chicken, butts, thesaurus, rocks, tenacity. These were words given to me by some friends and now I’m going to craft a story out of them. So here goes:
The rain came down hard, like the sweat off a fat man’s forehead after a marathon. Thick, dark and slightly salty. The biting wind from the sea was catching the spray and mixing it all up into one oppressive mess of moisture. I drew my coat collar tighter up around my ears, this new-fangled fashion of the ‘popped’ collar has it’s uses. Stylish and practical.
Not much business in weather like this, but enough to make it worth it – especially with what I’m selling. My product is at a premium in troubled times like this. I reached the end of my cigarette and lit the next one from the glowing tip of what was left. I flicked the butt into the growing pile in the corner of the alcove I was leaning in, shielding myself, and my precious merchandise, from the rain.
I raised my eyes and squinted out into the falling gloom, watching the murky silhouette’s hurrying back and forth: cursing whatever it was that had forced them outside.
One of the shapes detached itself from the wavering streams and resolved itself into a scurrying, furtive pair of legs, carrying a thin and heavily muffled body which then joined me under the awning of my little alcove.
“Do you… deal?” he asked, shooting me a sidelong glance with eyes that screamed ‘please say yes; please, please say yes’. His voice was cultured but raspy, indicative of someone who hadn’t used it in a while. The face under the heavy woollen hat was drawn and pale, wrinkled, skin like a brown paper bag, neck like the wattle of a chicken.
An ex-academic. A standard customer.
“Yes”, keep it brief and keep it cheap, “What want?”
“Ch… ch… chicken” he replied, staring at the bulge in my coat and licking his lips in anticipation.
“Two hundred fifty, cash first” I knew how this went. No way am I giving the product only to have them run off; lost enough custom that way in my early days.
The old man fumbled with his pockets and eventually produced a thick roll of notes, neatly bound up with an elastic band. His hands were shaking. I wonder if he’s ever done this before? Regardless, I take the money and quickly count through. It’s all there.
“Good”, I turn around and pull the large book out from under my coat, as I open it the gold embossed title on the front glints in the sulfurous street light: “Roget’s Thesaurus” briefly glimmers in the gloom. I flick to the right page and begin:
“Chicken: coward, craven, dastard, funk, poltroon, quitter, recreant, scaredy cat, yellow belly. There you go. Chicken.”
I turn back round and there’s no longer an old academic. Instead I see an aged and grizzled Vocab Agent, pulling out his badge and staring at me. His eyes shining with the sort of tenacity that you know will never be dulled and now they said ‘You’re nicked sunshine’. God, these people don’t have balls, they don’t even have nuts. These agents must be hiding bloody great rocks in their trousers, the way they track desperate men like me at such close quarters.
“By the authority of the V.O.C.A.B. you’re under arrest. Any words you say can and will be…” He trails off and stares at the knife I’ve just buried in his gut. The shine in his eyes fades into fear, he coughs and splutters. Tries to call for help. It can’t be heard over the hammering downpour. I place him down in the corner, on top of my used cigarettes. People will think he’s a tramp. At least until it’s too late.
I’ll be long gone by then.
Ben RL Meredith 