Don’t Think
His hands trembled and with every movement of his head his brain felt like the flipper-battered ball of his favourite Pinball machine. Flip off Tommy, he thought to himself, I don’t want to play a mean pinball thank you very much, not today; in fact, I don’t even want to play, full stop. He remembered a student he used to work with, the poor lad had air balloons fitted inside his skull as his brain would shrink or swell according to how his condition affected him each particular day. He knew he’d never remember the name of that condition and immediately stopped himself thinking about it; don’t think. Thinking is bad, thinking is bad. There was a hangover to deal with and thinking wouldn’t help.
Cal was skint most of the time but on this particular day he was almost penniless. He had £4.32 in his wallet, he’d reached his overdraft limit a week ago and was already living on sympathetic familial loans until payday, which was still two days away. He passed The Koffee Pot cafe and looked at the Breakfasts on offer, deciding if he were to have one then it would be The Irish Breakfast, just for the White Pudding. But he wasn't having one today. He was having a hangover today and he knew what he was going to do with his last £4.32 as he was going through his daily ‘should I buy a bottle?’ battle. He couldn’t stop thinking about those bottles of cheap red wine in Morrisons, under four quid and sometimes under three quid! Each! - Or was that Asda? Not sure. Don’t care. Who cares? Stop Thinking! No one cares. Thinking is bad. Anyway, he’d already decided to gamble the money in Betfred’s, the Bookies at the top of Oldham St. He knew the plan, it was a script he'd been through many times before, he knew his lines and actions; go in, don’t look at, or talk to anybody, people are just distractions once your mind’s made up. Go in, bet all available money on a Forecast in the next Dog Race; Trap 6 to win and Trap 1 to come second, no matter where the race was taking place, no matter what prices were being offered or whatever prior form the dogs had. In fact, the plan included the proviso that looking at names of runners, prior form or track location was strictly verboten. This was gambling, pure and simple, and he'd win or lose his pittance purely on the element of risk, not by any considered approach. He'd been trying that for years and still, here he was, with £4.32 to his name. This technique had proven equally fortuitous at losing or winning as any other, so there we are and here we are and as it was then so it goes.
He knew the red wine would really help straighten him out for the morning, but he also knew that one bottle wouldn’t be enough to get him through the day. He’d need at least three bottles and for that he’d have to gamble, and win. If I lose, so be it, there it was and here we are, he thought to himself. I’ve survived sober days before and I can survive them again, however miserable and inhumane a state it is, as Humphrey Bogart once pointed out, ‘most people live their lives three drinks under par’, or something like that. Don’t think.
He entered the Bookies and looked around at the usual array of characters, a multi-cultural tribe, many of whom he’d exchanged the odd drunken word with, from Africa, Eastern Europe, the West Indies. There were the homeless couple he’d seen arguing on Oldham St many times too, counting their change. Two members of staff were trying to explain to a very frustrated punter that football bets are only paid out based on the score at 90 minutes and the Extra-Time doesn't count. The punter became more frustrated, raising his voice and cussing the staff as he tore up the offending betting slip.
