The Desert Inn

You could have knocked Bill down with the proverbial feather. A small and inconsequential feather would have done, something from the hind quarters of a robin would have been just the ticket. You could have blown Bill down with a mere whisp of breath. Barely touched him with a fingertip and uttered “timber!” In this frozen moment, he stood there in this most precarious of positions and without a clue as to what had happened to render him so.

“Pardon,” he said after the shock had reached its half-life.

It wasn’t a question. It was a word he said because he knew he had to say something. The word itself didn’t matter. He needed to kickstart himself and saying a word seemed like all he could do right now. This word of Bill’s was a reminder that he was alive, if not at all well.

“No alcohol,” said John the Barlord with a finality that would have made Bill’s eyes water if there was liquid to spare within the parched man swaying at the bar like a punch drunk boxer. Right now, boxing was the only way Bill was going to get drunk, but he was half-heartedly raising a guard of denial up in the hope that he could secure a pint of the amber stuff, even if his footwork had gone to pot. 

Surely this was a joke? A stitch up that everyone was in on. Bill certainly felt all eyes on him, and no wonder. This was not normal, nor was it run of the mill. This was a travesty of the highest order, and confusion mercilessly rained down upon him as though monsoon season had come early, to entirely the wrong country, and in having got it so wrong was now drowning its sorrows in this pub, in a halo of ghastly moisture that swept downwards, surrounding and smothering the hapless Bill.

“The Milford IPA,” Bill said uncertainly.

John’s eyes narrowed, “not today, Bill.”

“Then when?” asked Bill, doing his best not to allow desperation to creep into his voice. He failed in his attempt at setting this boundary as the insolent desperation was partying everywhere else and insistent that it should contaminate his voice too.

“February,” John told him with a crushing finality that was a bit over the top as far as Bill was concerned. When had the meeting taken place where this terrible eventuality was decided, and why had he not been invited to said meeting?

It was Bill’s eyes narrowing now, he was trying to read John. Reading John was all he had, because he knew better than to ask him why. Asking why would open floodgates he wanted left closed. He felt wet enough as it was. Asking why had the greatest of potentials to be utterly humiliating. 

Besides, he could hazard a hazardous and quite toxic guess why.

New Year’s Eve.

A contributory factor to this disastrous tragedy of titanic proportions was that Bill wasn’t as young as he had once been. This was an obvious truth that he was in firm denial over. This denial of the matter of his years presented him few problems, but one of those problems was festering and reaching out with grim tendrils. Now one of those tendrils was here and was making a nuisance of itself.

Booze was a strange and wonderful substance. It worked magic and some of that magic was of the darkest sort. There was also a price to be paid for that magic. Hangovers got worse as a person got older. That was just how it was. And so the price paid increased over time. The sordid reality of inflation insinuated itself into all drinkers’ lives and any that told you they were immune to the dreaded hangover were out and out liars and that was all there was to it. 

The good magic of the alcohol was the social side of things. Alcohol as a social lubricant was interesting, because everyone knew that it also lowered inhibitions and therefore increased the risk of someone saying or doing something that they really should not. There was something in that upped ante that created a frisson and it was that enchanting frisson that drove conversation on a magical mystery tour that never disappointed.

The magic of the beer was where Bill was currently doing the majority of his speculating. The reason for his having to speculate was another of booze’s powers; memory loss. Memory loss was yet another tithe that a seasoned boozer had to pay to the god of all things merrily alcohol imbued. For most, memory loss didn’t really kick in until beyond their thirtieth year of aging. Before then, there were other odd side effects that followed an evening’s pleasant quaffing. In the early years of drinking, as the tipsy soul retired to bed, their bed would rise a half inch in the air and then it would spin. For those in the know, a leg dropped out from the bed covers, and a foot placed on the floor, would create an effective tether that prevented any further spinning and afforded the occupant of the bed a state of unconsciousness, sleep being something that only sober people indulged in.

Then there was the wayward bladder. Mostly, this was a minor inconvenience as the bladder made itself known in the early hours of the morning and continued to be a nuisance until it was taken on an impromptu visit to the toilet. 

A large glass of water by the bedside was a very good idea, as in tandem with a full bladder, the drinker would in all likelihood experience dehydration. This dehydration, if left unattended, would escalate to the headache from hell, and that hellish headache would pay a visit first thing in the morning and stick around despite all the polite requests for it to do one. The most unwelcome of visitors hanging around with the one objective of ruining the day. 

Bill had family members who emulated hangovers. They haunted him despite his best black sheep act, and this was why he had never bought a property, preferring to move around between rented accommodations, in sufficiently short time frames, so that even when he did share his address it quickly went out of date. Still the blighters found him. There was no escaping hangovers in whatever form they chose to take.

