The Outsiders (18 page)

“
In what way exactly?” said the
barman.

“
The moment a fine fish is hooked, the
sharks come along like critics and bite chunks off until the fish
is just a skeleton and those critics don’t ever give any credit to
the lone fisherman on his boat who hooked the fish in the first
place. That’s how.”

“
Maybe, maybe not,” the barman said with a
shrug.

“
By the way, I’m thirsty,” I
said.

The barman nodded. “What can I get you?” he
said.

“
A gin sling,” I said.

“
A gin sling?” he said.

I nodded. “A gin sling,” I said.

He made me a gin sling. I drank it. It was cool.
Outside it was hot. The barman nodded at a book on a shelf behind
the bar. “That novel isn’t like a fish. It was left behind,” he
said.

“
Who by?” I said.

“
Someone,” he said, “many years
ago.”

“
One of mine,” I said.

“
One of your what?” he said.

“
Novels,” I said. “I’m a writer. I’ll have
a gin sling.”

“
A writer, a gin sling?” he
said.

I nodded. Inside I was cool. Outside I was bearded.
The barman made me a ginsling. “I’m Ernest,” I said.

“
Earnest about what?” he said.

“
About my name. Same name as the name of
the cover of that book on your shelf that’s a novel.”

He read the cover. “Ernest Humblebee,” he
said.

“
That’s my name,” I said.

“
Coincidence,” he said, “that your name’s
the same.”

“
Not really, I wrote it,” I
said.

“
That’s why, is it?” he said, frowning.
“But don’t you use a pen name? I thought writers used pen
names.”

“
Not me. I’ll have a gin sling,” I
said.

He made me a gin sling. “So what’s your style like?”
he said.

“
Simple,” I said, “and
repetitive.”

“
Does it do much?” he said.

“
No, it doesn’t,” I said.

“
Why are you here?” he said.

“
Because it’s hot outside, cool inside.
I’ll have a gin sling,” I said.

“
Waiting for assassins?” he
said.

“
Not this time,” I said.

“
Here’s your gin sling,” he
said.

I drank it. Then I nodded at the fish on the wall.
“Nailed it while it was still swimming, I bet,” I said.

“
With a crossbow,” he said, “but no one
has explained what the fish was doing at that altitude.”

“
A crossbow,” I said as I drank my gin
sling.

“
The marvellous thing is that it’s
painless. I’m awfully sorry about the odour though. That must
bother you.”

“
Don’t! Please don’t! I’ll have a gin
sling,” I said.

“
What’s that out there?” he
said.

“
Out where?” I said.

“
Out there. Through the back door,” he
said.

I craned my neck. “I think it’s a garden,” I said. “A
good cool place to drink a good cool gin sling.”

“
No, it’s not. I know that garden,” he
said.

“
If you know it, why did you ask me what
it was?” I said.

“
You’re a writer and I was testing your
powers of observation. It’s a garden. And here’s your gin
sling.”

“
I’ve already got one,” I said.

He raised his eyebrows. “A garden?”

“
No, a gin sling,” I said, but by this
time I had already finished it and needed the other one. So I took
it and drank it. It was cool. Outside it was hot. I frowned. I knew
my prose style could keep going like this forever, earning praise,
though my odium for critics would never slacken. I looked at the
fish, at the hole in its body. It wasn’t really anything. It was
just to let the air in. Same as any wound.

“
What are you writing about now?” the
barman said.

“
One day,” I said, “I’ll write about the
war and the soldiers marching, marching, marching. One day I’ll
write about peace and the bohemians dancing, dancing, dancing. One
day.”

“
What about today?” he said.

“
Today I plan to write about you asking me
what I’m writing about today,” I said, “but maybe
later.”

“
Can I get you anything?” he
said.

“
A gin sling,” I said.

“
A gin sling?” he said.

“
A gin sling,” I said.

“
That garden,” he said, “is a sun
trap.”

“
A sun trap,” I said.

“
That’s what I said,” he said.

“
Yes, that’s what you said,” I said, “and
now I’m saying it too, so it’ll soon also be what I
said.”

“
It already is,” he said.

“
I won’t go out there if it’s a sun trap,”
I said. He made me a gin sling. I drank it. Then it was
gone.

“
Do you know what a sun trap is?” he said.
“It’s a place that collects the warmth of the sun. I bet that’s
what you were thinking. A place like a place somewhere without
shade that collects the warmth of the sun. Well, my suntrap isn’t
like that. Nope.”

“
What’s it like?” I said.

“
You’ll see,” he said, “or maybe you won’t
see, maybe it’ll be too dark to see. One or the other.”

“
I’ll have a gin sling,” I
said.

“
Why is your prose style so annoying?” he
said.

“
So annoying?” I said.

“
So annoying,” he said.

“
Because I’m a creep,” I said.

“
A creep?” he said.

“
A creep,” I said.

“
What kind of creep?” he said.

“
A misogynistic one,” I said. “I’ll have a
gin sling.”

“
A gin sling?” he said.

“
A gin sling. Do you like to see bulls
dying?” I said.

“
Not particularly,” he said.

“
I do. I like to see bulls dying. I like
to see horses dying too. I like to see elephants dying. I like to
see leopards dying. I like to see fish dying. I like to see men
dying, men with beards, men without beards, men with women, men
without women too. I like to drive ambulances in the war. I like to
pretend to be tough,” I said.

“
You really are full of macho bullshit,”
he said.

