The Entrepreneur
by John McGroarty
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: Britain wasn't working. A revolution was needed.
_____________________________________________________________________
The face in the thick greying beard looked a little disgusted. A little disgusted and, behind the disgust, a little nervous. He was wondering how the hell these two ragamuffins in dirty clothes and workies’ gloves had arrived at his shop. They couldn’t have been more than seventeen and were wearing thick steel toe cap boots. They were traipsing rain-wet mud all over the floor. He looked out the window looking for a car or something and saw the lorry. Ah, they must be delivery boys for the golf course bar. His subsurface nervousness left him.
They were looking at the sweaters. The fashion now across the schemes and holes of Glasgow. He smiled to himself. This pair could never afford one. It was more than they made in a month. And more than their fathers made. Two minutes, he wouldn’t be cruel, and out. Out. Muddy boots, oot oot oot.
“Excuuuse me, geeeeentlemen, but you’re making a terrible mess of my floor. I’m afraid you’ll have to go outside and wait. The rain’s stopped.”
The boys looked up at him and the man felt uneasy again. For the first time he took a good look at them. The one on the left was a normal looking Glasgow teenager with short wavy blonde hair and an already fag-drawn face, but the other was a little different. He was tall. Slithe. Sliver. His eyes had something. Arrogance? Hatred? Intelligence? Madness?
The tall one allowed himself a smile before he spoke. “Do you know how old I am, Mister?”
“I would have no idea.”
“Really? One thousand nine hundred and forty six. I was born the year they crucified Jesus Christ.”
The other boy laughed, though unsure about the joke, and pulled out a packet of fags. He gave his pal one and offered the packet, genuinely, to the man.
“No, no, I don’t smoke.”
The boys lit up.
“Naw, I’m no really. Am eighteen. And ye know wit, I voted last week for the first time. I voted for Maggie. I think she’s wit this country needs. A revolution. Did ye vote fur hur, Mister?”
The man was out of his depth, he was in a storm in a sea he couldn’t navigate. He splashed (hoping to win favour?), “Yes, I did. I completely agree with you. A revolution.”
“Aye, Mister, Britain isnae wurkin,” said the boy, and sucked on his fag.
“Wit ah um is an entrepreneur, and Ah want tae dae business here the day.”
Cooter looked at the man. He was big, burly, fatty bloated, but he knew that he could take him. And the man knew it too. He was a veteran of hundreds of pub, school, scheme street battles. A tactician and a weapons’ expert. He stepped to his left and pulled down a driver from the wall. He slung it over his shoulder.
“I’d like to buy some of these sweaters. The price is excellent and I could make a mark up of fifteen percent per item in Easterhouse.”
The man rubbed his beard, “Buy them?”
“Yah, for sure,” said Cooter, the entrepreneur, “I’ll take fifty.”
“Fifty?”
“Fifty. Different sizes and colours. Different styles. V-neck, turtle necks, all kinds of necks. Wrap them up in ten packets.”
The man hesitated. What to do. This little tramp was robbing him with menace. He looked around. Cooter was preoccupied for a moment. He saw that the other one was looking a little unsure of himself. He had probably realised in some hazy way that he was an accessory. Cooter caught and held his eyes.
“I’ll just start wrapping them up for you.”
There was a double honk from the lorry. Sonny, the driver, had finished his pie and pint and pathetic flirtation with the plump manageress in the golf course bar.
“Can ye take the packets out to the van, Steven? Make sure Sonny disnae see ye putting them in the back. He’s no one of us. He voted for the socialists,” he said, turning to the man, “how much do I owe you?”
He was taking the charade as far as he could.
The man took out a pencil and paper and did a sum.
“Seven thousand five hundred pounds,” he said. The police will have you in an hour.
“Will you take a cheque?”
The man nodded.
Cooter put down the driver and took off his gloves. He pulled out a filthy, folded, tattered chequebook. He wrote the cheque and gave it to the man.
“A pleasure doing business with you, Mister, Mister?”
“Robertson.”
“Robertson,” repeated Cooter, inclining his long neck and head towards him.
He held out his hand. The man took it and Cooter shook it for some seconds.
At the door Cooter stopped and asked, “What’s your handicap, Mr Robertson?”
“I’m a fifteen.”
“We’ll have to have a game some day. We entrepreneurs must stick together. The revolution demands it of us.”
And with that Cooter lit another cigarette and stepped out gallusly into the rain.
Swearwords: None.
Description: Britain wasn't working. A revolution was needed.