For all his faults and foibles, Bill was a dedicated professional in his chosen field. Drinking was a complicated venture and certainly not for the faint hearted. It was a journey which lacked any certainty when it came to its destination. A person donned their drinking boots, strode out into the world for that opener, and the intent to follow it with a snortorino, and then add a snifter to the proceedings, and around that point, the back of the wardrobe would fall away to reveal a fantasy land that promised much, and delivered on that promise for just as long as the drink flowed.

Bill had been on many a journey and had a grim determination to journey further, but the grimness of Barlord John’s determination outstripped his own. With a sigh of contrition, but not defeat, Bill ordered a diet coke drink. The sort that sprays from a hose pipe with a natty multi-buttoned nozzle and is made from gloopy syrup. 

John nodded, “ice?”

“Do I look like a polar bear?” Bill asked him.

“More like a dishevelled penguin,” said John before doing the honours.

Bill took the jibe and filed it away. It was half decent and well worth recycling. John placed the drink before Bill, “put it on my tab,” Bill instructed him.

“There is no such thing,” John said as he raised his hand in the international gesture of beggary.

Bill eyed the hand and sighed defiance at the capitalist dog before him. He did not push his luck though. Bill knew to pick his battles. Instead, he raised his own hand and placed a fiver in the palm of the Barlord. John turned his back on Bill and retrieved shrapnel from the till.

Usually, Bill would pocket said shrapnel without a word, nor with any real acknowledgement of this part of the transaction, but the weight and frequency of the scraps of metal was lacking, and so he looked down at the sparsity of coinage, “twenty p?” he questioned.

John did not flinch, “twenty p,” he echoed.

“But surely there has been some sort of mistake?” wailed Bill.

“There has been no mistake on my part, and please refrain from calling me Shirley,” John was not smiling at this pilfered quip of his.

Bill’s face crumpled. The crumpling of Bill’s face was due to a two pronged attack from reality. One was that coke was more expensive than beer and so not drinking was going to be more expensive than drinking. The second was that John wasn’t half as funny when Bill was sober. The prospect of a mirthless John was like a spear wound to the side. It hurt and it made life that bit more difficult.

Retreating to a corner table, Bill took a seat that afforded a view of the entirety of the bar. He placed his very expensive soft drink before him. Then he ignored it for the best part of five minutes. Then he spent a further five minutes staring at it balefully.

“Attempting to emulate our goodly Lord?” said a familiar voice.

Bill looked up at Tom, “what’s that?”

“Water into wine,” Tom told him.

Bill shook his head morosely, “tis the only way I’ll get a proper drink in this establishment, until the name of the month is changed to February.”

Tom nodded sagely, “you should count yourself extremely lucky,” he told his friend.

Bill opened his mouth to ask why that could be, but Tom was already making his way to the bar for a pint of his usual, a strange tasting traditional ale called Swanky Swan. The strange taste was due to the secondary fermentation the cask ale experienced in the barrel, and the reason for that second go at fermenting was that John the Barlord bought older stock and was not aversed to allowing it to age far more than your average cellar keeper would think was sensible. John’s philosophy in this matter was not restricted to the business of running a public house, in addition he held with a simple maxim; since when did sensible apply to booze? Bill had never envied Tom his too-strong beer. He did not agree with Tom’s own economic strategy in this matter. But now, he would relinquish his moral higher ground for just one of those pints of Tom’s, for, as far as Bill knew, Tom was the only one who drank Swanky Swan and not often did he exceed four pints in one sitting. Others had tried to go beyond two, but had lost the use of important motor skills before they ever got to the end of their second pint.

Bill leaned in towards Tom as his friend took a seat opposite him, “you couldn’t…” he began.

“I couldn’t,” agreed Tom, narrowing his eyes just as Barlord John had done, “I see you’ve not been counting yourself extremely lucky, despite the benevolence of our fine and upstanding Barlord,” Tom observed.

Bill glanced towards the bar and the man that Tom was referencing. The Barlord was polishing a glass in about as aggressive fashion as was possible. Bill swiftly averted his gaze, feigning nonchalance. “It’s hardly…” he began.

“You could have been barred for life,” hissed Tom uncharacteristically, “and maimed into the bargain.”

Bill scowled at the hissing goose before him.

“Don’t you take that tone with me, young man!” exclaimed Tom, “February is not all that far off. You got off with a light sentence this time.”

“This time?” asked Bill not pausing adequately to add a protest to his voice.

“We both know you’ll blot your copy book again,” Tom assured him.

Bill didn’t nod agreement, but neither did he refute his friend’s words. He was in a cognitive no-man’s land thanks to any absence of recollection of the actions that had brought about this parlous state of affairs. What he did know was that without any idea of his transgression, he could not estimate the probability of further occurrences of the misdeed, and so discretion was the better part of valour at this time. 

