In-and-out
By: Joseph Jackson
Tags: Short Fiction, Short Story, Flash Fiction, Power Dynamics, Brighton

Roland, twenty-four and childish, swings from handlebar to handlebar, waiting inside the bus for the doors to open. He’s arriving at the rounded rectangular section of Palmeira Square: a park and garden parallel to France, overlooked by a line of white ornate mansions. The bus stop says Palmeira Square, but it alights at Tesco Express, where Roland is now, looking back at the Square.

Roland throws his cigarette to the ground, having admired the neatly-trimmed Palmeira rose bush patches. He then crosses Western Road for The Wick Inn; an old Victorian boozer painted black and green with gold lettering.

Sitting inside by the windows on different coloured stools are Roland’s old friends from school. Toby, who sees him first, greets him with a hug.

“What are you having, mate?” he asks.

“Oh no, I’ll get mine, don’t worry.”

“Do-on’t be silly. It’s my round, what are you having?”

“Pale ale then, please! Thank you very much.”

As Toby’s tall broad frame turns to the bar, Roland removes his coat, places it on one of the stools and sits down.

“Hi guys, how’s it going?” Roland smiles at Harriet and Arnie, then at Musti and Mo.

“Hey Roland!” says Musti over-amiably, leaning over Mo to reach him, enfolding them both in his arms.

“Get off me Musti,” says Mo with glee; everyone on the table laughs.

“You always have to pick on him,” says Harriet, grinning.

“Yeah, well, it’s only Mo.”

“Musti you can pick on me too,” Roland suggests. “I don’t mind — I’ll give it back.”

“There you are!” A glass of cloudy ale plonks onto the beer mat in front of Roland.

Another cloudy ale, browner this time, plonks onto the table in front of Roland. And then another, except Roland goes readily to the bar this time, paying for the round.

“Fancy Temple Bar next?”

“Yeah, I’m ready.”

“Okay, see ’em off chaps.” Arnie finishes his drink, readying to leave.

Harriet, Musti and Mo put on their coats and linger in the doorway.

“Slow down guys,” says Roland, bringing the glass to his mouth. “I only just finished the other one.”

“Come o-on,” answers Toby, looming large over the small circular tables, watching him sympathetically.

Roland takes three gulps, then puts his glass down hurriedly. He sees his friends leaving; they’re almost at the door — except for Toby — who he smiles at gratefully. “I’m coming, I’m coming.” Taking a deep breath, he sees Toby’s blurry back exiting through the liquid sliding down his glass.

“Eugh,” says Roland, wiping his mouth, joining the street. “Where to now?”

Western Road is busy, with people making their way in all directions. Arnie and Toby, leading the group, laugh and joke towards Temple Bar, which is only a bit further along.

As the sole smoker, Roland fumbles around in his pockets and has to wait alone to finish his cigarette. Noting where his friends are, he takes in the night, sensing alcohol consume him. He then goes up to the bar having flicked his cigarette into the road and places an arm on Toby’s shoulder, which is quite a reach. “Could you get me one?” he urges, scrunching his face, winking.

“Sure, what are you having?”

“Pale ale please!” He says, heading to the toilet.

The central bar is an island surrounded by liquid, and the staff working there look very young. One of them, a chubby girl with curly blonde hair, polishes glasses, occasionally looking towards the loud people drinking.

From her through to a back booth comes Arnie’s champagne. It’s placed on a sturdy wooden table and accepted with alacrity.

“Arnie, that’s so nice. You didn’t have to,” insists Harriet, watching Arnie undress the bottle.

“It’s only Arnie!” shouts Musti, his cheeky face covered in hair. “He’s got enough for all of us!”

Arnie backs away from Musti’s incoming embrace, smirking, with one eye on Harriet. He then twists the champagne bottle with his palm and pretends to pop it audaciously, much to the delight of Mo, who at any rate isn’t in blast radius. Arnie willingly begins filling up flutes, glancing at Harriet coyly.

While Roland shakes his penis Toby pays for his drinks; a time when many people laugh and joke. Lights mingle with the busy atmosphere out of the bar’s windows, illuminating smoke from benches on the pavement and the shop’s sign opposite, as well as faces, sections of road, taxis and street lamps.

Roland rejoins the bar from the toilet and sees Toby in front of him, who he follows through to the back. He sees Harriet’s profile, her head facing Arnie, and how ecstatic she is as Toby arrives.

“Arnie, check out the barmaid.”

Arnie looks over, trying to find her. “Which one? — oh!”

“Right?” Toby winks at Harriet.

“Ah mate, absolute worldie!”

“She’s un-be-lievable!”

“To-by!” Harriet’s paroxysm is tinged with dismay. “Stop objectifying women!”

“I’d go further than that. Excuse me, gorgeous, could I smash your back doors in?”

“To-by! That’s enough!”

Arnie stretches his arms out and keeps them laying on top of the cushioned backrest, looking at Harriet with intensely playful eyes and a smile that contorts his face. “Come on… it’s banter.”

When the group set about their next adventure Harriet leaves. Roland feels dizzy with intoxication so scans round, pursuing somewhere to go. Deciding against Western Road, he turns the corner into the steep residential Temple Street, just up from the bar. Everything starts to fade and darken for Roland, whose vision is shaking. There’s a little tree near him growing out the pavement with a grate over its roots. His target acquired, Roland’s stomach muscles propel their contents. His heaving, and subsequent splats over the grate, merge with the running of engines and the groans from passersby.

