K
Kate
Guest
Here goes - deep breath...
The Tramp…(a fictional writing exercise)
The humidity was soaring so high the car air conditioning just could not cope. I decided to stop off at the shopping centre on the way home from work to cool down and eat in the food court instead of facing a steaming kitchen.
The car park was packed when I arrived at the huge centre. Obviously, I wasn’t the only one with the brilliant idea of avoiding a hot kitchen. I finally found a park on the top level. Great, no cover, so the car would be boiling when I returned! But a few hours of cool relief would be welcome. The centre included a number of theatres, so I might catch a movie as well. I have no one to get home to, or at least I don’t now that Greg walked out last week. A pain went through my chest as I thought about the cold note he’d left on the table, ending with “Asta La Vista, Baby!”. He always was a Schwarzenegger fan and had his own copy of Terminator. Oh, well, easy come, easy go. I’d met him at a disco and taken him home to my flat and he’d just never gone home.
I locked the car and punched the down button in the lift, mopping my sweaty face and checking my make-up in the lift mirror. Not too bad for a 30-something, I thought, blowing myself a little kiss. My mind was full of getting a huge beer and maybe a pizza and relaxing with the evening paper before the movie started. I’d heard Brad Pitt’s latest movie was really hot – or perhaps should I say cool? I certainly didn’t want to get any hotter than I was.
On the food court level I wandered through glancing to see what was on offer that didn’t cost an arm and a leg. I noticed I was getting quite a few glances from some of the guys. I headed for a licensed bistro at the rear – I really needed a beer! I started weaving through the Friday night crowd when I saw him. As he walked through the crowd, people moved away double quick. It was not only how he looked; it was how he smelt! His clothes were caked with dirt and his face was a grimy, sweaty, grey under an indescribably grubby beanie. He headed straight for me, pointing his filthy paw until he was four inches away from my nose, his breath so foul that I nearly passed out.
“What have you done with ‘im, you damned slut?” he roared.
Desperately I tried to move away, but knocked into a table and chairs behind me, upsetting a drink all over a guy who was looking on in bemusement.
“Sorry, sorry”, I muttered as I scrambled to put the chairs to rights. The tramp was still advancing, spittle flying from his lips as he gesticulated wildly and shouted at me.
“Where’s me dog? You thieving little witch, I know you’ve taken me dog”.
Oh hell, what on earth was the old hobo raving about? Brain dead from booze, of course. I noticed a brown paper bag hanging out of the pocket of his ragged jeans. How was I going to get away from this?
The guy at the table stood up, looking flustered and moved to another table. Great way for me to meet a new guy, hey? I certainly didn’t want to end up taking the tramp home with me.
“Hold on”, I said firmly to the old vagrant. “I haven’t seen your dog, let alone stolen it. If you’ve lost your dog, go to the Lost Dogs Home”.
“Don’t lie to me”, he bellowed. “I saw you take ‘im. I’ve ‘ad ‘im all me life, since I was a nipper and now I’ve got no one to care about me.” The old beggar actually sniveled.
By this time there was quite a crowd around us. My face was burning and not from the heat this time. How embarrassing! I sincerely doubted he’d had any dog all his life, as he looked at least 70!
“Look, just sit down and I’ll get you a coke and you can cool down. Then we can work out what’s happened to your dog.”
“Aaagh”, the old fellow gurgled in his throat, but he sat down all the same. “Better make it a beer, girlie, or you’ll never shut me up!”
I looked at him in surprise. I saw the crafty glint in his eye and knew I’d been conned. He gave me a bit of a grin when he saw I’d twigged to his game. I bet he did this every Friday night to some young woman just to get a free beer. Anyway, what would it hurt to give the poor old chap a cold beer? My tongue was certainly hanging out for one. I went to the bar and prayed that when I got back he’d be gone. But no such luck. As I walked back with the two beers he was still there in all his glory.
“Thanks, love, just what I need”, he grinned. I tried not to breath in his body odour as I handed him the brimming glass. He took a huge gulp and set his glass down and opened his mouth to continue haranguing me when a hand clapped firmly on his shoulder. My eyes flew to the woman who stood behind the old fellow. She was his match in all respects. Grey, greasy wispy hair stood out all over her head and her wrinkled old face was made up to look like a grotesque mask, lipstick smeared all over her mouth and eyebrows shooting off to the top of her head. Her clothes were a little cleaner than his, but the pram she was wheeling equalled her friend’s aroma. It was stacked with all sorts of rags and dishes - obviously her home on wheels.
“Now, Arthur, why are you giving this pretty young lady such a ‘orrible time? Ye know that it’s upsetting ‘er. You aven’t used the story about the dog again, ‘ave ya? Really, miss, I’m sorry he’s bothered ya. E’d do anything for a beer. That’s right; isn’t it, Arthur?”
Arthur grunted and hung his head. The woman took his hand and dragged him to his feet. “Come on, ya old bugger. Time to go home.” Together they staggered off through the Friday night smart set to whatever they called home. I suddenly wished I had taken his dog and could return it to him.
I ordered another beer and a slice of pizza and sat with the newspaper unread on the table. I decided to go home and forget about Brad Pitt. Somehow he didn’t fit in with the beer and the pizza and smelly old tramps and memories of Greg. Maybe I’d go to the Lost Dogs Home tomorrow and buy a dog.
Kate McVea
2002.
