Dirty Dogz by George Vincent
Out with Dom and Lou. Sank a pint on my own at the metro. Baltic cold night, black as frostbite. Dom picked me up in the Saloon, as he called it. Baileys-brown Vauxhall estate. Surfboard on the back seat. Stench of Ganja blown by warm AC air.
“What’s this like, the scooby doo-wagon?”
Lou quiet in the front passenger. As it happens, we’re all wearing tiny, cute sailor beanies. Dom looks like cops and robbers in his orange/black striped jumper. We’re going back to Lou’s to pick up his old dog, Buster. He’s sad the dog is on his own.
Walk into Lou’s and there’s a picture on the wall of two kids I went to Primary school with. Notorious freaks, bless ‘em. The McCabe brothers, professional worm-eaters.
Drinking Pacifico in the kitchen. Buster is a big dumb loveable Lab. Lou feeds him his dinner with his special doggy medicine crumbled up and hidden within it.
Lou and Dom are stoned or coming down or drunk already, hard to tell. Haven’t seen them since we were back at Dom’s sniffing speed and drinking Rekorderlig-infused-Negronis in the Summer. That one landed me in the doghouse for a month. Just the beer for me these days. As always, there’s lots to say and almost nothing to say.
“Where you working?”
“Porto. Waiting for summer, then I’ll be back on the beach.”
“Aye. same.”
“I can’t get out of the kitchens.
“Aye. Did ya hear about Dan? His KP died.”
“Ya joking.”
“Went home after a mad shift and had a stroke.”
“Jesus.”
“Here, Lou, is that a picture of Colin and Dylan Mccabe on your wall?”
“Aye, why?”
“Went to primary with them. I remember one maths lesson Colin stood up in front of the class and pissed himself.”
“Aye sounds right. All he eats is chips and broccoli. The Dad is me Mam’s new ting.”
“Cute.”
We hop back in the car with Buster. He’s panting and anxious. Stares at Lou, who’s in a bad way himself.
Pub to pub on the Fish Quay. The same old faces. Some freaks you’d rather not see.
“Well, if it isn’t the beanie boys.”
“Pint of Guinness, squire.”
“Make that two.”
“And for you, Dom?”
“What’s this, Heineken? Can I get a try of that please?”
“Piss off.”
Buster walks around under the tables unsure of where to settle. Lou takes him for a shit. I see him walk in a circle on the grass then stare into the road and bark at nothing.
“He’s losing his marbles. Jack’s the same.”
“Same happened to Percy.”
“How’s Mia?”
“Good. She’s at the cinema. Moana 2. How’s Kay?”
“Yeh, good. Busy with her teaching.”
“Fuck that.”
3 rounds in. Nicely mashed. Good to see the boys. Don’t get out much these days. These two are still at it most nights. I have a tendency to get anti-social, a bit nasty. Then I get lonely. Another pub with the fire on inside. Buster stretches out in front of it and looks happy.
We’re all squiffy, reminiscing, piecing together old blackouts.
“Ed, you were fucked at that gig, man.”
“Aye. That was a bad one. I was gone. That bouncer cunt dump tackled me from behind. Sly bastard. Had ringing in my ears for weeks. The band sounded good from the gutter.”
“We were in the Lakes last week. Got fucked up in Ambleside. Woke up and all my clothes were gone. I thought I’d tried to swim in Windermere, but apparently, I didn’t. My mind always plays tricks on me like that.”
“Same.”
“Same.”
Lou’s round. Three whiskeys.
“Let’s have these and get back for the dog. Got more beer at mine.”
Paralytic back at Lou’s. Me at the piano playing Jim Wise, Sun Kil Moon, badly. Lou fell asleep with Buster on the sofa. Dom drove home.
Mia was picking me up. I walked through Shields and threw up the whisky, went back to Chalet 69 and had another. I was in a jolly mood when Mia picked me up. And not on drugs. She was happy.
“Awwwww, who’s a good boy?”
I rolled down the window and spewed some more.
George Vincent is a writer from Newcastle Upon Tyne. His poems have appeared in A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Ink, Sweat & Tears and World Hunger Mag. He works as a chef.
