Forward from the author -
Hi all! Long-time reader, first-time contributor here. Like I'm sure it's been with a lot of you, I've had a lot of extra time to myself amidst this whole worldwide pandemic business, which has given me a lot of opportunity to read and binge. Tucking into some really great, long-form stories really dusted off the cobwebs in the 'ole noggin, and really made me want to commit to finally putting some long-gestating ideas down to paper -or type, as the case may be.
Grand, epic tales of sorcery and romance have long been taking up residence in this scattered brain of mine, and I finally had enough inspiration to let some of them out.
This is not that story at all.
All the inspiration in the world doesn't make up for lack of writing ability, and brainstorming does not equate to a completed work. I found myself woefully under-equipped to do my grand vision any sense of justice.
So back to basics. This was meant to be a simpler tale, just a chance for characters to live and breathe at their own pace and for me to practice getting into their headspace, to get into what made them tick. That exercise eventually blossomed into its own thing, taking on a life and scope all on its own, and that's what I present you now.
I hope you all enjoy. That's all an author can hope for.
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TGIF? A lie the workaday folk placate their monotonous lives with.
Benson Lachlan often found himself scoffing at that supposedly celebratory platitude. Most frequently while nursing his head from the unpleasant aftereffects of the three to four lagers he had been forced to drown himself in. Well, perhaps not "forced", per se, but societal pressure to maintain and climb the hierarchies of the work-life construct rarely offered him the opportunity to opt out.
These weekly Friday night pub outings were not Benson's idea of a good time. Perhaps if he were out on the prowl for pretty young girls, he might have had a better disposition. But instead, these nights were spent amongst the dusty old men from the office, as they traded disgusting war tales of their own lecherous conquests. Always the same tales on repeat, of glory days long since spent. Meanwhile, the prime days of
his
youth were being squandered, politely nodding with a fake grin plastered to his face, non-listening to the umpteenth alcohol-slurred retelling of "The wonderful things Sally Hendrikson could do with her tongue" of some bygone year, decades before he was even a twinkle in his father's eyes.
A young man in his late twenties, he felt no comradeship with these piggish men thirty to forty years his senior. He learned quickly, however, that putting in the effort to appear as one of "the boys" made the rest of his job far easier.
Being the "antisocial loner", as his probationary evaluation had put it, had its way of rendering him practically invisible in terms of advancing his career. Participating in these weekly booze-filled gatherings had done wonders for his work process, but the utter banality of it all was leaving him exhausted.
Some sports game was playing on the many TV screens that littered the pub's walls, but Benson tuned it out with all the other noise that was currently irritating him. He leapt up to cheer whenever he noticed one of his coworkers do the same, but he'd be hard-pressed to recall what game was even being played when it came to standing around the coffee machine on Monday, let alone what team was playing. Thankfully it never came up, but he always dreaded the moment it would.
Benson was not a poor drunk, but imbibing often left him swimming in his own head space, where bitter, unwanted thoughts often bubbled their way to the surface.
The young man groaned as he teetered off his bar stool. Two hours and change was long enough to preserve the facade, he decided. He made a grand gesture of waving goodbye and saying his farewells for another week to his work colleagues, too big and too friendly for what he actually thought of them, but without the act, then the entire night's charade would have been rendered moot. The inebriated stumble towards the front door, on the other hand, was genuine.
Venturing out into the rain-soaked downtown streets, he shielded his eyes from the glaring headlights of passing cars, while he fumbled to pop his umbrella. As he made to cross the street, a car squealed past, its blaring horn startling Benson and causing him to careen back into the damp brick wall of the pub. He watched with mouth agape as the black umbrella was ripped from his hand, landing on the street only to be pulverized by the oncoming rush of traffic.
Christ.
What sober part remained of Benson's booze-addled brain chastised himself for not checking his directions like a goddamned five year-old. A brief string of profanity punctuated the night air, probably directed at him, but he couldn't understand a word of it over the deafening pounding in his ears. He clutched at his chest to find his heart beating a mile-a-minute. He paused to reclaim all the air that had escaped his lungs in shock, and slumped further back against the wall.
Clearly, the beers had hit him hard, harder than usual. He gave a forlorn glance across the street. Just three blocks down, and the bus stop was right there to take him to the sheltered safety of home. But that entailed crossing some of the busiest downtown streets, and after his near brush with death, the thought was starting to cause his rattled brain a panic attack. Instead, he slowly rose to his feet and just started walking.
Benson wasn't even quite sure where he was headed at this point. Just that he wanted to be nowhere near that pub -- near that street corner. He steadied himself with a hand trailing the walls and storefronts and fences along the way, and just kept moving for as long as his wobbly feet would carry him.
He often paused, to briefly wonder why the few people he encountered on the sidewalk seemed to give him a wide berth. Eventually, a glimpse of his reflection in a darkened store window told him all he needed to know. With the rain plastering his hair into thick, greasy-looking strands on his head, his trench coat soaked, and his drunken gait, he was looking rather worse for wear. As he walked more, he watched with detached fascination as he saw the lips of his glassy doppelganger move, only now realizing that he had been muttering and cursing unconsciously to himself.
Run from me! I'm a goddamned lunatic!