_____________________________________________________________________
The face in the thick greying beard looked a little disgusted. A little disgusted and, behind the disgust, a little nervous. He was wondering how the hell these two ragamuffins in dirty clothes and workies’ gloves had arrived at his shop. They couldn’t have been more than seventeen and were wearing thick steel toe cap boots. They were traipsing rain-wet mud all over the floor. He looked out the window looking for a car or something and saw the lorry. Ah, they must be delivery boys for the golf course bar. His subsurface nervousness left him.
They were looking at the sweaters. The fashion now across the schemes and holes of Glasgow. He smiled to himself. This pair could never afford one. It was more than they made in a month. And more than their fathers made. Two minutes, he wouldn’t be cruel, and out. Out. Muddy boots, oot oot oot.
“Excuuuse me, geeeeentlemen, but you’re making a terrible mess of my floor. I’m afraid you’ll have to go outside and wait. The rain’s stopped.”
The boys looked up at him and the man felt uneasy again. For the first time he took a good look at them. The one on the left was a normal looking Glasgow teenager with short wavy blonde hair and an already fag-drawn face, but the other was a little different. He was tall. Slithe. Sliver. His eyes had something. Arrogance? Hatred? Intelligence? Madness?
The tall one allowed himself a smile before he spoke. “Do you know how old I am, Mister?”
“I would have no idea.”
“Really? One thousand nine hundred and forty six. I was born the year they crucified Jesus Christ.”
The other boy laughed, though unsure about the joke, and pulled out a packet of fags. He gave his pal one and offered the packet, genuinely, to the man.
“No, no, I don’t smoke.”
The boys lit up.
“Naw, I’m no really. Am eighteen. And ye know wit, I voted last week for the first time. I voted for Maggie. I think she’s wit this country needs. A revolution. Did ye vote fur hur, Mister?”
The man was out of his depth, he was in a storm in a sea he couldn’t navigate. He splashed (hoping to win favour?), “Yes, I did. I completely agree with you. A revolution.”
“Aye, Mister, Britain isnae wurkin,” said the boy, and sucked on his fag.
“Wit ah um is an entrepreneur, and Ah want tae dae business here the day.”
Cooter looked at the man. He was big, burly, fatty bloated, but he knew that he could take him. And the man knew it too. He was a veteran of hundreds of pub, school, scheme street battles. A tactician and a weapons’ expert. He stepped to his left and pulled down a driver from the wall. He slung it over his shoulder.
“I’d like to buy some of these sweaters. The price is excellent and I could make a mark up of fifteen percent per item in Easterhouse.”
The man rubbed his beard, “Buy them?”
“Yah, for sure,” said Cooter, the entrepreneur, “I’ll take fifty.”
“Fifty?”
“Fifty. Different sizes and colours. Different styles. V-neck, turtle necks, all kinds of necks. Wrap them up in ten packets.”
The man hesitated. What to do. This little tramp was robbing him with menace. He looked around. Cooter was preoccupied for a moment. He saw that the other one was looking a little unsure of himself. He had probably realised in some hazy way that he was an accessory. Cooter caught and held his eyes.
“I’ll just start wrapping them up for you.”
There was a double honk from the lorry. Sonny, the driver, had finished his pie and pint and pathetic flirtation with the plump manageress in the golf course bar.
“Can ye take the packets out to the van, Steven? Make sure Sonny disnae see ye putting them in the back. He’s no one of us. He voted for the socialists,” he said, turning to the man, “how much do I owe you?”
He was taking the charade as far as he could.
The man took out a pencil and paper and did a sum.
“Seven thousand five hundred pounds,” he said. The police will have you in an hour.
“Will you take a cheque?”
The man nodded.
Cooter put down the driver and took off his gloves. He pulled out a filthy, folded, tattered chequebook. He wrote the cheque and gave it to the man.
“A pleasure doing business with you, Mister, Mister?”
“Robertson.”
“Robertson,” repeated Cooter, inclining his long neck and head towards him.
He held out his hand. The man took it and Cooter shook it for some seconds.
At the door Cooter stopped and asked, “What’s your handicap, Mr Robertson?”
“I’m a fifteen.”
“We’ll have to have a game some day. We entrepreneurs must stick together. The revolution demands it of us.”
And with that Cooter lit another cigarette and stepped out gallusly into the rain.
About the Author
John McGroarty was born in Glasgow and now lives in Barcelona, where he works as an English teacher. He has been writing short stories for many years. His acclaimed long short story Rainbow is a McStorytellers publication.