SHORT STORIES: ‘The Usual’

As the tide rolls in again, rising with the sun, it carries on its back a fishing boat, left unanchored over night. The waves guide it home once more, as its captain lies asleep in the cabin. With a jolt, the boat hits the harbour wall and the captain finds himself waking with the low moan of a renewed existence, of waking up again, of an overwhelming hangover. His eyes open to the day, as if for the first time, bleary and unfocussed like a newborn, and the light is no less oppressive.

He gets himself to his feet, having concluded he woke up on the floor, and considers what an excellent party he had had the night before. Now standing, though not at all steady on his feet, he pours himself a much needed glass of water, and imagines how much better off the ancient mariner would’ve been, had he had a freshwater tap on board. He’d learned that poem in school.

Looking around, seeing the number of empties scattered about and in turn the emptiness of the cabin, he laughs and reprimands himself for being so careless; getting drunk during a night-fishing trip on his own. Ah well, no harm done. In no way composed currently, he heads for the deck to see where he is, before attempting to compose and rouse himself with a cold shower.

On deck he sees he’s untied in harbour and shakes his head at the shoddy tie he must’ve made yesterday. Though, no, that’s not like him. Sometime after he’d got on board, most likely in the dead of night when he was asleep, some teenagers must’ve come and untied his boat. Bloody kids! He’d have to be more vigilant in future. As he retrieves his ropes from overboard, he notices how his boat had hit the harbour wall. Nothing too bad – a bit of a bump and scratches along the side.

However, he can see a number of bumps and scratches all along the bow, more than would’ve been left by the tide carrying him untied into the wall this morning. It was the buoys in the harbour, far more robust than was necessary, and the crap left on the beach that comes adrift at high tide, and the teenagers, vandals, and not to mention those rocks just off the coast that no one has had the decency to mark out with a warning flag or buoy.

‘The Beautiful Day’ tied again, and himself showered, he heads into town for breakfast. Shuffling awkwardly along the harbour, he looks up to his hometown pressed flat against the coast and tries to find his vision. He seems to be seeing everything in double, and that doubled up everything appears to be gliding side to side as well. He swears he must still be drunk, that’s the reason he’s walking with difficulty too. His co-ordination is all off. He stops to find his balance.

It’d be all that exercise that he’d done the day before, his muscles are all just tired and disorientated. It’s nothing to do with the drink, he’s sober as a judge. That explains his vision too, it’s tiredness, completely exercised-out tiredness. He’ll have a relaxing day today, just take in town perhaps, rest up and enjoy himself. He looks up to town again, it’s still in double, and the rising layers of, varyingly pastel, terraced houses seem denser now as they overlap clones of themselves.

Resigning to the fact that the tiredness in his eyes and body will be with him a little while longer, he walks along the harbour with some difficulty. As he walks he keeps his eyes on the floor in front of him, all weatherworn, cobbled stone as it is, is it any wonder he’s having difficulty keeping his balance? He remembers how recently this harbour had been refurbished, how is it already in such a state of disrepair? While musing on the shoddy workmanship of whoever the council got in to do the work here, he catches sight of a steep set of steps – almost vertical – down to the beach. He fell down those once, when he was a boy, hit his coccyx every step on the way down.

Off the harbour he arrives on the main street and begins to think about where he’ll go for breakfast, for some reason he can’t place any of the cafe names. He must really be tired. As luck would have it, he appears to have hobbled, without thinking, towards one. All at once it seems familiar and new, it’s obviously been a little while since he’s popped in here for breakfast – they must’ve had it done out recently, and it’s not like he stays down on the boat much to come into town. As he makes his way inside, he notices all the cracks in the paint and how greasy the windows look.

Having taken a seat, he scans the menu when he sees a waitress out the corner of his eye. She doesn’t seem familiar, she must be new here. As he looks her over, she looks up and smiles before making her way toward him.

“I don’t know why you even bother looking at the menu, you know what we got here, and you always order the same thing anyway,” she laughs. “The usual?”

“Of course, you know me.”

“I’ll bring you a coffee over in a sec.”

She heads back toward the counter. New here, what was he thinking? That’s Jean obviously, he was just taken off guard because she normally only works weekdays. That coffee couldn’t come quick enough, he’s really not with it today. Jean comes back to his table with a pot of coffee and a mug. As she’s pouring it he notices her name badge that reads ‘Louise’.

“There, just how you like it; black, no frills.”

“How come you’re working today then, Louise?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I thought you only work weekdays?”

“It is a weekday,” she laughs. “You’re still half asleep, aren’t you?”

“Ha, yeah, weekends I meant.”

“No, I always work weekdays. It’s Steve who works weekends. Now, you’re not saying I look like Steve are you?”

“Haha, no, no. I’m all muddled this morning.”

“There’s a change!” Louise laughs and shakes her head.

With breakfast finished, he heads outside to the street and stops to look out to sea. In spite of there being a fine mist in the air, giving everything a fuzzy quality, it’s a quite beautiful morning. Seeing as it’s a weekend, and he doesn’t have any plans for today, he’ll have a wander around town before heading home. Shuffling along the main street he wonders why it’s so strangely quiet for a weekend. The shops are open, new ones some of them, but no one seems to be around. There’s not even any dog walkers on the beach. Then again though, it must be early still.

