*excerpt from The Lonely People - a novel-in-progress
All the booths at the pub were full, but that suited Manfred just fine. He preferred to sit at the bar, staring up at the screen with a game he didn’t care about. It was a meditation of sorts, a way to empty his mind by focusing on something mundane. He was able to find a barstool separate from the others, beneath a humdrum ballgame, and ordered a pint of Fullers.
“Manfred! By God, is that you, son?”
Manfred froze, his gut clenched, and his pulse began to race. He knew that voice. He knew that voice all too fucking well.
“Damnit, son! It is you! How the heck are you?” The man who had just assaulted his ears now invaded his personal space by sitting down right next to him. He was, in fact, his stepfather, Joe Demos.
Tall, thin and forever with a full head of slicked-back salt and pepper hair that he would nervously comb, Joe looked as smarmy as he was. If one were to judge by appearances (and Manfred did), one would think his stepdad came from a long line of mouth-breathers. People who ate with their hands and drank on their feet.
Manfred did not turn, did not take his eyes off the TV. He could not let this guy know he had affected him in the least. “Joe,” he acknowledged coolly.
Joe stuck out his hand for Manfred to shake, nearly felling his beer in the process. “I want to say finally, man to man, that I’m real sorry about your ma. You didn’t come to the funeral and avoided my calls, so I….”
“Yeah, Joe. I didn’t want to speak to you, still don’t.”
Joe clutched his chest mockingly. “Et tu, Brute?” He motioned for the bartender to bring him another round and continued. “Your ma was one of the best, kid. I miss her every day.”
Manfred rolled his eyes. “You cheated on her from day one. The only thing you miss is a hot meal and a warm body to come home to after your nights of useless philandering.” He could feel himself heating up and took a deep, conscious breath. “You were the worst thing to ever happen to my mother.”
Joe strummed his fingers on the bar’s surface. “I know,” he said with an emotion that surprised Manfred. “She was beautiful and good. Lord knows she’d been wild in her younger days-“
Manfred levelled his stepdad with a look who then threw his hands up in defeat.
“Ok, ok,” he said. “I get it. Honour thy mother and such. But come on, kid. Not speaking about her past won’t change it. As I was saying, she was always too good for me. And yeah, son. I miss her every day.”
Manfred took a long sip of his beer. “I’m not your son.”
Joe let the comment slide. “So how’s that house? You moved into the one your mom suggested, right? Said she heard about it from a psychic or something and, lo and behold, this cheap house in a decent neighbourhood appeared. How long you been there now? Four years?”
“Yes.”
“What about a girlfriend? You got one?”
“No.”
Joe narrowed his eyes. “You really just want to die alone, don’t you? You think that would just show the world what a goddamn victim you are.”
Manfred sat up straight and looked his stepdad square in the eye. “The only thing I’m a victim of is this conversation.”
The bartender brought Joe his whiskey. He winked at her in gratitude. “Manfred, you were never an easy kid. And I’m damn sure you’re an even more difficult adult. I remember your mama telling you how you were allowed to feel how you felt. She was a good mother that way. But you, son, took that sentiment and ran with it. Your sense of entitlement is astounding. But then, it seems you’re the only one who suffers for it.” He downed his whiskey in one gulp and slapped Manfred on the back. “So long, kid.”
The subject of his mother was never easy, always causing a sick feeling in his stomach and a tightness in his chest. But hearing about her from Joe was too much. It took everything in him not to rise up and punch the guy out. He was a tool. Talk about entitlement! The man did whatever the fuck he wanted any time he wanted.
Still, something niggled at Manfred. Sarah had always said people were not black and white—that we could be wrong about so many things and still be right about others. He pushed the thoughts aside. The beer was finally starting to do its job. Now was not the time for philosophizing. Now was the time to forget.
He turned and watched the man who had lived in his mother’s home for ten years of his childhood leave the pub and felt proud that he did so without losing his shit.
The Ones Who Will Never Say 'Sorry'