You're in an argument. Losing. A woman came into the pub and asked you to buy her a drink. She looks like Janice from The Sopranos.
"I'm sorry could you buy me a drink? I mean, I'm just asking."
You look up from the copy of The Economist you have been pretending to read for half an hour. After a long pause you reply.
"You don't have any money?"
"No I'm waiting for my DLA."
"What's that?"
"My disability allowance. Could you just buy me a drink? I'm really thirsty."
"What do you want to drink?"
"Just half a pint of cider."
You don't like this woman. She uses the word just too much. Just half a pint of cider. Just buy me a drink. Just asking. There are lots of things you would like to go around just asking people to do. But you don't. Because you recognise the fact that you are living in a society which does not care if you live or die, and justly so.
"Look," you reply, sighing. "If you're thirsty, I'll buy you a bottle of water from a newsagent but I'm not going to buy you alcohol which is a luxury item."
"Oh, it's interesting you make that distinction. So you must work hard for your money."
"No I don't work hard for my money."
"So what gives you the right to determine whether someone is allowed a luxury or not?"
You want to say she has by asking you, but you weren't expecting to be challenged. You sweat, blush, stutter. Ears lean towards your table. They needn't, since her voice becomes louder with each question.
"So some people in society deserve luxuries but others don't?"
"I..."
"And you get to decide?"
"Don't..."
"I mean where did you get this power over people?"
"Agree..."
"I mean it's one thing to say 'No, I don't want to buy you a drink' which is your right but to go on about luxuries shows a very interesting attitude."
You open your mouth expecting to be interrupted again, but she's waiting for you to speak. She mimics your guppy face.
"I just don't agree with your position," you manage to say at last.
"Well, whatever position I'm in it's because I've spent my life being screwed over by people like you, so anyway - THANKS!"
She slaps you on the back and walks away. She asks the man at the next table to buy her half a pint of cider. He immediately does so.
She sits directly in your eyeline on the other side of the room. You make a show of reading The Economist for another thirty seconds as if finishing an article, before sipping your blackcurrant cordial and exiting the pub.
"What's that?"
"My disability allowance. Could you just buy me a drink? I'm really thirsty."
"What do you want to drink?"
"Just half a pint of cider."
You don't like this woman. She uses the word just too much. Just half a pint of cider. Just buy me a drink. Just asking. There are lots of things you would like to go around just asking people to do. But you don't. Because you recognise the fact that you are living in a society which does not care if you live or die, and justly so.
"Look," you reply, sighing. "If you're thirsty, I'll buy you a bottle of water from a newsagent but I'm not going to buy you alcohol which is a luxury item."
"Oh, it's interesting you make that distinction. So you must work hard for your money."
"No I don't work hard for my money."
"So what gives you the right to determine whether someone is allowed a luxury or not?"
You want to say she has by asking you, but you weren't expecting to be challenged. You sweat, blush, stutter. Ears lean towards your table. They needn't, since her voice becomes louder with each question.
"So some people in society deserve luxuries but others don't?"
"I..."
"And you get to decide?"
"Don't..."
"I mean where did you get this power over people?"
"Agree..."
"I mean it's one thing to say 'No, I don't want to buy you a drink' which is your right but to go on about luxuries shows a very interesting attitude."
You open your mouth expecting to be interrupted again, but she's waiting for you to speak. She mimics your guppy face.
"I just don't agree with your position," you manage to say at last.
"Well, whatever position I'm in it's because I've spent my life being screwed over by people like you, so anyway - THANKS!"
She slaps you on the back and walks away. She asks the man at the next table to buy her half a pint of cider. He immediately does so.
She sits directly in your eyeline on the other side of the room. You make a show of reading The Economist for another thirty seconds as if finishing an article, before sipping your blackcurrant cordial and exiting the pub.
No comments:
Post a Comment