“
Indeed I am,” I said.

“
Pathetic,” he said.

“
Ernest Hummingbird’s the name,” I
said.

“
No, it’s Humblebee,” he said.

“
We’re on the second draft now,” I said.
“Get me a gin sling.”

“
The second draft of what?”

“
Of this story, the story we’re standing
in,” I said.

“
You’re not standing,” he said.

“
I’m sitting instead,” I said.

“
And it’s a bar, not a story,” he
said.

That wasn’t true, but he made me a gin sling. Outside
it was hot, but not as hot as before. I drank my gin sling. My
beard helped me do that. “The bar’s inside the story,” I
said.

“
That’s crazy,” he said.

“
Ernest Humdrum’s the name now. Third
draft already. All my life I’ve looked at words as though I were
seeing them for the first time. Always do sober what you said you’d
do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut. I’ll have a
gin sling.”

“
What kind of story is it exactly?” he
said.

“
A sort of parody,” I said.

“
I thought as much,” he said, “but I think
it’s wrong.”

“
What do you mean?” I said.

“
It’s clearly a parody of a writer you
don’t know well enough to parody properly but only superficially
and unfairly. A true parody should be done with love, not like
this,” he said.

“
Maybe,” I said. “What’s it to you
anyway?”

“
Nothing much,” he said.

“
Are you waiting for assassins or
something?” I said.

“
You misunderstand me. What I meant was
that you’ve obviously read one or two short pieces by the writer in
question and they angered you so much you didn’t try to read more
of his work, so you actually don’t know much about his aims,
beliefs, passions, strengths, dreams and everything else that
helped make him tick.”

“
I know enough,” I said. “Get me a gin
sling.”

He made me a gin sling. I drank it. Outside it was
hot, maybe, maybe not. Inside he was right, maybe, maybe not. I
began thinking about the time I bullfought a fish. Bullfought is
the past tense of the verb bullfight. I bullfought a fish and I
won. A bigger fish than the fish on the wall. The biggest fish in
the sea. I fought it with a shotgun. Bullfighting is the only art
in which the artist is in danger of death. Apart from painting
ceilings while suspended from a cotton thread. Apart from sculpting
butter with a grenade. Apart from lava dancing.

“
Can’t you think more quietly than that?”
he said.

“
I’ll have a gin sling,” I
said.

Suddenly it went dark.

“
What the hell?” I said. “I can’t see my
own memories.”

“
The trap has sprung,” he said.

“
Sprung is the past tense of the verb
spring,” I said. “Same way that simmer is the present tense of the
verb summer. I was taught that by the soldiers marching, marching,
marching. And by the bohemians dancing, dancing, dancing. And by
all the other irritating understated things in all my irritating
understated books.”

“
Please shut up,” he said. “You blithering
idiot.”

“
Get me a gin sling,” I said.

“
I refuse,” he said.

A stranger in the corner spoke up. I hadn’t noticed
him before. “This has to be one of the worst parodies I’ve ever
been in,” he said, “and I’ve been in a few. It’s not
funny.”

“
Shut up,” I said. “You’re not actually in
this one.”

“
Yes he is,” said the barman.

“
Yes I am,” said the stranger.

“
No, you’re not. A cameo role doesn’t
count and you don’t get named in any of the paragraphs,” I
said.

“
He’s got a point,” said the
barman.

“
Who has?” I said.

“
Both of you,” said the barman.

“
I want a gin sling. I need a gin sling,
damn it,” I said.

The barman leaned closer. I felt his breath on my
understatement. My beard bristled. “The writer you are trying to
mock has more depth than you think he does,” he said.

“
I doubt it. Where’s my gin sling?” I
said.

“
Yes, he does,” the barman said, “and so
you’re being unjust to him. I happen to have read the writer in
question and he wasn’t a racist drunk, a hater of women and a
posturing bully all the time, just some of the time. If his work
didn’t have genuine merit it wouldn’t have lasted as long as it
has. Doesn’t mean I approve of everything he did, the way he used
words, his outlook, but all the same…”

I shook my head. “You’ve got it wrong. The writer I’m
trying to mock is none other than myself,” I said.

The barman sighed. But he made me a gin sling
anyway.

“
Why has it gone dark?” I said.

“
Because of the sun trap, like I said
before,” he said.

“
I forgot you said that,” I
said.

“
That’s why I said it again,” he
said.

“
So you did,” I said.

“
The sun trap has caught the sun,” he
said.

“
Are you serious?” I said.

“
Deadly serious,” he said.

“
In the garden? The sun trap out there?” I
said.

“
That’s the one,” he said.

“
Show me now,” I said. “I need to see it.
I need to see the trapped sun. I need to see its blood pulsing,
pulsing, pulsing. I need to watch its dying moments, moments,
moments.”

The barman shook his head. “It’s not like
that.”

But I was already up and staggering in the direction
of the back door, my nostrils flared, my trousers also, trying to
inhale the hot blood of the sun, trying to taste its death. Suns
deserve to die, just like bulls. All bulls deserve to die. Fish
deserve to die. Living things deserve to die. Just so I can strut
around them. My beard agrees with that. Death in the afternoon,
death in the morning, death at teatime. Don’t care when, just so
long as it makes me look tough, virile, hard.

“
Better than a gin sling,” I said, as I
pushed open the door.

“
What is?” said the barman.

He was behind me. I felt his breath on my macho nape.
“The blood of a living thing that’s dying,” I said.