This is my first attempt at writing anything, and I have no idea what genre this fits in. Don't be kind, and let me know what you think. I've written around six chapters so far. I know very little about creative writing, but here goes:
1.
Paul Hale was not a man who possessed a confident stride. The backs of his once expensive skate-shoes dragged along the wet cobblestone, making a slippery, thick sound with every hunched step. It was almost as if, after 20 odd years of practise, he had not quite mastered bipedal travel. His sloppy gate was emphasised by the fact he had to hold his budget blue-denims by the pocket to stop them from sliding below his waist. He was too busy re-running the interview that had just happened to worry about the way he was moving.
“Ok, Paul, so your last job was as a sales assistant in a convenience store, but that was four years ago, right?” chirped the slick Indian man before him. “No, there’s a job I just left that isn’t on there…it’s not completely up to date I mean. I was a till assistant in a service station until about 4 weeks ago.” While the interviewer paused to check something on his overly complicated phone, as if the current conversation was the least important thing in his quiffed (?), shiny-shoed universe, Paul surveyed his surroundings. He was sick of rooms like this. Rooms with grey walls, and hard-backed, blue plastic chairs. Rooms full of people who were either in the same position as him, or were smug as sh*t because they were in positions of power. As nice as they might appear, interviewers were all the same. They thrived off the knowledge that the people before them were all desperate for what they had to offer. “Ah, O.K., why did you leave exactly?” The pink shirted man snapped Paul out of his bitter trance.
“I left because it was too far from home, I was losing too much money from commuting.” He lied. He had left because they had told him they were increasing his hours above his contracted amount, and if he couldn’t work that much, he would have to go. Paul could have easily worked the hours requested of him, but it would have left him lifeless. Forty hours a week from 5 a.m. every day, stacking chocolate bars or barcode scanning his way to a slow death was not what he believed existence was about.
The interviewer pressed on. “Can you sell a phone?”
“I guess.” Paul’s response was default, and he didn’t feel especially comfortable giving it. “What about computer games? Do you know much about them, or own any consoles?”. He reeled off the list of electronic boxes that littered his house and sucked away his time, and mentioned some titles that he knew he would purchase upon their release. “Good, good…” purred the man, obviously more pleased with that response than the kind of answer he might have gotten from the elderly Polish lady who Paul had seen leave the room 5 minutes ago. Despite the fact that he probably knew just about enough about games, phones and cameras to work in an electronics exchange shop, Paul already knew he wouldn’t get the job. Even with his slightly above-average qualifications and soft well-spoken voice, he knew he would not get the job, because there was part of him that simply did not want it. Better put, there was a part of him that detested the idea of another stint of employment, and he knew that these slick, high-earning individuals could sense things like that, and knew that they only gave jobs to people who oozed enthusiasm. Paul was not that person today. In a few weeks, maybe, but not today. Ten or so minutes later, and after the obligatory - “Thank you for your time.” and “You’ll probably receive a call within the next 7 days.”- type spiel, Paul Hale slid out of the grey plastic room, and onto the damp streets.
After a short drive home, it was back to the familiar set-up of pointless social networking websites, films, magazines and caffeine fixes. Paul was so used to filling his time with activities reserved for leisure that he barely appreciated the artefacts he devoured daily. Box-sets were demolished in a matter of hours, high-scores were set, and e-numbers filled his stomach. His sedentary lifestyle resembled that of a doddering pensioner more than the life of someone not long out of university. He regularly examined himself in the bathroom, using the silver-framed mirror above the green, porcelain sink. At around five foot eight, and weighing in at just under twelve stone, Paul concluded that he was average. Painfully so, with his dark, matted hair, bland hazel eyes, and a slightly pronounced nose and jaw-line, which he got from his father. His facial hair was slightly unkempt, which probably didn’t help his chances of employment. Black hair bristled from his cheeks, emphasising his abnormally thick eyebrows, and taking attention away from the dark, heavy sacks around his eyes (or so he hoped).
These physical reflection sessions would often delve a little deeper than they would have done for a person who had less time on their hands. Paul would spend several minutes staring into his own eyes, as if he was trying to figure out exactly whom it was stood in front of him. His depressing conclusions about his physical appearance were easier to swallow than the thoughts about his personality. Based on only a few minutes in front of a reflective piece of glass, he was, in his own words, boring, socially awkward, conceited and snobbish. The more he stared, the more he berated himself. He was fully aware of the fact that he did not “love himself” in the way that so many airy-fairy self help books of the 21st century suggested he should. He didn’t even like himself. It had got to the point where he fully understood why no one in his group of friends from university had made any effort to keep in contact with him, and he acknowledged that he was very lucky to have any friends at all.