“Just had to throw up a little,” he says, rejoining the back of the group.

“Shit mate, are you alright?” asks Arnie.

“Yeah, just got that horrible taste in the back of my throat.”

“Oh yeah.” Arnie hesitates like he’s hiding something. “Come with me — nothing to be ashamed of. I’ve had that plenty of times. You need the rejuvenation potion.”

“What’s that?” Roland gazes at Arnie, astonished by his support.

Stepping out onto the road with Arnie, Roland glances back at Toby, Musti and Mo. His friends have continued moving, the dark backs of their jackets blending with the night sky, as other figures, too, become less lucid.

“Will they wait for us?” Roland’s mumble is swept away by the excitement on Western Road.

Arnie and Roland enter an off-license, the overpriced shelves stacked with goods. Swiftly and premeditatively, Arnie locates three items, places them on the counter and pays for Roland.

“No, no, I’ll get these,” says Roland, his throat still rough. But Arnie is already outside.

“Arnie, thank you so much. You’re a lifesaver.”

“That’s what friends are for.” He hands him the contents of the potion, Roland beaming at him.

“I’m never usually sick. I can’t remember the last time I was.”

“Yeah, just get that down you.”

“So, did you come up with this idea?”

“One of my mates back in London,” he says, pausing; laughing to himself.

“Oh really?”

“Every weekend we get on it. The boys like a good party, you know?”

“I know what you mean. I should’ve eaten before.”

Roland bites into his chocolate bar outside Taj the Grocer, washing it down with an energy drink. Receiving the almost instant rush warmly, his pace quickens to keep up with Arnie, who’s gone ahead to meet the others.

‘What must people think?’ Roland wonders. ‘Eating a chocolate bar on a night out? No, it doesn’t bear thinking about.’ But the potion rejuvenates him in time for the Pull & Pump: a brickwork pub in the centre of town.

Waiting for Roland before the Pull & Pump’s secluded front garden, with green hedges along its borders, is Mo. Concealed under his jacket is an effeminate shirt. His hair and shoes are both clean and stylish.

“Hey man, you okay?” Mo consoles him with an arm around his shoulder.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Arine sorted me out a treat.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, just buy chewing gum, chocolate and an energy drink. You’re good to go.”

Inside is warm, the lighting low. A fat customer with yielding flesh turns in his seat, sizing up the newcomers with an aloof and somewhat hostile expression. The young sprightly bartender, however, is pleased with the group’s arrival.

“Just give me a sec lads,” he says, fidgeting with the music system.

Distributed on the Pull & Pump’s black pinstripe walls are various picture frames and miscellanea; a few shelves hold board games. All the wooden surfaces are stained gaudily, and on the black painted ceiling, a welcome sign is written in a Wild West style.

“Ah mate, it’s so sticky!”

“What is?”

“The table, what else?”

The bartender, having decided on an old disco tune, offers his services to Mo.

“Hi, yes, can I have five pints and a gin and tonic please.”

“Single or double?”

“Um, single please.”

“I like your shirt.”

“Ah, thank you. Zara. I got it from Zara.”

Mo grips the rim of his glass with a dainty brown hand, suckling the straw.

“Yeah, but what about Mr Wildy?”

Musti laughs and repeats: “Mr Wildy!”

“Could he even spell?”

“At least he wasn’t your form teacher!”

“Those lessons were an absolute nightmare.”

“All I did was look at the clock.”

“Might as well watch paint dry.”

“Um, Mr Wildy…? Aren’t you supposed to be teaching us? Because you have the handwriting of a child.”

“He was a child!”

“Still is.”

“Wasn’t he having an affair?”

“Mrs Stokes?”

“Well, fair enough.”

“Wasn’t she married?”

“He wasn’t the worst teacher though.”

Roland is thankful for the ensuing silence.

After two rounds at the Pull & Pump they walk along Churchill Square towards Jubilee Clock Tower, Roland moving slowly.

“Can I have a cigarette?” Musti asks, having retreated all of a sudden. But his tone is self-aware.

“You can’t roll, can you?”

“No,” puts in Musti, playfully.

Roland sighs and hands him the cigarette he’s just rolled. Wobbling forward, preparing again for the task, Roland focuses on his pouch, dropping tobacco on the floor.

The cigarette Musti holds stays pursed in his lips for some time as he battles with the notion of inhaling. The dark streets he can hide in mystify, befuddled as he is.

The clock tower is a great landmark where Mo decides to distance himself. “Guys, I think I’m going to go home.” He offers his hand to any takers, but there aren’t any, so he steps away and looks disappointingly at Roland, then at Musti, who he shakes his head at.

“Come on Mo, don’t go.”

“No, I have to.”

“Why?” asks Roland.

Mo looks back suggestively. “I — I have to go.”

Toby hugs him, says his goodbyes and continues chatting with Arnie. The two feed off each other naturally.

“Just stay for one more,” pleads Roland.

“I’m pretty drunk already.”

Roland stops questioning.

“Musti, are you coming with me?”

“Yeah!” The reply is instinctive. And the cigarette, barely touched, falls to the floor.

“This was fun. Let’s do it again soon,” says Mo, conjuring excitement through expression and voice. He then smiles sweetly and innocently, glad the night is over.

“One more?” suggests Arnie.

“Yeah, could do.”

“Oh, go on then.”

And those left staggering pass gentleman’s clubs, fast food restaurants and all that slopes down from the clock tower.