The Morning After

!_Brian_!

Here's a little something I wrote a while ago. Said I'd stick it up and see what ye think. I write kind of like the way I draw. As in I go mad into it for about a month and them dont write another thing for about 6 months or longer. Anyway, its a short piece of fiction very loosely based around my time working as a welder and dealing with hangovers! hope you enjoy.
Brian

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The Morning After

Birds chirping merrily in the distance caused me to listen a little closer. I heard other sounds too that I hadn’t before, the meow of a gutter cat. The insane scream of a redlined engine down in the alleyway below my window, horns honking, a siren blaring in the distance.
I slowly began to open my eyes but swiftly lost my new found courage and retreated back into darkness. Several moments passed before I made a second attempt, this one more successful. Although I was slightly worried about the tearing sounds the lids made as they parted slowly over the cornea!
God I have a headache.
I reached behind me and fumbled about on the bedside locker until my fingers brushed against my prize. Cigarettes. Further fumbling accompanied by a theme tune of crashes as thing fell of the little table produced my lighter.
Satisfied, I struck steel to flint and sparked up. After three long pulls I exhaled heavily and sank further into the mattress, as if I could somehow exhale the dull throb between my temples. I managed a quick peek at my clock. Large red digits glared 8:07am at me. I quickly closed my eyes and braced myself for another toke.
Sh1t! Work!
Clumsily stubbing the half smoked cigarette into the overcrowded ashtray, I threw aside the bedcovers cursing the alarm for failing me again. As the red digits stared back at me smugly, I made a mental note to throw out the infernal timing device and buy a new one. Mind you, I’ve done that every Friday morning for the past two years!
I madly rooted through the wardrobe pulling out my work cloths and then proceeded to scramble into the dirt stained outfit. I cursed myself for going to the pub for one after work yesterday and vowed next pay-day it wouldn’t be the same. Mind you, I’ve done that every Friday morning for the past two years !


Moments later I was rushing out the door, attempting to put on my jacket, drink a cup of coffee and get my car keys out of my pocket. The end result was rather messy and I decided to cut my loses and move on as the mug shattered off the ground. A hasty kick partly cleared the concrete of broken pottery and I managed to get the rest of the way into my car without incident.
I even managed a moment to appraise it as I clumsily fumbled with the lock. My black ’96 Honda Civic hatchback. I had recently blown a months wages on a shiny new set of sixteen inch alloy wheels which I was quite proud of.
Turning the key in the ignition, the engine roared into action and effortlessly glided towards the mouth of the ally. I spent the next eight minutes tearing madly through three miles of city rush hour traffic and composing quite a creative string of abuse which I hurled at any member of the public that happened to be in my way.


Now, in your minds eye imagine the camera slowly zooming in becoming increasingly unfocused and lets spin away to yesterday.


Thursday. Pay day. There was the usual panicked dashing around the factory floor to see who could clock out first. 4:32 came and I was the last person in the building! I wasn’t in any particular rush as I knew the pub would still be there if I was five minutes late. Strolling down the corridor to the exit I was stopped as effectively as if I ran into a brick wall by a voice roaring behind me, “Dillon!”
Bugger I thought slowly turning around to see a red faced Everett striding purposely up behind me, I should of raced!
There’s an Everett in every factory. He’s the one who sits behind a computer all day, occasionally wandering out onto the factory floor to break your balls about something he hasn’t a clue about. Typically short and slightly over-weight, bad breath, red cheeked and if you look closely you’ll find yourself swearing you can see a slight brown stain along his nose.
“Back into you overalls. We have a sudden order to be out by six thirty,” he wailed by way of greeting, “you’re the only welder left.” With that he rushed off in the way they do that makes you think they spend all their time cursing the creator of the universe for not putting more hours in the day.
Admitting defeat, I wistfully told the frosty pint in my head I’d be there soon and aimed for the welding shop.
The evening passed with the same clinginess as chewing gum stuck to a shoe, where you could swear the clock had slowed just to annoy you.
Six thirty came, grudgingly, and I had about half the order out.
He won’t be happy I thought. So I did what any overworked, under-paid victim does when one finds themselves in that situation. It’s a sub-conscience thing programmed into out brains at a very young age, usually awakening the first time we find ourselves a witness to a friend breaking an arm while climbing the tree we dared him to.
That is to say, I legged it!


