Gilet Man has Disappeared

By Andrew Larter

So, I'm sitting in the Rose and Crown waiting for Alan and Rob. I'm early. We arranged to meet at 7.30. It’s 7.20 and already dark outside. I've got myself a pint. Lockdown Bitter. Clear and amber. Grassy herbs on the nose. Malty and crisp with a lovely hoppy finish. Paid for two more. They can get them when they arrive. Lockdown Bitter. Apparently Grafton Edge Brewery developed the recipe during the pandemic.

It's busy but I've got a table with four seats near the bar and the lads aren't going to be much longer. I have my second mouthful when a pair of dark glasses comes through the door. They're accompanied by a two foot plaited whip of a beard and a leather cattleman hat. One of those yellow fluorescent gilets used by crowd control is curled around a brown faux leather jacket. The gilet bears the legend "MEDIA LIES ~ TURN IT OFF." I sit and swallow the urge to question if he's using 'lies' as a verb or noun. And if media lies shouldn't that say 'turn them off." Mr Picky, that's me. I repress the impulse because I know there are bigger questions about the telly, radio, newspapers, facebook and all that. Also know I won't ask those either – there is, after all, a time and a place for such things.

 

Gilet Man orders lager, a half, then takes a packet from his pocket, turns to lean his back against the bar and proceeds to roll an ostentatious cigarette. He has one foot on the bump rail. Who does he think he is, Tommy-fucking-Shelby?

"That'll be two sixty," Steve the barman says as he places the drink on the counter. Gilet Man drops a Churchill in a slop of beer, says he'll be back in a minute and Johnwaynes it to the freezing cold outside. Desperate. Imagine wanting a smoke that much. Imagine needing a smoke at all.

I really needed one of my mates to arrive. The presence of this man and his preposterous jacket has riled me and I can't enjoy my beer on my own. I realise I am tapping the edge of a beer mat on the table, grinding my teeth and I can feel my scalp prickle. Why am I so wound up by this nutjob? If Alan or Rob were here I'd be distracted by talking about rugby or something. But now I wind myself up even further - how does he get information if he turns the TV and radio off? Does he even read newspapers? Thing is I know he's a Covid denier and I might agree with his view about the inaccuracies perpetrated by various right wing media bastards - I've known about that for fucking years. Take it all with a pinch of salt.

 

But this .... this twat denying what qualified experts in the field of infection and viral transmission have told us is knotting me up. I stop tapping the beer mat and start gnawing my fingernails. I tell myself to stop it. Fuck - did I say that aloud?
Here he comes again, that smirk on his face that I'd like to slap off. That gait of the gunfighter who's going to face The Man With No Name. He doesn't even believe the facts about smoking. Or is it just that he thinks he's more important than anyone else? Invulnerable? What a twat he is. And that fucking waistcoat. I remember getting them for free when I worked on building sites. It's so they can see you coming. Well I can certainly see this fuckwit coming.

As he draws level with his drink on the bar he stops and points at me. "Do I know you, man?"

What I want to say is I hope not. What I actually say is "Don't think so."

"You worked at Clapton's though, right."

I shake my head.

"Must be someone else," he says and turns to look in the mirror behind the bar. He runs a hand down that ridiculous beard and repositions his twat hat.

Just then the door bursts open and in strolls Rob.

"Good to see you," I tell him. We shake hands as is our custom. "There's a pint of Lockdown paid for."

Gilet Man has disappeared.

 

Andrew Larter from UK is a retired teacher of creative writing, English and humanities. He is a member of Debbi Voisey’s Time To Write Club and has read some of his work for Debbi’s “Writers Reading” events. He has had some work published in various mags online.