Steve Wilson
Lord of the onion rings
Hey all,
The following isn't of my making. It's an unfinished (hardly started really) story I found on my father's laptop after he passed away a few years ago.
I haven't touched it at all, posting it as it is.
Posting the opening here (there's a bit more, about 5K words in total).
I really want to complete it. No rush about it, just want to honour me ol' man's memory TBH.
I have been wondering for a while where to head with this, and would really appreciate some input on the style and whatever thoughts anyone with experience may have reading this.
Thanks a lot for taking time to read this.
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'Hard, hard, got to keep it low! Must be more aggressive!'
Ray gets off the toilet, wipes his bum.
'Move into the centre, control it. Keep it low.'
"Coffee's ready."
They sit at the kitchen table, Ray and Julia, doing the crossword as they drink their coffee,
"two down; support, sea-side structure, four letters,"
He hates it when it's easy, he also loves it when it's easy, the smart-arse starts writing it in before he's finished giving her the clue. Julia doesn't mind, she's somewhere else, her thoughts drifting, planning, worrying, whatever.
Somebody once said, in a film, maybe Billy the Kid, that every day you should test yourself. He'd ride through a briar patch rather than take the easy route, to push himself, test himself. A challenge a day, each bank hold-up more daring than the last, he ended up getting blasted to death, of course. If he had stuck to doing things the easy way, he would have lived longer, but then there wouldn't have been any films about him. Who's interested in safe, risky is exciting, at least in films. Billy the Average Bloke, it doesn't have the same ring to it, the fearless chap who worked in the greengrocer's, every day he tested himself by stacking the shelves neatly. It's got blockbuster written all over it!
"Bye then, I'll see you later."
"What time will you be home?"
"When I've finished, I expect."
Julia gets a perfunctory peck on the cheek, it can't be red hot romance all the time, can it? She wanders into the front room, watching the car slowly pull out into the road. She checks herself in the mirror, brushing the curl of blonde hair away from her eye. 'Not bad for an old bag,' she thinks as she applies another layer of crimson lipstick.
Ray drives to the workshop, as he had been doing most days for what seemed like a lifetime. He opens the gate, that's the worst bit; stop the car, open the gate, move the car through, shut the gate, back into the stupid car, it's things like this that make him want to give up, the devil's in the details they say, well eternal damnation is in opening and closing that bloody gate. He feels himself getting hot and bothered, something building up inside him, a surge of fury floods through him, a disproportionate torrent of emotion for such an insignificant annoyance. In his frustration, everything becomes much more difficult, the catch doesn't work, the gate digs itself into the mud, it's not like he really wants to go in anyway, he just has to, it's work. This is but one example of his internal life seeping out through his everyday body, a strength of emotion almost unrecognisable to him, poking it's angular head out from under his stiff upper lip. The moment of rage passes as quickly as it appeared, the lid settles back onto the cauldron of spitting bile he carries deep in his innermost being, he must just get on with the day.
It shouldn't take long, he thinks, it's only the head gasket. The workshop is a long, high ceilinged, breeze-block building, the fluorescent lights hum when he turns them on, the big, old doors creak and scrape along the ground when they're pulled open. At least it's reasonably cheap, and it's got three phase. It's not very much like the spacious, airy, modern unit they used to have, though, right in the middle of the industrial estate, enough room to work on four cars at a time, and with a nice clean reception area. Even had a receptionist. 'She was cute' he occasionally reflected, 'I wish...' He had never tried it on with her, prided himself on his fidelity, his loyalty. The repartee between them had become very cosy, by avoiding any hint of flirtatious innuendo they both felt comfortable confiding in the other. The more she knew about the problems in the business, the problems in his marriage, the less chance there was of their underwear intermingling on the floor.
'Where was that ******* now?' he wondered, 'leaving me with all the debts, the mess to clear up. *******, *******, *******.' The one ship more likely to sink than the Titanic, a Partnership.
The day seemed to go really quickly, the headgasket didn't. Sheared stud, dropped nut, everything rusty, greasy, shitty. Some days were like this, at least he was working, and for himself. He had started off as an apprentice, at Caffyns, he liked mucking about with cars, he didn't even mind the 'initiation', spending half an hour hanging on the wall, hooked up by his overalls, they were just having a laugh. Bastards. He learned his trade, worked his way up, until he and Tim had saved up enough money, and enough courage, to strike out on their own. MGBs had been their bread and butter, rebuilds, restoration, modification, the eighties had been a great time, people could afford to indulge their hobbies, have interests, have choice. That's right, the choice to buy their own council house, to move up in the world, stop being a renter, become an owner. Plenty of work, plenty of money, everything was going well, they knew loads of head waiters. This was the life.
