Short story by Sam Here is a short story I must have written around week 4. It isn't very good, the voice doesn't sound like Pedram's which is a shame. But I remember it did help in developing our relationship - my incorporation of Persian words impressed him immensely, and simply the fact that I had listened to what he said, gone away and made something out of it.
Pedram short story draft.
That is me, walking into a pub. A pub! I have been in this country now for two weeks and I am still fascinated by your pubs. You take them so seriously you grazers at the watering hole, hanging over the bar, gallons upon gallons of alcohol filling your insides. I can manage only two pints before I want to sleep, but you can soack up your weight in beer and still hold a reasonably coherent conversation. I remember the first time I went into one of your pubs; I saw two men drink fifteen pints between them. I was intoxicated merely by the sight of all that beer.
Ah yes The Midland pub. Here I have an amusing dastan for you and I shall recite it like the great dastan-tellers of old.
It starts in the pub, though I am not there yet and the weather will be important.
The sun is out; a glorious day to look at but still it is cold. The wind sweeps past my cheeks and it feels like nothing I have felt before. In the pub the atmosphere is warm. The crowd an eclectic collection of student types, local types and myself. The low din of chatter, swallowing the silence, is interupted by hearty and frequent laughter. Oddly it feels as if everyone is gathered in anticipation of something but perhaps I just don’t understand this new feeling yet. It is odd to watch how people come to meet eachother, become drunk and absorb themselves in the presence of company, yet still there is so much difference in the room. In this public place there is no mingling, from what I see there are no new introductions, social groups are rigid and adhered to like there is some unwritten law of the land. Sometimes though, these rules are broken- it is terribly confusing. There is no other place on Earth like it.
Such fine beer. The ale is magnificently rich on my tongue. The first drop is always so unpleasant but it gets better every time I bring the glass to my lips.
I study the room because I am learning. Every second I spend in this place I learn something new about your people; like when someone joins your company you greet them with foolish and loud gestures. Believe me, it is never simply a polite hello. Or for instance, how the lonely souls of this earth always seem to find a friend in the barmaid. A curious thing indeed.
I am sat at a table close to the entrance with the bar in front of me. I have noticed that a large group of young men, some oddly out of place in sports attire, have begun to congregate and crowd my table. They are strong and intimidating looking men from out of the Zurkhaneh. There is beginning to be so many that they are obstructing my view of the room. I feel slightly uncomfortable because it seems as if I am being surrounded. Their large figures loom over my small table and cut me off from the relative peace of the pub. Strange also how none of them seem to be drinking beer. How is this possible? My English is not good enough to comprehend what they are saying so I just watch confused.
They must notice me watching them, because they steal glances at me, only their actions are not as surreptitious as you might think. I can’t help but feel as if they are all talking about me.
It is impossible to describe how awakward I feel in this moment. This crowd, gathered in front of me, and they have chosen my table, as if they were waiting for me to begin something, to start whatever it was they had gathered for.
Then an older man in tracksuit attire, steps in from the cold and adresses his entire audience who listen with unequivocal intent.
What does he mean corch? He looks around the pub for an answer and receives an assured nod from one or two of the men in front of me. The older man’s face reminds me of the man from the Carry On films… Sidney James I believe, though sterner; I would not like to cross him.
They all begin to file noisily outside. The relief I feel is immense. Such an odd encounter thankfully passing before my eyes.
“And what about you?” Sidney James looks at me. At first I am unsure whether or not it is me he is addressing, and I look around confused quickly to discover that he must be talking to me.
“Yes you, come on. On the corch!”
I obey out of respect for Sydney James (he is a lot older than myself) and also out of fear. I leave my pint behind on the table and awkwardly follow the crowd out of the pub. Outside waiting for me is a large bus. Everyone is shuffling on, laughing as they do so. I want to laugh as well but I don’t understand what’s so funny. I do not understand what is happening.
I find a seat on the bus, somewhere in the middle, next to the window and I watch the street, the pub, my beer disappear in front of me.
Looking around I see those men not in sports attire changing until everyone is wearing the same clothes. They all seem to be laughing at Sydney James depsite how much older he is than them. He does not appear to be taking it well either and yet his reaction is fueling more horse play.
Out the window I begin to see parts of the city I have never seen before, until I realise that we are not in my city anymore. What foolishness is this? No one had spoken to me since getting on the bus. I begin to fear for my life. But I try not to show the concern in my disposition and I laugh aloud at things (precisely what things I do not know) with everyone else.
They have kidknapped me. Old Sydney James is the culprit. I laugh at how easily he had abducted me, though in this laugh is so much fear.
All the men begin to chant wildly and sing and clap their hands. They point at women on the street and make noises at them through the glass.
It is upsetting how much they act like primates, when I consider the history lessons about this country, such standards of eloquence, the overbearing self-consciousness towards a sense of propriety. And all just to attend some dull looking ball. But how the mighty have fallen I think to myself. All the history lessons now seem in vain.
We arrive at a field. A field seemingly In the middle of nowhere. We step off onto the soggy grass. My smart new trainers ruined the second I land. Sydney James brings out a bag full of footballs. He calls everyone around him and he speaks to his audience. I jostle to get in close enough to hear what he has to say. It may be important. I smile at the man next to me and apologise in my best English for knocking his shoulder. He gives me a peculiar look and shaking his head, turns away from me.
I cannot pick up every word Sydney James says but I hear many words repeated, many curse words, something about the opposition? It has the feel of a political rally and it is affecting the people around me. Their eyes light up- something akin to desire. Sydney James leaves them and heads off into the distance with his bag of footballs.
Then shouting at one another; “come on lads. Come on” they set off on a speedy jog. I make haste after the pack. They, in their boots, shorts, sweat shirts, me in my nice new shoes, jeans, and beautifully pressed shirt.
In the end it is the tortoise and the hare, only the tortoise had run himself into the ground and was now panting in despair, or perhaps I was the hare, a terribly useless hare that had forgotten to sprint ahead before getting tired.
They do more circuits of the field than I can keep track of. My breathing is heavy and soon I begin to trail so far behind that they become small figures off in the distance.
Eventually, by the time I can manage only a slow walk, I see them leave the field through a small gap in the trees. It must lead to the football pitch I think. It is cold, though my muscles are now warm. The sweat is pouring down my sides and particularly my forehead. I have a firey stitch in my belly that burns with every deep breath. I look down at my clothes. There are specks of mud all over my jeans. On my back I have kicked the dirt up onto my shirt. Observing my feet and ankles, I see no trace of what I was wearing; the earth has swallowed my shoes.
I stop exhausted and alone. I find myself a thick, dry tree root to sit on. The coach is gone; driven away sometime during my many laps. As the sun begins its descent into the west I have only two things on my mind; how I will get home, back to the Midland, and Sydney James. But regarding the former, I have already resolved simply to wait and see if the bus will return, I imagine it must do; not for me but for the players. As for the latter thought, I am praying that Sydney James does not come and ask me to play football; it has never been a passion of mine, in fact, the more I think about it the more I dislike it.
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