Read Online Driving Big Davie (Dan Starkey) by Colin Bateman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Colin Bateman
Tags: FIC050000
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showered. I phoned Patricia at home and exchanged words of love. At the end she said, 'See you in two weeks,' and I didn't have the heart to correct her. And maybe it would be two weeks. Maybe it would only be one week. Davie was already showing the energy levels of a teenager, or speed freak. Or both. I put on my summer gear — black T-shirt, black jeans and sunglasses — and went to find breakfast.
Davie was already in there, eating an omelette. He was hollow-eyed and stubbled, but he smiled with real warmth and said, 'What aboutcha, big lad?'
'Great,' I said. 'What about you?'
'Fantastic.'
I sat down opposite him and folded my arms over the placemat. There were words printed all over it, but they were too difficult to read with my sunglasses on, and my sunglasses were too difficult to take off with my hangover head on. Davie reached into his pocket and produced a set of car keys. He set them down on the table.' Have wheels, will travel,' he said.
'Brilliant,' I said, as the waitress approached and poured coffee for me without asking.
'How do you like your eggs?' she asked.
'Fertilised,' I said, but it was an in-joke.
She said, 'Excuse me?'
I wasn't entirely sure of the terminology. Americans like variations in their food and drink; they have a thousand different ways of serving coffee, whereas we have black or white. It's the same with their eggs. All that over easy and sunny side up shit. I looked her in the eye and said, 'I'd like them oops outside your head, I said oops outside your head.'
She said, 'Excuse me?'
I said, I'll have Frosties.'
She said, 'Excuse me? Do you mean Frosted Flakes?'
'That's what I mean.'
'And how would you like your eggs?'
I sighed.
She looked pained. I ran up the flag of surrender and said I'd pass on the eggs. I could tell by her eyes that even if she got satisfaction on the eggs front she'd immediately move onto the even more complicated ham or bacon argument; then we'd get to discuss whether I wanted pancakes or biscuits or sausage and biscuits or pancakes and syrup and sausage or French toast or white or rye and then I would ask for Veda and she would look like I'd slapped her in the face and Davie would have to intervene and explain it was a Northern Irish baker's delicacy and not a sexually transmitted disease, although not before I'd committed suicide. America. Big traffic. Big noise. Big breakfast.
She eventually went away. There would have been smoke coming out of her ears, but smoke had been banned in Floridian restaurants.
'Guess who got out of the wrong side of bed,' Davie said.
I shook my head and smiled. I had a hangover, sure, but I wasn't upset. I was frustrated by choice. 'She should have given me a fucking menu,' I said.
'She did.' He nodded down. The placemat was the menu, I could see that now. I thought briefly about apologising to the waitress, then didn't. It's the thought that counts. Besides, I'd other, more important things to deal with.
I said, 'Seeing as how neither of us have a driving licence, where'd you find someone buck eejit enough to hire us a car?'
'I didn't,' Davie said. 'I bought it.'
'You bought it?'
'Nineteen eighty-five Dodge. Seventy-five thousand miles, five hundred dollars. You owe me two-fifty and I'll throw in the gas.'
I lifted the keys. They were rusty. 'You never thought of consulting me before buying? You never thought of asking me if I wanted to invest two hundred and fifty dollars in a car?'
'It's not an investment, Dan. You hope to profit from an investment. Look on this more as a donation to charity, plus we get to ride around in it until it gives up the ghost. One saying and one motto come to mind. "Beggars can't be choosers", and "never look a gift horse in the mouth".'
I sighed. I shook my head across the table at Davie's big grinning face. He looked so pleased with himself.
'Okay,' I said. I would let it ride. I didn't ask about insurance. There didn't seem much point. It felt somehow unAmerican to have
Davie was already in there, eating an omelette. He was hollow-eyed and stubbled, but he smiled with real warmth and said, 'What aboutcha, big lad?'
'Great,' I said. 'What about you?'
'Fantastic.'
I sat down opposite him and folded my arms over the placemat. There were words printed all over it, but they were too difficult to read with my sunglasses on, and my sunglasses were too difficult to take off with my hangover head on. Davie reached into his pocket and produced a set of car keys. He set them down on the table.' Have wheels, will travel,' he said.
'Brilliant,' I said, as the waitress approached and poured coffee for me without asking.
'How do you like your eggs?' she asked.
'Fertilised,' I said, but it was an in-joke.
She said, 'Excuse me?'
I wasn't entirely sure of the terminology. Americans like variations in their food and drink; they have a thousand different ways of serving coffee, whereas we have black or white. It's the same with their eggs. All that over easy and sunny side up shit. I looked her in the eye and said, 'I'd like them oops outside your head, I said oops outside your head.'
She said, 'Excuse me?'
I said, I'll have Frosties.'
She said, 'Excuse me? Do you mean Frosted Flakes?'
'That's what I mean.'
'And how would you like your eggs?'
I sighed.
She looked pained. I ran up the flag of surrender and said I'd pass on the eggs. I could tell by her eyes that even if she got satisfaction on the eggs front she'd immediately move onto the even more complicated ham or bacon argument; then we'd get to discuss whether I wanted pancakes or biscuits or sausage and biscuits or pancakes and syrup and sausage or French toast or white or rye and then I would ask for Veda and she would look like I'd slapped her in the face and Davie would have to intervene and explain it was a Northern Irish baker's delicacy and not a sexually transmitted disease, although not before I'd committed suicide. America. Big traffic. Big noise. Big breakfast.
She eventually went away. There would have been smoke coming out of her ears, but smoke had been banned in Floridian restaurants.
'Guess who got out of the wrong side of bed,' Davie said.
I shook my head and smiled. I had a hangover, sure, but I wasn't upset. I was frustrated by choice. 'She should have given me a fucking menu,' I said.
'She did.' He nodded down. The placemat was the menu, I could see that now. I thought briefly about apologising to the waitress, then didn't. It's the thought that counts. Besides, I'd other, more important things to deal with.
I said, 'Seeing as how neither of us have a driving licence, where'd you find someone buck eejit enough to hire us a car?'
'I didn't,' Davie said. 'I bought it.'
'You bought it?'
'Nineteen eighty-five Dodge. Seventy-five thousand miles, five hundred dollars. You owe me two-fifty and I'll throw in the gas.'
I lifted the keys. They were rusty. 'You never thought of consulting me before buying? You never thought of asking me if I wanted to invest two hundred and fifty dollars in a car?'
'It's not an investment, Dan. You hope to profit from an investment. Look on this more as a donation to charity, plus we get to ride around in it until it gives up the ghost. One saying and one motto come to mind. "Beggars can't be choosers", and "never look a gift horse in the mouth".'
I sighed. I shook my head across the table at Davie's big grinning face. He looked so pleased with himself.
'Okay,' I said. I would let it ride. I didn't ask about insurance. There didn't seem much point. It felt somehow unAmerican to have
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