He felt a tap on his right shoulder and turned to see The Fox’s smiling face. “Oh, oh”, said Cal. “Oh oh, indeed. Now is that any way to greet an old friend, brother Cal?” The Fox continued, “especially one who has a few good tips to offer a friend”. “Oh, oh”, Cal responded, “I’m still suffering the economic embarrassment from the last tips you gave me, as would you be had you the capacity to feel embarrassment, but I suspect the good ship SS Embarrassment sailed from your harbour many years ago, if she ever docked there in the first place. And I’m still waiting for the stake I loaned you to make its way back into my achingly empty wallet”. Cal stopped himself short of mentioning the cigarettes he knew The Fox had also stolen from the packet he’d left on the table as a test. “Ah well, you win some you lose some, eh? You know that Cal, it's a risk taker’s game this, and sometimes, yes you lose, we all lose, but as it happens, some days you win”. The Fox opened the left front panel of his stained, timeworn Navy Blue pinstripe jacket, moved closer to Cal and showed him a wad of notes in his inside pocket. “Now I do remember I owe you Cal, and never let it be said The Fox is a man who doesn't pay his debts. So here, now as I recall you staked me twenty-” Cal interrupted quickly, “Forty. It was twenty, twice. Forty in total”. “Oh my, now, was it? Two twenties ye staked me, did you? Well now I think back, well of course you did and so here, here we are now, there we were then, who knows where we’ll be when and if we get there, or we don’t. Now, there’s the first 20 and there’s the second 20, making 40 in total and we can consider that debt paid. Is that fair enough?”. “Mmm”, said Cal, looking down at the notes. The general hubbub of the Bookies seemed to fade into silence and there was only Cal, The Fox, and the money. The Fox broke the moment, “Now as it happens, I have some information about certain animals running in certain races today. And if you like I'd be willing to share it with a certain man like your good dog loving self”. “Go on then Mr Fox, tell me what you know”. “I know Trap 2 in the 13.43 at Belle Vue is a good trap to be in today, and for a more than half decent price as well. That's what I know”. Cal interrupted him, “Now, last time we spoke you stole my cigs when I was in the Gents. Why should I trust such a wily old Fox as yourself?”. The Fox replied, feigning indignation and shock, “I beg your pardon. I did what? I refute your allegation sire, I did not steal your cigarettes. I can get my own cigarettes thank you very much!”. “Yeah, whatever.” Cal responded resignedly, already more preoccupied with getting to Morrisons for those three bottles of red. He thought about food but knew he couldn’t stomach it. He placed his £4.32 bet as his gambler’s instinct couldn’t let him walk away from a bet already decided upon, then made his way across Oldham St. to Morrisons. He selected 3 bottles of ‘Special Drop Merlot’ at 3.99 a bottle and a bag of Sea salt and Cider vinegar crisps for when he could stomach food. He went to the self-service till to pay, scanned the bottles, took out the first 20-pound note, which was rejected by the machine, he tried again, and it was rejected again. He took out the second 20-pound note and inserted it into the machine with the same result. A member of staff came over to ask if he needed any help. “No, thanks, not unless you sell Fox hunting horns”. “Sorry” said the staff member. “It’s nothing, don’t worry. I’ll let you put the wine back if you don’t mind. Thanks”.
With ire in his heart, he went in search of The Fox. First stop, Wetherspoons, his usual lair. As Cal entered, the ever-alert Fox saw him and abruptly realised an urgent need to inspect the carpet underneath his table in finely combed detail. He waited until he saw Cal’s frayed Levi’s and well-worn trainers pass him and reach the far end of the room, then crawled out from his temporary shelter and made his way out of the front door. Cal saw a flash of the back of a Navy-Blue pinstripe jacket swiftly escaping the pub. He pushed through the maze of tables to the door as quickly as he could, but the ever-slippery Fox had disappeared into the swarms of a very busy Christmas time Piccadilly Gardens. Cal’s fury got the better of him and he suddenly, unreservedly, shouted, “I’ll hunt you down Mr. Fox! And I’ll find you! And when I find you-!” He realised the pack of faces around him were staring at him as though he were a complete madman. He saw the fear and confusion in their eyes and speedily walked away, not looking at any of them as he headed back to the Bookies to check the result of his bet. As he did so his heart sank and his anger rose. He left the bookies, headed across Oldham St. into Back Piccadilly where there was a full bin liner, just about size of a boxing gym punchbag, at which he aimed some heavy and purposeful kicks. The queue for the 83 bus barely flinched, being used to such scenes around this part of town and much more preoccupied in strategizing how they’ll be able to work their way through the throng and on to the next scheduled bus as close as possible to the front of the queue. Trap 2 beat Trap 5, typical, my mum’s favourite dog bet, thought Cal as he began his long, shaky walk home.
He passed the windows of ‘Mother Mac’s’ pub and stopped to look inside for a moment, like a Dickensian orphan on a cold snowy Christmas card, in torn shorts and holey shoes. Taking in the glowing firelight within that ever-inviting hostelry, and the beautiful drinks lined up on the tables in front of the silhouetted pub punters on their barstools and vinyl padded benches, he felt envy, and a growing anger. ‘Mother Mac’s’, look at it, so perfect. Even its name gave off a maternal glow. The Fox, as a name though, that’s another story altogether, and so it has been and so it will be. Don’t think. Thinking is bad. Keep walking.
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