It was only around the presence of one particular person that he morphed from a bitter, lazy individual into someone remotely likable. Her name was Matilda, and she had been his girlfriend for almost a year and a half. After a string of brief relationships that felt as if they had served only to pass time, it was a deep, full breath of clear air for someone who felt their life was like a doggy paddle in the dead sea. Like every other day, she floated in through the door at around 8:00, and Paul greeted her like an enthusiastic puppy rather than the down-in-the-dumps sod he was for the nine or so hours she wasn’t around. The transformation was consistently remarkable, and one that can only be explained here by stating that he knew in no uncertain terms that he could not live without this person.
2. The two had met whilst Paul was on the job. Being “on the job” at that time actually consisted of attending weddings, and ensuring that a video camera (which broke weeks later, beginning one of the many bouts of unemployment) was pointed at something remotely interesting, cute, or potentially sentimental. This was not something that was difficult to do. There was always some home-video clip-show type moment going on, i.e. little boy dancing with little girl, drunk best mans speech etc., or there was the more serious parts of the ceremony, such as the Bride walking down the aisle or the exchanging of vows. As long as he got enough of both of those types of shots, it was pretty much a dead cert. that his customers would be happy with the gushy kind of edits he could throw together with appropriately sentimental soundtracks. It was an easy set-up, so, Paul usually “relaxed” somewhat as his working days wore on. People were always eager to avoid conversations with relatives, so much so that they were keen to buy the “Camera-guy” a drink and listen to him prattle on about the intricacies of video editing, and the importance of choosing the right music in order to bypass the rational part of the brain and stimulate the emotional core directly. It was mostly men, slightly older than himself, who had been to enough weddings for the novelty to have worn off, and found a conversation with a complete stranger more appealing than the third round of the Y.M.C.A.
On this occasion, somewhere in a slightly pokey village hall near Chislehurst, an unusually sobre Paul Hale set eyes upon one Matilda-Hayley- Beckett. As she approached, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. There was no denying that she was very attractive, with shoulder length mouse-blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and plenty of other things that a man would have to try hard not to look at, especially in a cream-white summer dress. Yes, she was good looking, but having spent his working hours surrounded by bridesmaids and attractive relatives, Paul was quite used to seeing a pretty girl at a wedding. There was no thunderbolt moment as their eyes met, and nobody walked in slow-motion towards anybody else. Instead, she pulled up a chair, ordered a drink (just for herself) and said, mid slurp; “Be honest… how many Coldplay songs have you defiled in this line of work?”. That was the point that each of the two really began to absorb what was in front of them, drinking in each other in far larger quantities than the beverages they each held, despite the gulping that occurred in that first poignant silence. Our man looked up from his pint of faux-Australian lager, knocked off guard by the funniest thing he’d heard in all twenty six of the weddings he’d attended in the last two months. When that was coupled with the fact that it had been spoken in a voice resembling the speaking clock in a cat-suit, the end result was a slightly flabbergasted, but smiley man, staring at a woman waiting patiently for some kind of witty response. “ Let me just say that if I have to cut a video to “Yellow” one more time, I’ll pass out from the blood pouring from my ears.” She smirked, not broadly, but enough to let him know that his response was at least adequate.
After a long and progressively more alcohol influenced conversation about all manner of topics, from his shamelessly emotional song choices, to her quick witted commentary on the attendee’s attire, it became apparent that things were drawing to a close around the couple. While they had taken what seemed like very little time to ascertain they were obviously attracted to each other, cocktail sausage reserves had run low, heads had become sore, and the Lord and Lady of the day had legged it. At this point, a tall, clean shaven man stumbled up behind Matilda and wrapped a huge, gym-frequenting arm around her neck, quite violently. It took no time at all for Paul to snap back to his more rigid, insular state. No, this was no awkward uncle or even overly affectionate cousin. This was a large, probably annoyingly sporty, fake-tanned behemoth of a boyfriend. “Alright BABE!” blurted the orange-tinted git. “YOU MISS ME?” The obviously intoxicated oaf planted an over the top kiss on Matilda’s cheek. This was the kind of situation that Paul would have left immediately under other circumstances, but seeing the way Matilda’s face had dropped upon the embrace had given the more bitter of the two men enough reason to stay.
3. Paul stood somewhere between the feelings of disbelief and annoyance, but literally speaking, at the dregs of a wedding reception party somewhere near Kent(?). The great buffoon that stood before him, and in the way of his future Mademoiselle, was blathering on about “The game” after both men scraped through Matilda’s polite introductions with the minimal necessary niceties. Something very uncomfortable happens when two men are in the presence of a woman they both want for themselves, and this situation was no different. It would be unreasonable to say that the tension was palpable, but it was obvious that this pathetic attempt at a conversation existed only to keep Matilda happy. Paul was not a sports-fan, and often found it easier to keep that a secret and just nod along in agreement when in the presence of people like “Dangerous Dave” (a nickname which the owner seemed unbelievably proud of). It was better for him to smile and grunt knowingly at the appropriate points, and allow “Double D” to continue showering a detailed but drunken tirade of footy knowledge, as the alternative was Paul casually dropping in the point that he cared as much about football as he did a bowl of all-bran, and thus bring the already awkward conversation to a tumbleweed style standstill.