En route to our local watering hole I toyed with the notion of changing my line of career.
Certainly do my asthma some good I thought fumbling in my pocket for my Zippo but my train of thought was derailed as I pulled up across the street from the pub.
Cigarette hanging from my mouth, lighter half way there I stared dumbly at the front of the pub. Or what would have been the front of the pub if it had been there!
The familiar traffic stained white walls with various sagely pieces of advice scrawled on them were now replaced with nothing! Well obviously there was something there but you could say it wasn’t what I expected.
I could see the trees at the wall defining the end of the beer garden out the back without having to undergo the usual process of walking through the pub. There was a bright yellow digger where the bar had propped me up only three nights before!
There was also a lot of mud, another bright yellow digger, a pile of scrap and a rent-a-cabin where the cigarette machine was. The pool table had been replaced by a cement mixer and the entire front wall was now a wire fence brandishing the latest Don’t-come-in-or-we’ll-send-the-boys-around fashion accessories on the construction catwalk!
“ ?!” I said to no in particular.
I eventually got my head together enough to come to the conclusion that they must have knocked it down. I produced my phone from somewhere and after a moment of letting my latest revelation sink in, remembered what I was doing.
“ ?!” I repeated.
I pushed a few buttons, seemingly at random, but the sequence seamed to be correct as the small device started flashing in my hand. Staring blankly at it I noticed the flashing stopped and it said “Hello?” to me.
“ ?!” I replied.
It obviously wasn’t the appropriate reaction I concluded as the light went out and the device started to sulk, completely ignoring my probing finger and inquisitive shakes.
Then reality came back and landed on me like a half ton of sand being dropped from a great height. Embarrassment washed over me as I made a hasty check to see if anyone had noticed. Satisfied my pre-Neanderthal experience had gone unchecked I redialled Paul’s number.
“Hello?” said a distorted little voice.
“Well man. Sorry about that, don’t know what just happened. Must be the network,” I lied. “Anyhoo, listen I’m outside the pub but it…”
“We’re in Murphy’s down the street.”
“K. Be there in a sec.”
“Right.”
Getting my stuff together, I got out of the car still dumbstruck and walked three doors down the street to Murphy’s. As I entered I noticed the front was still on this pub while sparking up the now picketing smoke. Something about wanting a wage increase for having to hang around so long.
I spotted the lads but detoured to the bar first and ordered a pint of, let’s face it, there’s no probably about it, the best larger in the world.
Arriving at the table I put some money up on the pool table, threw my coat into a dark corner somewhere and settled down to some serious drinking.
Some people drink to socialise, some to become, if for only one night, a Jackie Chan or Brad Pitt. Some to remember and some to forget. I could probably be classed in the forgetting section because the last thing I remember is the waves of banter and the occasional comment about the pub-that’s-now-a-work-site.


Now again let the camera do its fade out zoom in thing and be magically teleported to the present…


Arriving in record time my pre-meditated plans of a subtle entry went out the metaphorical window as I caught my jacket on the door handle on the way in and gracefully spun into the wall, only to recover and find myself eye to eye with my boss.
“Clear out your locker and go home,” he said casually as he walked by. Before I had a chance to recover he had vanished through a nearby door.
Stunned, I found myself walking down the hall, making the relevant turns to find myself in the staff room and then absently rooting through my locker filled with junk to see if there was anything I wanted out of it.
I spent the remainder of the trip out of the factory looking at the only thing I had thought to take with me and wondering how a person could spend over two years with a company and only have a pen to show for it. For a pen was what I carried. It was white with the company name in blue letters on it and had a clicky-type top.
Right, I thought. I’m going back to bed.


© Brian Callinan