponder it for a second but my pondering is interrupted when the beautiful girl shouts over at me. “Hi” her voice has a high �" almost strange, level of enthusiasm and happiness to it.

        It’s worth noting here, that at this time in my life; I had a crippling level of shyness and this sort of social situation would cause the sober me to literally run in the opposite direction, beautiful women were seen as something to be feared. I can’t really remember why, maybe I thought they were going to eat my soul or something.

         But I wasn’t sober, I’d had several pints of various oddly named ales and I was in a mood for taking on the entire world. If I could stop swaying and get my eyes to focus, I might even muster the courage to say hello to this small but frighteningly pretty woman. “Hello” my voice goes up an octave as I say it and a quiver develops on the ending of the word making me sound like Mrs. Doubtfire with Parkinson’s. I sigh and my shoulders drop, can’t even say hello and keep it cool. She starts crossing the road towards me “What’s your name?” she smiles. Her smile is incredible and her voice is like a beautiful symphony written specifically for my tastes. I mumble back; “Shhtewart”, it’s hard to say my name whilst drunk and not slur it. I can barely keep eye contact with her and she’s now standing so close it’s a little uncomfortable. Though maybe discomfort isn’t the correct noun because I find myself wanting it to last as long as possible. There’s a difficult pause before I realize I should ask what her name is. I awkwardly ask the question and she responds, “Rachel, it’s nice to meet you Stewart”. She sounds like she means it and I’m filled with a new, bizarre feeling… Bliss, maybe. Maybe it’s bliss.

 

The following morning, the shrill noise of my alarm cuts through my head like a scythe. One eye opens and is simultaneously blinded by the bright sunlight coming through my window. My brain feels like it’s a few sizes too big for my skull and my breath is rank and chewy. I hated hangovers but loved attaining them… A typical “People are people” paradox. I try to remember the events of last night but nothing presents itself, just faded sepia memories of the first few pints. As I look around me I realize I’ve slept in my clothes; jeans, jacket and all. My shoes are still on, it seems that I’d untied the laces of one but then given up entirely. I groan, my throat is dry and my only mission at this point is to get coffee. Clumsily, I fall off the bed and half crawl, half stagger to the kitchen. Once the kettle is on, I fish through my pockets for the usual surviving change from an evening at the ‘pump’. My hand feels something laminated in there, a leaflet. The leaflet is pulled out and I squint to read the front. ‘Street Angels �" Doing Gods work in the Community’. A sense of wonder washes over me as to how it had gotten into my pocket. I was borderline atheist at the time and I couldn’t remember joining any religious groups. The leaflet was cheaply made and the graphics and photos on the front were low resolution. It had a feel of good people trying to do a good thing, despite nobody supporting them morally or financially. Still puzzled, I open the leaflet, inside there’s some information about the ‘Street Angels’ and what they do and in pen, scribbled in the bottom left hand corner ‘Rachel 07259 089 3933’ is written.

       My heart skips a beat. Rachel, I remember her. I met her last night. I can recall meeting her but everything after that is extremely vague. Gorgeous Rachel, she’s given me her number; I must have been pretty smooth. Despite this being an abnormality and sounding very unlike me, that’s what the evidence pointed towards. My hangover suddenly disappeared; I found my phone and began the hours of deliberating over what to text her. Texting a girl for the first time is an overwhelmingly difficult thing. Like every guy my age, I knew that any potential romance that this may or may not turn into hinged on the quality of the message I could craft. The aim is to sound nonchalant yet eager. Mature yet spontaneous. Like Mr. Perfect yet modest. And; many other millions of criteria.   

         After several coffees and a million drafts I settled on: ‘Hi Rachel, It’s Stewart from last night. It was great meeting you and I’d like to take you for a drink sometime. Let me know when you’re free. Stewart xx’. Every word, from ‘Hi’ (instead of ‘Hello’ or ‘Hey’) to the amount of x’s at the end had been over scrutinized and analyzed for maximum textbackability, but as soon as I hit ‘send’ I hated it and began to re-scrutinize it. Wishing I could go back in time. Not just to re-write the text but even further. Maybe to birth so I could spend my life learning to be cool rather than wasting time; reading books about the human mind and what the meaning of life might be. I tried to forget about it and about her, opting to drink more coffee instead. More caffeine, that’ll calm me down and stop me obsessing…

By the time I’d started work that day, two hours had passed and I still hadn’t had a reply. I knew I should have put one ‘x’ instead of two, two is weird and clingy. I thought to myself with genuine anger.  One aspect of my job was to organize and display the afternoon local paper. I quite enjoyed doing this as it gave me an opportunity to read about what was going on in the local area and meant I didn’t have to serve customers. Today’s headline was: ‘Job boost as firm moves to new site’ an article about one hundred new jobs being opened up because of a big energy firm moving to the area. Quite the anti-climax. I took my time arranging them on the stand before starting my shift on the till.

          Working on a till as you may or may not know is a terribly boring way to earn a living. And when completing such a task one must come up with ways to entertain oneself. My preferred method was to make up a back-story for each customer, depending on what they purchased. A woman buys a bottle of wine and some gum… having an affair. A young boy buys a football magazine… future millionaire footballer. A man buys ‘The Daily Mail’ and a packet of boiled sweets… definite racist. This passes the time rather effectively for a couple of hours until a lull sets in and I’m sat twiddling my thumbs for a while.