After a few minutes of this, Matilda was understandably unconvinced, and keen to get her man home, as she kept mentioning the time, and how they both had work in the morning. Paul was accepting that his dreams of getting further acquainted with her were slipping from his grasp, but still could not shake the look he read from her face when she was reunited with her Gargantuan lover. After a few more minutes of Dave desperately trying to keep the train wreck of an exchange going (although for what reason, Paul was unsure) , he and Matilda swapped goodbyes with Paul, and were strolling out of the hall as his brain ran through every single thought possible at that point. What was she doing? This guy was clearly about as interesting as a pond-weed, and Paul could tell that he wasn’t the only one who enjoyed their afternoon of quips. He rationalised. He couldn’t expect her to break up with this poor bastard on the spot, he had been in the situation of meeting a far more appealing partner while his lady-friend at the time made a complete berk of herself, and that sort of “on a whim” break up never actually happened. What could he do? He couldn’t ask for her number, he couldn’t run up to her and tell her she was the most interesting member of the female race (a fact he already truly believed), and he certainly couldn’t take on the second coming of Sasquatch without a small army of ex-cons, or at the very least, a very big dog. Of all the options though, and for the first time in his life, the choice involving violence was becoming more and more appealing. As the seconds slipped by, and the beautiful creature got closer and closer to the flimsy wooden doors of the hall, the one thing that Paul wanted to do, more and more, was run up to that great big twat and punch him on behalf of all non-sports fans everywhere. But while most of his brain tripped the light fantastic on the after effects of lager and a testosterone rush, there was just enough grey matter not overcome with pathetic Hollywood macho-ism to see something small, sticky, and odd looking fall out of his brand new nemesis’s back pocket. He recognised it instantly, but was still shocked at how disgusting this man really was.
“DAAAAAAAAVE!” Paul had never shouted so loud in his life. So loud in fact, that both Dave and Matilda turned around looking like they had been warned of an oncoming dumper truck. And so elongated was the cry, that by the time it ended Paul had caught up with the couple, albeit slightly out of breath from his overly dramatic sprint. “You, uh… (pant)… you dropped something mate…” Paul held aloft a used prophylactic, and to be honest, the less descriptive language used about that, the better. Dave had transformed into a recoiling mythical beast, and Paul was the archetypal loin- cloth clad hero with a used Durex as his metaphorical blade of power. Could this really be happening? Was the hero actually going to separate the goon from the Goddess, or would she blindly hold faith in her man, and accuse Paul of some kind of scheming? Such speculations soon became unnecessary as Dave displayed a face with as much innocence as that of a child caught with their hand deep in the forbidden biscuit tin. “Sweetheart, that’s not mine!” is what Dave would have said, if Matilda hadn’t spotted, analysed, and confirmed the face of a complete liar milliseconds after it had appeared. Because she did all of those things, Dave never quite got that far, as his air-tight defence plea was cut short by a swift, sharp high heel to his left shin. Paul was finding it incredibly hard to keep his glee internalised, but for fear he too might receive damage from painful looking footwear due to blind rage, he managed to keep the world’s biggest grin bubbling just below the surface.
“You absolute bastard!.. I always knew!” Dave looked up from his bent-double, shin rubbing stance with a pathetically wounded gaze, but said nothing. “You know what? Just go… I’ll get Sandy to come round and get my stuff or something.” Matilda was fuming, so much so that Paul could have sworn he could see heat ripples like those over hot tarmac inches above her head. “Just walk away, and don’t ever let me see you again.”, she continued. She had calmed down now, and Paul felt twinges of discomfort as he could see her mood change from angry to upset. As Dave slinked out the door and into the night, Paul began to doubt his decisions. He was unsure if it was really the right thing to do, and began to realise the somewhat selfish nature of the things he had done. Once again though, Matilda’s actions reassured him instantaneously. She looked from under her hair, which appeared golden in the overly bright light by the door, and smiled knowingly. Maybe Paul was still suffering from his hormone and lager chemical cocktail, or maybe the faulty bulb caught her eyes and highlighted them enough for him to look into them deeply for the first time, but either way the warm feeling in his body meant he knew something brilliant was about to happen. Matilda blew her fringe out of the way with a puff, and uttered those three magical words that every man wants to hear from a damsel, distressed or otherwise; “Fancy a drink?”. Paul smiled like he had just learnt how to, and the two made their way back to the bar.
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I hope in the end they get back together and shes happy again.