The Tramp…(a fictional writing exercise)
The humidity was soaring so high the car air conditioning just could not cope. I decided to stop off at the shopping centre on the way home from work to cool down and eat in the food court instead of facing a steaming kitchen.
The car park was packed when I arrived at the huge centre. Obviously, I wasn’t the only one with the brilliant idea of avoiding a hot kitchen. I finally found a park on the top level. Great, no cover, so the car would be boiling when I returned! But a few hours of cool relief would be welcome. The centre included a number of theatres, so I might catch a movie as well. I have no one to get home to, or at least I don’t now that Greg walked out last week. A pain went through my chest as I thought about the cold note he’d left on the table, ending with “Asta La Vista, Baby!”. He always was a Schwarzenegger fan and had his own copy of Terminator. Oh, well, easy come, easy go. I’d met him at a disco and taken him home to my flat and he’d just never gone home.
I locked the car and punched the down button in the lift, mopping my sweaty face and checking my make-up in the lift mirror. Not too bad for a 30-something, I thought, blowing myself a little kiss. My mind was full of getting a huge beer and maybe a pizza and relaxing with the evening paper before the movie started. I’d heard Brad Pitt’s latest movie was really hot – or perhaps should I say cool? I certainly didn’t want to get any hotter than I was.
On the food court level I wandered through glancing to see what was on offer that didn’t cost an arm and a leg. I noticed I was getting quite a few glances from some of the guys. I headed for a licensed bistro at the rear – I really needed a beer! I started weaving through the Friday night crowd when I saw him. As he walked through the crowd, people moved away double quick. It was not only how he looked; it was how he smelt! His clothes were caked with dirt and his face was a grimy, sweaty, grey under an indescribably grubby beanie. He headed straight for me, pointing his filthy paw until he was four inches away from my nose, his breath so foul that I nearly passed out.
“What have you done with ‘im, you damned slut?” he roared.
Desperately I tried to move away, but knocked into a table and chairs behind me, upsetting a drink all over a guy who was looking on in bemusement.
“Sorry, sorry”, I muttered as I scrambled to put the chairs to rights. The tramp was still advancing, spittle flying from his lips as he gesticulated wildly and shouted at me.
“Where’s me dog? You thieving little witch, I know you’ve taken me dog”.
Oh hell, what on earth was the old hobo raving about? Brain dead from booze, of course. I noticed a brown paper bag hanging out of the pocket of his ragged jeans. How was I going to get away from this?
The guy at the table stood up, looking flustered and moved to another table. Great way for me to meet a new guy, hey? I certainly didn’t want to end up taking the tramp home with me.
“Hold on”, I said firmly to the old vagrant. “I haven’t seen your dog, let alone stolen it. If you’ve lost your dog, go to the Lost Dogs Home”.
“Don’t lie to me”, he bellowed. “I saw you take ‘im. I’ve ‘ad ‘im all me life, since I was a nipper and now I’ve got no one to care about me.” The old beggar actually sniveled.
By this time there was quite a crowd around us. My face was burning and not from the heat this time. How embarrassing! I sincerely doubted he’d had any dog all his life, as he looked at least 70!
“Look, just sit down and I’ll get you a coke and you can cool down. Then we can work out what’s happened to your dog.”
“Aaagh”, the old fellow gurgled in his throat, but he sat down all the same. “Better make it a beer, girlie, or you’ll never shut me up!”
I looked at him in surprise. I saw the crafty glint in his eye and knew I’d been conned. He gave me a bit of a grin when he saw I’d twigged to his game. I bet he did this every Friday night to some young woman just to get a free beer. Anyway, what would it hurt to give the poor old chap a cold beer? My tongue was certainly hanging out for one. I went to the bar and prayed that when I got back he’d be gone. But no such luck. As I walked back with the two beers he was still there in all his glory.
“Thanks, love, just what I need”, he grinned. I tried not to breath in his body odour as I handed him the brimming glass. He took a huge gulp and set his glass down and opened his mouth to continue haranguing me when a hand clapped firmly on his shoulder. My eyes flew to the woman who stood behind the old fellow. She was his match in all respects. Grey, greasy wispy hair stood out all over her head and her wrinkled old face was made up to look like a grotesque mask, lipstick smeared all over her mouth and eyebrows shooting off to the top of her head. Her clothes were a little cleaner than his, but the pram she was wheeling equalled her friend’s aroma. It was stacked with all sorts of rags and dishes - obviously her home on wheels.
“Now, Arthur, why are you giving this pretty young lady such a ‘orrible time? Ye know that it’s upsetting ‘er. You aven’t used the story about the dog again, ‘ave ya? Really, miss, I’m sorry he’s bothered ya. E’d do anything for a beer. That’s right; isn’t it, Arthur?”
Arthur grunted and hung his head. The woman took his hand and dragged him to his feet. “Come on, ya old bugger. Time to go home.” Together they staggered off through the Friday night smart set to whatever they called home. I suddenly wished I had taken his dog and could return it to him.
I ordered another beer and a slice of pizza and sat with the newspaper unread on the table. I decided to go home and forget about Brad Pitt. Somehow he didn’t fit in with the beer and the pizza and smelly old tramps and memories of Greg. Maybe I’d go to the Lost Dogs Home tomorrow and buy a dog.
Kate McVea
2002.
Nice Beer, great story,,REAL Characters
