anybody would want with him, anyway.
Fag on. Fag off. Burning red to grey to dead. An about-turn. Funny to watch, if anybody could.
Brian says, Thank you, as the gatekeepers with their fat necks hold the doors again.
Â
Of all the pissers in all the world, Brian just had to roll into this one. Right into the man from the lobby. The staring man from the atrium whoâs drying his hands, Âadjusting his tie.
Another thing with Brian, in his wheelchair, is that heâs hard to miss. Hard to miss and harder to ignore. So the man doesnât ignore him. And Brian thinks, All these things colliding, these people in this place. The coincidences â the way you bump into everybody you least want to. Like heâs the pivot of the whole thing.
Coincidences. These walls tighten and buckle and close. Brianâs mouth has turned all cotton-woolly.
The man doesnât speak, as it goes. The man just walks around Brian without even looking at him â makes him think heâs lost the plot besides. Which probably he has, in fairness. A long while back.
But the man has second thoughts. The man turns back, like heâs forgotten his keys or something.
He says to Brian, Wish me luck, wonât you?
And heâs gone again.
And Brian canât piss at a urinal, can he. Has to use a cubicle. Picks the third one down. Farthest away. Wondering just what the hellâs going on. Dizzy thinking where Noah is. Wondering what anybody wants with Our Brian, here, pretending to be a goddamn soldier who fought in these wars he knows absolutely sod-all about.
Brian has to park his chair at the door, prop the door with it. The door is very loud as it slams the wall. Brian has to stand up and sort of wedge himself diagonally Âbetween the plywood â shoulders on one side, his meat for legs on the other. His jacket flaps open and his Âmedals jingle.
Brian struggles with his flies. Eventually, he pulls himself free. Diagonal in the cubicle and fiddling an awful lot with his penis.
And Brian canât reach down to lift the seat, can he. So he just goes all over it.
Brianâs piss is dark brown. That old liver packing up, he shouldnât wonder, though more likely that heâs dehydrated. And the poor lighting come to that. But he never drinks enough water, does he. He knows because Diane tells him when she ruins his life every Thursday.
Our Brian, whoâs lodged in the cubicle all diagonal, pissing treacle, when others come in and see his empty chair. Others who think something terribleâs gone off in the bogs.
Brian the centre of attention, again. This bloody useless bastard slouched on a plywood divider.
Face round the corner goes, Hello? You all right mate?
Brianâs hot and faint. Still pissing. Shaking with the weight of himself, his meat wanting to give way at the ankle joint.
Fuck off! Brian says. Fuck off!
Mate â
Brian wriggles and frets and falls backwards into the chair, which flashes back into the sink and leaves Brian prone on the wet tiles, his nob hanging out, his head propped on the chairâs edge.
Centre of bloody attention. And these blokes pick him up and put him away in his chair. Fold him in half and say, We simply came to collect you, sir. Meeting, we believe. Havenât you?
Like some good soldier never left behind.
Â
Their host has a converted shipping container and thatâs where Brian goes. Thatâs where heâs taken by the men from the toilet. Through more double-doors and down corridors, round the outer curve of the auditorium and out the back.
He has sweaty hands and a leaden belly. Clanging up a ramp with a lot of unsettled feelings and a single thought:
Shit .
Their host has a cigar on; his feet on the table. Pretending like heâs a mobster, basically, in his pinstripes and his tan brogues. Reclining half-arsed in his Chesterfield. Worn-out fictions colouring new life on the moors. A relic of the 80s; of time-share and
Fag on. Fag off. Burning red to grey to dead. An about-turn. Funny to watch, if anybody could.
Brian says, Thank you, as the gatekeepers with their fat necks hold the doors again.
Â
Of all the pissers in all the world, Brian just had to roll into this one. Right into the man from the lobby. The staring man from the atrium whoâs drying his hands, Âadjusting his tie.
Another thing with Brian, in his wheelchair, is that heâs hard to miss. Hard to miss and harder to ignore. So the man doesnât ignore him. And Brian thinks, All these things colliding, these people in this place. The coincidences â the way you bump into everybody you least want to. Like heâs the pivot of the whole thing.
Coincidences. These walls tighten and buckle and close. Brianâs mouth has turned all cotton-woolly.
The man doesnât speak, as it goes. The man just walks around Brian without even looking at him â makes him think heâs lost the plot besides. Which probably he has, in fairness. A long while back.
But the man has second thoughts. The man turns back, like heâs forgotten his keys or something.
He says to Brian, Wish me luck, wonât you?
And heâs gone again.
And Brian canât piss at a urinal, can he. Has to use a cubicle. Picks the third one down. Farthest away. Wondering just what the hellâs going on. Dizzy thinking where Noah is. Wondering what anybody wants with Our Brian, here, pretending to be a goddamn soldier who fought in these wars he knows absolutely sod-all about.
Brian has to park his chair at the door, prop the door with it. The door is very loud as it slams the wall. Brian has to stand up and sort of wedge himself diagonally Âbetween the plywood â shoulders on one side, his meat for legs on the other. His jacket flaps open and his Âmedals jingle.
Brian struggles with his flies. Eventually, he pulls himself free. Diagonal in the cubicle and fiddling an awful lot with his penis.
And Brian canât reach down to lift the seat, can he. So he just goes all over it.
Brianâs piss is dark brown. That old liver packing up, he shouldnât wonder, though more likely that heâs dehydrated. And the poor lighting come to that. But he never drinks enough water, does he. He knows because Diane tells him when she ruins his life every Thursday.
Our Brian, whoâs lodged in the cubicle all diagonal, pissing treacle, when others come in and see his empty chair. Others who think something terribleâs gone off in the bogs.
Brian the centre of attention, again. This bloody useless bastard slouched on a plywood divider.
Face round the corner goes, Hello? You all right mate?
Brianâs hot and faint. Still pissing. Shaking with the weight of himself, his meat wanting to give way at the ankle joint.
Fuck off! Brian says. Fuck off!
Mate â
Brian wriggles and frets and falls backwards into the chair, which flashes back into the sink and leaves Brian prone on the wet tiles, his nob hanging out, his head propped on the chairâs edge.
Centre of bloody attention. And these blokes pick him up and put him away in his chair. Fold him in half and say, We simply came to collect you, sir. Meeting, we believe. Havenât you?
Like some good soldier never left behind.
Â
Their host has a converted shipping container and thatâs where Brian goes. Thatâs where heâs taken by the men from the toilet. Through more double-doors and down corridors, round the outer curve of the auditorium and out the back.
He has sweaty hands and a leaden belly. Clanging up a ramp with a lot of unsettled feelings and a single thought:
Shit .
Their host has a cigar on; his feet on the table. Pretending like heâs a mobster, basically, in his pinstripes and his tan brogues. Reclining half-arsed in his Chesterfield. Worn-out fictions colouring new life on the moors. A relic of the 80s; of time-share and
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