Drawn

"Ah telt her, dinnae pull yer knickers aw the way doon, leave them just above yer knees...
"Ah'd get her tae walk aboot the livin' room wearin' jist her high heels an' suspenders...
"The bird ah wis wi the other night, she ripped her shirt aff an' her bra anaw wi it...
"Ah wis gutted man, spoiled ma hale night... Ah couldnae tell her tae pit her bra back oan, ah didnae want tae seem too weird.
"Ah like tae take wan strap oaf a t atime, get wan tit oot..."
His eyes had a glimmer in them now.

Ma heid wisnae sare anymare but ah felt a wee bit sick. Shouldnae huv taen them painkillers after aw that booze and a near enough empty stomach anaw. I got decisively to ma feet.
"Well, it was nice meeting you... Louise." I waited for a moment. I had the impression she was angry. Why would she be angry?

The streets were glistening, slick with a rain that had thankfully ceased falling.
That lassie, Louise. Nice enough lassie. Seemed a wee bit dim, like. We had aw been at Sear's house. Louise had been regaling us with some mundane anecdote about HMV at Livingston centre. Except she'd meant H & M, no HMV. She'd got the two muddled up. And Sear, he'd said "Aye, wan's only a place that sell's clathes and the other sells CDs and that..." He spoke really slowly with a really exagerrated broad Scottish accent. He was pretty pished. And oor pal Murray says "What's with the accent?" lookin' around at us all, raisin' his eyebrows, all incredulous and amused.

We were all snickerin' at that. I keep thinkin' aboot it, walking doon the street tae work say, and ah chortle tae masel, ah hae a wee chortle.

I was given to the impression that the wee Louise lassie might possibly have a wee fancy for me. Then again, that could be just a figment of ma inherently narcissitic imagination. She wisnae bad lookin', as ah says a wee bit daft though, in both her demeanour and appearance ah mean like her facial expressions and mannerisms etc. Ah dinnae want tae come across as an elitist cunt.
Also, what would a lassie like her see in a dude like me, an eccentric cunt who fancies himself as a writer or artist or some fucking thing, a cunt who is intae like Burroughs and all that bohemian avant-garde pish.

Burroughs was a radge cunt, like. Ah wis intae him in a big way in ma teenage years, read maist of his works including the notoriously avant-garde cut-up novels, where he applied the technique of slicing up the pages of the manuscript anf then reassmbling the pages in such an arbitary fashion that any narrative or semantic cohesion was rednered completely defunct.
Ah wisnae so much inta all they other beatnik cunts. Apart fae a little known fellow by the name of D. A. Levy, a poet fae Cleveland, USA. Cunt wis intae like zen and pish like that and it shows, it definitely shows in his poetry.

Ah play in this noise rock band, we're called Playground Meltdown. Ah play guitar. Noise music. It's like a contemporary equivalent tae the likes of punk and that in the 70s. Punk got co-opted by corporate pimps, real souless faggots. Punk became conservative and staid, pish bands that aw sounded the same.
Same thing's happenin' wi' noise now.

The so called artiste lay in his room, on his bed. The walls of the room were bare; wallpaper had been stripped to reveal faded blue and green paint. Abstract splotches. The so called artiste dug it. All his possessions had been removed to facilitate the wallpaper stripping process. Afterwards he had not returned much to the room. A few books, the TV, games console. Just a few inane distractions.
It was his stereo he missed the most. Listening to CDs on the games console via the crappy wee TV was unsatisfying. And he couldn't listen to his records at all.
Besides that, he had other problems. Like what the fuck was he doing with his life? for example. Dossing around, reading books. Sleeping during the day. Sitting up late and writing, or else drinking. A perpetual malcontent. Yet fairly easily satisfied, all in all.

There was the wee lassie at work. The wan he'd taking a liking to. It was absurd. She was a whole seven years his junior. Plus sometimes she struck him as a tad daft. Aw here we go, the elitist cunt again. The supposed artiste.
His room was imbued with a minimalism that he sorta dug. He had been writing a lot more recently. Maybe hucklin' oot aw that clutter had cleared his heid a bit. Plus there was the fact of him being hugely influenced by James Kelman, an author he'd recently discovered.
The wee lassie: she dug him. But to what extent? He hoped to the extent that she yearned for a bloody good ravishing from him, the frolicsome wee wench that she wis!
Nah, he wanted to protect her, keep her warm. None of that depraved carnal shit. That simply wasn't wholesome, baby. It wisnae spiritual. And that was the level he affected to vibrate on.
Still, if he were to find himself in a situation where she was on her knees, fellating him, gazing up at him doe-eyed, well, he wouldn't object!. Definitely not. On the contrary, he'd positively encourage such behaviour! He'd encourage her in a husky voice, thick with lust, whilst gently slapping the back of her heid. Gowd dammit, that wid be braw!
Still, no point meditating on these unlikely occurences, much less writing aboot them.