The following isn't of my making. It's an unfinished (hardly started really) story I found on my father's laptop after he passed away a few years ago.
I haven't touched it at all, posting it as it is.
Posting the opening here (there's a bit more, about 5K words in total).
I really want to complete it. No rush about it, just want to honour me ol' man's memory TBH.
I have been wondering for a while where to head with this, and would really appreciate some input on the style and whatever thoughts anyone with experience may have reading this.
Thanks a lot for taking time to read this.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
'Hard, hard, got to keep it low! Must be more aggressive!'
Ray gets off the toilet, wipes his bum.
'Move into the centre, control it. Keep it low.'
"Coffee's ready."
They sit at the kitchen table, Ray and Julia, doing the crossword as they drink their coffee,
"two down; support, sea-side structure, four letters,"
He hates it when it's easy, he also loves it when it's easy, the smart-arse starts writing it in before he's finished giving her the clue. Julia doesn't mind, she's somewhere else, her thoughts drifting, planning, worrying, whatever.
Somebody once said, in a film, maybe Billy the Kid, that every day you should test yourself. He'd ride through a briar patch rather than take the easy route, to push himself, test himself. A challenge a day, each bank hold-up more daring than the last, he ended up getting blasted to death, of course. If he had stuck to doing things the easy way, he would have lived longer, but then there wouldn't have been any films about him. Who's interested in safe, risky is exciting, at least in films. Billy the Average Bloke, it doesn't have the same ring to it, the fearless chap who worked in the greengrocer's, every day he tested himself by stacking the shelves neatly. It's got blockbuster written all over it!
"Bye then, I'll see you later."
"What time will you be home?"
"When I've finished, I expect."
Julia gets a perfunctory peck on the cheek, it can't be red hot romance all the time, can it? She wanders into the front room, watching the car slowly pull out into the road. She checks herself in the mirror, brushing the curl of blonde hair away from her eye. 'Not bad for an old bag,' she thinks as she applies another layer of crimson lipstick.
Ray drives to the workshop, as he had been doing most days for what seemed like a lifetime. He opens the gate, that's the worst bit; stop the car, open the gate, move the car through, shut the gate, back into the stupid car, it's things like this that make him want to give up, the devil's in the details they say, well eternal damnation is in opening and closing that bloody gate. He feels himself getting hot and bothered, something building up inside him, a surge of fury floods through him, a disproportionate torrent of emotion for such an insignificant annoyance. In his frustration, everything becomes much more difficult, the catch doesn't work, the gate digs itself into the mud, it's not like he really wants to go in anyway, he just has to, it's work. This is but one example of his internal life seeping out through his everyday body, a strength of emotion almost unrecognisable to him, poking it's angular head out from under his stiff upper lip. The moment of rage passes as quickly as it appeared, the lid settles back onto the cauldron of spitting bile he carries deep in his innermost being, he must just get on with the day.
It shouldn't take long, he thinks, it's only the head gasket. The workshop is a long, high ceilinged, breeze-block building, the fluorescent lights hum when he turns them on, the big, old doors creak and scrape along the ground when they're pulled open. At least it's reasonably cheap, and it's got three phase. It's not very much like the spacious, airy, modern unit they used to have, though, right in the middle of the industrial estate, enough room to work on four cars at a time, and with a nice clean reception area. Even had a receptionist. 'She was cute' he occasionally reflected, 'I wish...' He had never tried it on with her, prided himself on his fidelity, his loyalty. The repartee between them had become very cosy, by avoiding any hint of flirtatious innuendo they both felt comfortable confiding in the other. The more she knew about the problems in the business, the problems in his marriage, the less chance there was of their underwear intermingling on the floor.
'Where was that ******* now?' he wondered, 'leaving me with all the debts, the mess to clear up. *******, *******, *******.' The one ship more likely to sink than the Titanic, a Partnership.
The day seemed to go really quickly, the headgasket didn't. Sheared stud, dropped nut, everything rusty, greasy, shitty. Some days were like this, at least he was working, and for himself. He had started off as an apprentice, at Caffyns, he liked mucking about with cars, he didn't even mind the 'initiation', spending half an hour hanging on the wall, hooked up by his overalls, they were just having a laugh. Bastards. He learned his trade, worked his way up, until he and Tim had saved up enough money, and enough courage, to strike out on their own. MGBs had been their bread and butter, rebuilds, restoration, modification, the eighties had been a great time, people could afford to indulge their hobbies, have interests, have choice. That's right, the choice to buy their own council house, to move up in the world, stop being a renter, become an owner. Plenty of work, plenty of money, everything was going well, they knew loads of head waiters. This was the life.
