Betting Slips and Saggy Tits - Part One
by Lee Carrick
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: A couple of strong ones.
Description: A sad day at the bookies.
_____________________________________________________________________
I walked by Dominos, it was 12:45, and all of the school kids were on their dinner hour hoovering vast quantities of pizza down their young throats, washing away the cheese with gulps of diet coke and giggling in the unusually warm sun.
I turned left towards The Hill and could see the bookies in the distance. As I walked past the back lane my eyes fixed on a young girl; she was crouched down, leaning against a brick wall. She wore a short black skirt, black tights and a black leather jacket. She was pretty and looked eighteen or nineteen. In her left hand was a moist, sticky pink lollipop and in her left hand was a half smoked cigarette.
The girl took a drag from the fag and then sucked gently on the sweet; I can only presume that she didn’t enjoy the taste of nicotine and masked it with the sugary lolly. She turned and caught me staring, stood up and as she faced me I could see that she was wearing a tie that indicated she too was on her dinner hour. My eyes shot forward and my pace quickened, fuelled by shame and the excitement of deviance.
Watching every moment in this foolish lover’s game, on this endless ocean finally lovers know no shame......
- Jimmy, is that your ringtone? I asked
- Aye, what’s wrong with it like?
- Top Gun? Have you seen Top Gun?
- Nah, what’s that like?
- That Tom Cruise film about the fighter planes.
- Tom Cruise? I watch fuck all with that little puff in. Check these bets.
The bookies was filled with the sound of Berlin as I checked Jimmy’s bets on the computer.
- There’s forty pence on that one, mate, the rest are all losers.
- Are ye takin the piss oot of me, Nicky? Forty fucking pence. I wouldn’t give that to a darky.
Jimmy put the forty pence in the charity box and turned away in disgust.
Jimmy The Hat was the most regular of regulars in this bookies that time and modernity had forgotten. He came in every day at eleven and stayed until five, drinking gallons of free cappuccinos and studying the racing form meticulously before spending his usual £126 and leaving to drink his ‘lemonade’ at home. He was in his mid-seventies, his eyes were now colourless and his hair colour unknown (no one ever saw him without his hat on). His wife had died a year earlier and his best friend was to be buried that day.
At two o’clock Aidan, the store manager, turned all of the betting screens off and the customers congregated in the bus stop outside of the shop. Two minutes later Arthur’s funeral car appeared from the estate, did two laps of the round-about and parked in the bus stop; his family’s car parked behind it. Everyone doffed their caps, except Jimmy, and bowed their heads. Some of them had tears in their eyes, others had tricasts on their lips.
Arthur’s car stood stationary for two minutes and then the driver started the engine and headed for the crematorium.
Jimmy and Arthur had been coming to the bookies for twenty-seven years; they sat in the same seats every day. I never had the pleasure of meeting Arthur; he died the week before I started. He hadn’t arrived at his usual time one day and Aidan told me that Jimmy The Hat phoned Arthur’s daughter to let her know and then began to cry. He knew Arthur was dead before he had even been found.
Once the funeral car was out of sight the regulars went back into the shop, met by the confused stares of less regular punters; the screens were turned back on and the bets came across the counter as usual. I made Jimmy a cappuccino and placed it on his table.
- Sorry about Arthur, I said
- Thanks kidda, he replied with his eyes still fixed on the racing post. We all go the way we came.
Swearwords: A couple of strong ones.
Description: A sad day at the bookies.
_____________________________________________________________________
I walked by Dominos, it was 12:45, and all of the school kids were on their dinner hour hoovering vast quantities of pizza down their young throats, washing away the cheese with gulps of diet coke and giggling in the unusually warm sun.
I turned left towards The Hill and could see the bookies in the distance. As I walked past the back lane my eyes fixed on a young girl; she was crouched down, leaning against a brick wall. She wore a short black skirt, black tights and a black leather jacket. She was pretty and looked eighteen or nineteen. In her left hand was a moist, sticky pink lollipop and in her left hand was a half smoked cigarette.
The girl took a drag from the fag and then sucked gently on the sweet; I can only presume that she didn’t enjoy the taste of nicotine and masked it with the sugary lolly. She turned and caught me staring, stood up and as she faced me I could see that she was wearing a tie that indicated she too was on her dinner hour. My eyes shot forward and my pace quickened, fuelled by shame and the excitement of deviance.
Watching every moment in this foolish lover’s game, on this endless ocean finally lovers know no shame......
- Jimmy, is that your ringtone? I asked
- Aye, what’s wrong with it like?
- Top Gun? Have you seen Top Gun?
- Nah, what’s that like?
- That Tom Cruise film about the fighter planes.
- Tom Cruise? I watch fuck all with that little puff in. Check these bets.
The bookies was filled with the sound of Berlin as I checked Jimmy’s bets on the computer.
- There’s forty pence on that one, mate, the rest are all losers.
- Are ye takin the piss oot of me, Nicky? Forty fucking pence. I wouldn’t give that to a darky.
Jimmy put the forty pence in the charity box and turned away in disgust.
Jimmy The Hat was the most regular of regulars in this bookies that time and modernity had forgotten. He came in every day at eleven and stayed until five, drinking gallons of free cappuccinos and studying the racing form meticulously before spending his usual £126 and leaving to drink his ‘lemonade’ at home. He was in his mid-seventies, his eyes were now colourless and his hair colour unknown (no one ever saw him without his hat on). His wife had died a year earlier and his best friend was to be buried that day.
At two o’clock Aidan, the store manager, turned all of the betting screens off and the customers congregated in the bus stop outside of the shop. Two minutes later Arthur’s funeral car appeared from the estate, did two laps of the round-about and parked in the bus stop; his family’s car parked behind it. Everyone doffed their caps, except Jimmy, and bowed their heads. Some of them had tears in their eyes, others had tricasts on their lips.
Arthur’s car stood stationary for two minutes and then the driver started the engine and headed for the crematorium.
Jimmy and Arthur had been coming to the bookies for twenty-seven years; they sat in the same seats every day. I never had the pleasure of meeting Arthur; he died the week before I started. He hadn’t arrived at his usual time one day and Aidan told me that Jimmy The Hat phoned Arthur’s daughter to let her know and then began to cry. He knew Arthur was dead before he had even been found.
Once the funeral car was out of sight the regulars went back into the shop, met by the confused stares of less regular punters; the screens were turned back on and the bets came across the counter as usual. I made Jimmy a cappuccino and placed it on his table.
- Sorry about Arthur, I said
- Thanks kidda, he replied with his eyes still fixed on the racing post. We all go the way we came.
About the Author
Lee Carrick is in his twenties. Originally from South Shields, he now lives in Edinburgh. His biggest passions in life are writing and travelling, and he likes to combine the two. He has been writing poetry since he was 15, but only recently began to write fiction. He was inspired to write by Ian Banks' The Wasp Factory and Neil Gaiman's Smoke and Mirrors. The Care Home, his first novella, is a McStorytellers publication.
Lee’s website can be found at http://leecarrick.weebly.com. His poetry can also be read at http://writers-network.com/members/carrick. And his blog is at http://scheemieintheroom.tumblr.com.
Lee’s website can be found at http://leecarrick.weebly.com. His poetry can also be read at http://writers-network.com/members/carrick. And his blog is at http://scheemieintheroom.tumblr.com.