At long last, he plucked his lukewarm glass from the table before him. Tom took the opportunity to raise his own, half-drunk pint of beer, “cheers” he said, tapping his gloriously proper drink against the expensive imposter.

Bill harrumphed and then poured some of the warm and pricey liquid into his gob. It fizzed, and in its fizzing, it imparted undue sweetness upon his unsuspecting taste buds. For the second time that evening, Bill scrunched up his face.

Tom laughed.

“It’s not funny,” Bill grimaced, “this ridiculous drink cost me four pounds eighty!”

“Daylight robbery!” gasped Tom in sudden, shared aggrievance.

“I’ve been mugged!” agreed Bill.

Tom shrugged and drank more of his pint. A pint that cost less than four of the king’s pounds. Bill watched him and felt an odd sort of loneliness. Their Brotherhood of Beer was lost to him, for at least the next four weeks. Four long and desolate weeks.

“Will you continue to frequent these premises during your barren spell?” enquired Tom. The lads had an affinity that approached the rarefied heights of mind reading. Some uncharitable souls would say it was more that they were creatures of habit treading well worn paths. Simple creatures who were oblivious to the fact that they were as they did, and were therefore booze-soaked simpletons.

Not one to break the habit of a lifetime, Bill did not pause for thought, “yes I will.”

“Good man!” said Tom, tipping his glass at Bill, and in so doing, rubbing his enforced drink diet in by pouring more of his own beer into his mouth, “will you be driving?”

Bill growled in the next instant, “don’t you dare!”

“Whatever has brought this foul mood on?” enquired Tom, leaning away from his friend’s ire.

“Your attempted manipulation of my fragile and exposed state!” protested Bill.

“That is a malicious slight!” said Tom in an equal approximation of protest.

“I will not be your chauffeur for the next month!” hissed Bill.

Tom shrugged, “it would be the honourable thing to do.”

Bill spat the initial bar of a laugh across the table, “you really take the biscuit sometimes!”

Neither of the lads went as far as to explore the practicalities of Bill driving. This was a far-fetched eventuality due to the absence of a car to drive as well as Bill’s inability to actually drive. The nature of this interaction exemplified Pub Discourse, Pub Discourse being the grandfather of Fuzzy Logic. Not that Fuzzy Logic was aware of this part of its family tree. Pub Discourse put it about quite a bit and had fathered a great many concepts and ideas, but never took much interest in or responsibility for them, what with being ridiculously fond of its local locale and what is universally known as the craic.

Tom shrugged again, “talking of biscuits…”

“You’re not?!” gasped Bill.

“I like them,” he said as he eyed the jar of large dog biscuits on the bar, biscuits that came in all sizes and colours, “especially the red ones.”

He also liked them because they were free. Free for the punter’s dogs. Tom focused on the free aspect of the biscuits. Barlord John took another, dimmer view. This was a source of some conflict.

Bill thought he had the hint of a glimpse of the New Year’s Eve proceedings and felt something tug upon him. There wasn’t enough to go on, but he had the seed of a suspicion and from that seed a sprout of blame reached forth and pointed at Tom.

Bill drank more of his fizzy brown drink, “do you think people actually enjoy this?” he asked Tom as he waved his glass around between them.

“They know no different,” Tom told him.

But Bill thought he knew different. And he intended to keep pulling on the fine thread he’d now spotted. He’d come back here to this pub, a pub he considered to be as much his as anyone else’s, and he would come here just as regularly as he once had. Returning to the scene of his illusory crime until he pieced together what it was that he was supposed to have done. 

He smiled to himself as he drank some more of his exorbitantly expensive coke. If his quest for the truth of his unfair and unjust demise failed, he’d celebrate his enforced dry spell at the Desert Inn with a big session to make up for his time away from one of the loves of his life; beer. 

His smile remained as he thought of one of the other side effects of drinking; flashbacks from previous boozy journeys. The truth. His truth. It was only a matter of a few pints away.

Tom was getting up to buy another beer, “another?” he asked his friend.

Bill looked at his glass and realised he’d absently necked the majority of it as he made his plans, “yeah, why not?” he replied.

Tom leant in and winked conspiratorially, then he whispered, “John the Barlord’s wife. Never knew you had it in you, you old dog!”

Suddenly, Bill was as white as a freshly laundered sheet. He watched his bestest friend, and partner in beer-crime, depart for the far shores of the pub’s bar. He became whiter still as his eyes inadvertently locked with the glaring and vengeful orbs sunk in the depths of John the Barlord’s skull. January was going to be a very long month, if that was, he managed to see the month through to its bitter and barren end.