            I’m rearranging the cigarettes, when my phone vibrates in my pocket. Pangs of hope surge through my chest. It’s her I think to myself. She’s replied. The manager at the store I worked �" Steve, was bizarrely strict about mobile phones. We were supposed to have them switched off and out of sight of the customers at all times. Whenever Steve told us this he’d stress the words “all times” extremely heavily as though without them, we’d be all crafty and legalistic and there’d be nothing he could do about it. I briskly head towards the stock room and once inside I fumble into my pocket to see what Rachel’s reply is.

            ‘1 New Message �" Rachel’. My phone sits in my hand and I stare for a small period of time. Things like this don’t really happen to me. I revel in the momentary luxury of ignorance, fearing that when I unlock my phone to read the message it might say something awful like: ‘Urgh… you! I gave you my number to be ironic, you’re disgusting’. But at the same time allowing myself hope that she might actually find me attractive. Deep inhale, pause, and exhale. I unlock the phone, my nervous system firing currents of electricity through my body. God, I’m pathetic.

‘Hi Stewart’, the message starts �" classic intro, ‘that sounds great! How does coffee on Saturday morning sound?’

No ‘x’s’ I think but I don’t care, however you put it, that’s a date. I have a date with Rachel, I might not know her surname or have any real recollection of her as a person but I have a date with her and I know she’s really beautiful. It’s the best thing to happen to me since I’d returned to England and I smile an uncontrollable smile.

The stock room door swings open and Steve is silhouetted in its frame. I hide my phone quickly like a naughty schoolboy and instantly start to pretend to count stock by miming counting in what I imagine to be an ‘I’m counting stock’ kind of way. “Hi Stewart” Steve says in his usual tone of 1950’s sergeant major authority. “Hi Boss” the words slip out unexpectedly. I’m surprised both by my happy tone and by my calling Steve “boss”, which I never do. Steve seemingly doesn’t notice and resumes “look it’s a quiet night, you can go home if you want to. Take some extra hours at the weekend if you need.” Wow I thought, this day just keeps getting better - still surfing on the wave of happiness from Rachel’s text. “Thanks Steve”. I drop the counting mime and head for the exit but before I’ve made three steps Steve stops me. “Oh Stewart, one thing before you leave”. His tone is suddenly inquisitive, interrogative almost. “Did Paul give you a lift home yesterday, like we arranged?” Even the mention of Paul would normally irritate me but I was deliriously happy and nothing so simple could derail the feeling. “Yes” I say airily and continue out the door. “How did he seem?” I stop walking and turn back to face Steve. This strikes me as a bizarre question, not wanting to be rude about one of his fellow managers I answer honestly yet vaguely. “Just normal, like he always seems”, my way of cloaking the answer I’d like to give (“like a perverse little creep, what else is new?”). Steve’s tone becomes a little more quizzical, “not ill or anything?” he raises an eyebrow. “No Steve, like I said; just the same as always”. With that I spin and head for the exit, Steve makes a final few comments on the matter. But the euphoria of an unexpected evening off and a prospective date envelop me so much that it isn’t until I get outside that I register what he’s said. “The area manager’s just been on… Says Paul didn’t show up today, no phone call or anything. Apparently no one can get hold of him… Just seems weird.”

Thoughts race through my mind. That is weird, very weird; Paul’s attendance was always 100% it’s the only reason he was ever made manager. I think about little Izzy, about her innocent eyes staring back at me when I left them. About my gut-feeling yesterday afternoon and a lump forms in my throat. What if Paul’s missing because something bad happened with those girls? No I think. It’s all just coincidence… It must be.

 

Reviews

[Jennie Baron]

Talk about a story that draws one in and very realistic characters and settings...you've certainly done it here. I enjoyed it a lot and Stewart is believable. He's just an ordinary guy but I have the feeling something extraordinary is about to happen to him, and that makes a great story.

[rezzychic]

I really like how you've thrown this 'Rachel' into the story but still hold a focus on the manager and the two girls. I also like how we get to see the side of the character that gets worked up over one date, an insight to how our character is and works. I like the balance you have between focusing on Rachel but remembering the manager. Good chapter! I don't actually think I'd change anything. It does exactly what it should. It starts up a new aspect of the storyline while reminding you of the previous one and handing you more piece of it, while engaging the reader enough to eagerly turn to the next chapter. Nice work.

[AprilRN1210]

I agree-great character development.. This definitely just keeps getting better and better and I admit I am really enjoying the evolution of this story.. I found myself smiling and laughing a lot throughout most of this chapter... Very likeable main character that is real and engaging...

Very funny the "drunk" conversation and slurring of his name-made me laugh..

I love the way he makes up little stories about the customers; it elicited a genuine giggle and is something I would do if faced with that job..

Another place of sheer amusement that had me tickled was when he deliberates over his text message....

One part did trip me up a little....

The manager at the store I worked " Steve, was bizarrely strict about mobile phones. (did you have something here that you erased and left the " ? Kinda confused as to why there is a quotation mark there)..

Overall great story so far-awesome job!