He paused for a moment when he lifted the spoon. Something felt amiss. It was the weight of the thing; it didn't feel quite heavy enough. Like a hollow decoy. It was reminiscent of an odd sensation he'd had a few days ago when he lifted a teaspoon from a kitchen drawer. It had seemed small. But only slightly. Subtly scaled down.

He was carrying the last of the tills up the stairs to the cash office when all of a sudden he felt himself becoming coy, furtive almost. No, not furtive... Calculating. And he felt as if part of himself detested another part of himself. But he couldn't resist asking her what he was going to ask her.
A male colleague walked alongside him, providing inane conversation. She was slightly behind the two of them. He was going to have to time his question well. Wait for an opening. Also it was crucial that he not appear in any way eager or opportunistic. They all stopped by the clocking machine and he uttered the words.

"Would ye like a lift home?"

She conceded to a lift home. Conceded? Is that the right word? Acquiesced? Whatever, she accepted the invitation is what I'm trying to convey. Overall, he was pleased with how it had went. He had issued the invitation with supreme nonchalance. His male colleague hadn't made any untoward jokes or comments. Why would he? Well, the protagonist in this tale always feared the worst.
She went into the changing room. He dumped the till in the cash office safe. When he came out she was waiting by the clocking machine. I'm just going to retrieve my wallet he explained to her. He went into the changing room to retrieve said wallet from his locker. She was waiting by the clocking machine. Waiting for him. It was as if they were going on a date or something. He felt a surge of excitement. He sensed she felt the same way. Slightly nervous. Slightly thrilled. Maybe he was just projecting his own emotional state onto her.

He dropped her off at her hoose without incident. Throughout the short car journey an awkward first date vibe had prevailed. Inane chatter. Nervous pauses. The whole thing was pretty exciting. God, is this how I get my kicks now? he thought to himself, incredulous, amused. That was the key to existence, he felt. If ever something felt in any way tragic, depressing or existentially upsetting the trick was to extract oneself from said situation and view it comically. He would imagine himself an incourrigble, quirky character in a sitcom. Findning himself in these amusing situations at the whims of the universe. It beat the hell ouot of self-pity.

The book of poetry fell down, off the shelf, and he couldn't quite bring himself to lift it and place it back on there. Instead he felt a deep-seated revulsion for the human race and its myriad forms of cultural artistic expression. Not to mention non-artistic and other forms of expression, whatever the hell they might be. To hell with all of it.
He thought about earlier. Getting drunk. Falling asleep at 9pm, on a friend's couch. Coming home with a headache, preparing a cheese sandwich. Went to sit down on the comfortable chair, his favourite chair. A brown thing. The chair was covered in assorted bric-a-brac, rendering it uninhabitable. Figures. He stood on the cool tiled kitchen flair, munching away. Head splitting. Fuck it. Bedtime. 4am and he was workin' the morn at noon! And again the next day. Some fuckin' weekend! He'd done fuck all but get pissed. Well, semi-pissed. Not even a fully-fledged drunk. Well fuck that, he was too old for that now. He was too sensible for that shite.
And he recalled the words of his xenophobic pal, discussing how he was being investigated by the government for tax evasion. "Ah'll land up in the gaol. Am no a paki and am no Polish. Am white, I'll get done for it. Broxburn, born and bred for 25 year. Am no a nigger and am no a Pole. Cuz am white ah'll get done."

Lee Jones rode the elevator to the ground floor. He left the offices and started towards the far side of the car park. It was a clear, crisp wintry day. Once he got to this car he realised with a pang of annoyance that his key's weren't in his pocket. They had been. What the hell had he done with them?
"Fuck!" he screamed. Some birds fluttered skyward. A bewildered old lady turned to look at him.
Oh wait. They were in his coat pocket. He exhaled deeply and then forced himself to chuckle. He grinned sheepishly at the old woman. What the fuck was she doing wandering around the car park anyway?
He got behind the wheel and began driving to the beach. A cassette lay in the open mouth of the tape deck. He nudged it in. Throbbing Gristle. He turned the sound up, began nodding his head emphatically. He punched the roof of the car and yelped. His eyes rolled back to their whites, he bared his teeth in a demented grin. Shit, he had to get it together. He inhaled. Held it. Exhaled deeply.

Lee lay in bed composing poetry. His dog writhed about on the carpeted floor, apparently satisfying various itches. Lee regarded the dog with some fondness. He began composing a poem for the dog. Very tender stuff. Heartfelt. He grinned, drooling all over the A4 slice of paper. A single tear rolled down his cheek. Once he was finished he tore off the sheet and went over to crouch beside dog. He placed the poem on the creature's back and then clapped the dog, stroking the piece of paper along its fur. He tried to wrap the paper around dog's head as a sort of makeshift shawl but dog became perturbed and wandered off. Lee sighed and climbed back into bed.
One of these fucking days he'd get his shit together. He just knew it. He fucking felt it. But until then... There was just this inanity. Scribbling shite poetry. Awkwardly cuddling dog. Becoming exasperated. Contemplating philosophy. Breathing.
He felt good.