He continues around town, turning off into the side streets, following some sort of pre-planned route he’s not quite privy too. It’s like automatic-walking, it’s nice. After walking up a lane, he arrives at a bench that sits just above town with a clear view of the coast both ways. Taking a seat, he looks over the coast, and then out to sea following the horizon from left to right and back. There’s a lush green that rides the coastline either side of him, occasionally interrupted by the smattering of a town’s gathered homes. Beneath both sometimes falls a spread of yellow sand.

He stops admiring the view, closes his eyes, and puts his head in his hands. He must be having a migraine, his vision seems to be doubled up and blurry. Perhaps he’d best head home and have a lie down. He opens his eyes to stand and, in doing so, is able to see the harbour more clearly. His boat, ‘The Beautiful Day’, he hasn’t been out on it in a little while, and today is shaping up to be a beautiful day. He looks towards the sun. Today is, has been. Today is a beautiful day. Why not pop out on it for a bit? He might as well while it’s still beautiful out. Time seems to have escaped him today.

Arriving back in town, and nearing the harbour, the off-license catches his eye. He could take a few cans out with him, make an afternoon of it. Nothing too heavy, of course, just a couple of drinks to relax with, and unwind. Heading inside the shop, he notices adverts for cheap crates and spirits. He could probably do with stocking up the fridge on the boat. He might pop out on it tomorrow, if the weather’s nice. Inside the shop he heads over to the drinks and goes to lift a crate of cider. It’s a bit of a struggle, he seems to be having trouble on his feet, keeping his balance. A shop assistant appears and takes it off his hands.

“Here, let me. I’ll have it.”

He’s a little taken aback, both by his trouble co-ordinating and the sudden alleviation of it by the shop assistant. It must be John. He’s always got his eye out anytime anyone comes in here, if they’re on the pinch or in need of help. He heads down the aisle and around the corner to the counter. John is stood there with the crate already scanned, and is picking out a pack of cigarettes and what appears to be a bottle of whisky. He scans both items.

“It was the usual, wasn’t it?”

“Sorry?”

“The usual selection.”

“Oh, uh, yes. Of course. Thank you, John.”

“Dai…”

“What? Oh, sorry. World of my own then. Thinking of someone else. Wrong name came out.”

With a shopping bag in one hand for the whisky and cigarettes and the crate under his other arm, he waddles stop-startedly towards the harbour and along it. As he walks along the harbour he stops to reposition the crate under his arm, and reassert his grip on it. Once that’s done, he rolls the shopping bag handle in his palm slightly and tightens his hold. In doing so, he catches sight of a steep set of steps – almost vertical – down to the beach. He fell down those once, when he was a boy, hit his coccyx every step on the way down.

Once in the cabin he can see a whole horde of empty cans scattered around. He never cleans up after a party does he? He’ll clean up while he’s here this afternoon at some point. Not now though, cans in the fridge is priority, then perhaps a quick drink and a cigarette on deck, before he heads out to sea for the evening. As he puts the cans in the fridge, keeping one out ready, he pours himself a glass of whisky to keep it company. There seems to be mail all over the counter, opened and unopened. He brought it with him the last time he was here, so he wasn’t hanging about in the house and delaying his full day of fishing.

He knocks back his whisky, and pours himself another, before taking his can and a cigarette out to the deck. Whilst he smokes he leans down to untie the boat from harbour, ready to set off once he’s been back inside, but spots that there are scratches and bumps all along the bow. When did that happen? It must’ve been when there was that storm, must’ve really knocked ‘The Beautiful Day’ around. He should really come down here more often, keep an eye on it.

Heading back to the fridge, he notices a photo frame on the side, it’s broken. He picks it up. It’s a picture of him and a girl he doesn’t recognise. The photo appears to be years old, but he looks exactly the same. He stares at it a while, before setting it down on the table. He takes the bottle of whisky and his glass, placing them both alongside the photo, fetches a can from the fridge, and picks up the unopened mail. He sits at the table, pours himself a glass of whisky and opens his can. The light catches the cracked glass over the photo, he picks it up. He looks at himself, and then at her, they’re in front of ‘The Beautiful Day’, he hadn’t noticed. They both look happy.

As the tide rolls in again, rising with the sun, it carries on its back a fishing boat, left unanchored over night. The waves guide it home once more, as its captain lies asleep in the cabin. With a jolt, the boat hits the harbour wall and the captain finds himself waking with the low moan of a renewed existence, of waking up again, of an overwhelming hangover. His eyes open to the day, as if for the first time, bleary and unfocussed like a newborn, and the light is no less oppressive.

He gets himself to his feet, having concluded he woke up on the floor, and considers what an excellent party he had had the night before. Now standing, though not at all steady on his feet, he pours himself a much needed glass of water, and imagines how much better off the ancient mariner would’ve been, had he had a freshwater tap on board. He’d learned that poem in school.

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