Short Story-Looking for feedback!

scribbler1

Hello I've attemoted a short story and I'd love a bit of feedback from people! Let me know what you think

‘Deco’

IT WAS lunchtime before I finally admitted defeat and walked outside. The autumn air swelled close as I laid flat on my mother’s deck chair and lit a joint. I rubbed my forehead, closed my eyes and exhaled a silent groan. My college thesis lay unfinished on the kitchen table; a mishmash of scribbled notes, dog eared textbooks and discarded coffee mugs.
I stood to go back in, sucked the final drag, a deft flick disposing of the evidence. From inside I heard the gentle vibration of my phone on the marble counter. I ran in and glanced at the screen. Private number.
‘Hello?’
‘How’ye, ye, is that George? It’s, eh, Deco,’ said the caller hesitantly, with a Dublin accent.
My mind processed all the Declans I had encountered in my 26 years. No-one immediately came to mind. The phone line hummed in my ear.
‘Oh yeah…Deco, how’s it going man?’ I offered, clearly struggling and stalling for time. Deco, Deco, Deco. Think. The silence entered the awkward stage. The outline of an old friend slowly formed in my mind.
‘It’s not Deco Valentine is it?’ I said, cautiously optimistic.
‘Ah there we go. Pick up that penny will ye! How’s it goin me aul flower? It’s been a long time scout,’ said the now familiar voice, clearly relieved that I’d remembered.
It had been a long time, at least three or four years I guessed. Myself and Deco were old friends from Belvedere. We had shared a rickety desk for six years.
‘Ah jaysus Deco, what’s the story with ye? It’s great to hear from ye lad. How are you?’
‘Ah sure I’m still here amn’t I? Must be doing something righ’. Listen Georgie I won’t beat round the bush here, just wondering if ye, maybe, ye know, if you’re free, wanted to meet up for a jar or something later?’ he said.
‘Well actually, Deco, mate, it’s not a great time, I’ve got this college thing due and…,’ I mumbled half-heartedly, caught off guard by the upfront question.
‘Ah come on G-man, just one or two. I’ll have ye home before midnight. Go on do it for me. For old time’s sake.’
I detected something in his voice that intrigued me, a trace of vulnerability, a morsel of neediness that I’d never associated with him before. I didn’t quite understand it but I knew then that I wanted to see him. I took a fleeting glimpse at the kitchen table.
‘Ye sure why not. I wouldn’t do any work anyway. Where will I meet ye?’
‘How about Doyle’s, around half seven?’
‘Sound. See ye then pal.’
As the DART ambled towards town I thought about Deco. I remembered his razor sharp wit and eye for the ladies; his affability. He was constantly in good form and supremely intelligent. In school he had excelled in the classroom, on the pitch and between the sheets. Since graduation only chance encounters with mutual friends had kept me informed of his activities. Something about a top job in an investment bank, I think, a model girlfriend perhaps, and plush apartments, plural. He was painfully funny.
I jumped off at Tara Street and weaved through the evening throng of suits, students and seekers. The tired sun hovered over the Liffey which shimmered and danced in the light. I wandered up D’Olier Street hands stuffed gruffly in pockets. The pub door swung easy and I strolled up to the bar glancing left and right for a familiar face with a wicked smile. As I placed my order I felt a hand deftly remove my wallet from my back pocket.
‘So this is what it looks like?’ said Deco, holding the wallet to his mouth, his inflated cheeks blowing away the imaginary cobwebs.
‘Gimme that ye bollix!’ I said playfully grabbing it back, eyeing him up and down. ‘You haven’t changed much. Ye still look like the before picture on a Clearasil ad!’
‘Did yer aul wan teach ye that one? Ask her does she still have my boxers will ye? Think I left them in your gaff last week!’
We called a truce, exchanged pleasantries (which included an awkward man hug) and retired to a dingy corner. A pretty barmaid promptly arrived with two pints of beer and two shots of whiskey. I settled the bill and conversation began.
Soon childish pranks and jokes were recalled with intricate detail. Drop goals and last ditch tackles were dramatically acted out as the pub slowly filled. We laughed and cheerily clinked glasses. Live music began upstairs and we could feel the tiny vibrations on our wooden seats. A group of tourists with oversized maps and clunky cameras excitedly sipped their glasses of Guinness. Another round of drinks arrived.
‘What do ye think of her?’ I said nodding at the barmaid as she left.
‘Ah jaysus, are you serious? She wouldn’t get a rattle off a snake.’
He devoured his second whiskey and the mood gradually stiffened. The first awkward silence. He folded his arms. His bloodshot eyes stared vacantly at a crude watercolour on the wall, as if I wasn’t there. I could tell that he was working himself up to something. He sighed and fidgeted and attacked the drinks in front of him. It was like he might do anything, anything. But he only spoke.
He wasn’t with the girlfriend anymore. He got rid of her because she was ‘wreckin’ his head’ and he never really liked her from the start. The pricks at the bank weren’t paying him enough so he told them to ‘stuff their bleedin’ job’. I solemnly nodded agreement at all the right moments, hiding my misgivings. He opened his mouth to continue but restrained himself. I beckoned the pretty barmaid, same again, and discreetly slipped her a fifty en route to the bathroom.
As I returned, I examined him from across the bar. His taut face was gaunt and grey and he hadn’t shaved in days, his thinning hair peppered with flecks of silver. The bright blue eyes, that had melted many a Loreto heart, had lost their sparkle and looked lonely and afraid. He sat slumped in his chair, arms now flung haphazardly onto the hardwood table. His faded jumper dangled loosely from his shrunken shoulders.
He politely enquired about my studies and smiled at my procrastination. We discussed our old friends and I was surprised that he had organised similar reunions with many of them in recent weeks. Some were working, most were not, some were married, most were not. He ran his finger around the rim of his foamy glass. I took out my phone, checked the time and pretended to text. The silences became longer and more frequent. Another round.
‘Let’s hit the dance floor,’ he said suddenly, grabbing the drinks.
Relieved, I grabbed my jacket and followed him towards the stairs. At the front door a middle aged man in a tattered suit was arguing with the bouncers. He was hammered, swaying on the spot and aggressively pointing at them. With his sleeve he wiped the spittle from his chin and randomly shouted words like, ‘Bertie’, ‘cowboys’ and ‘bankers’. Deco stopped, eyed him, and kept going.
There was traffic on the stairs as we brushed shoulders with a hearty group of women in heels and dresses. One of them knocked into Deco and spilled a trickle of beer onto his jeans. ‘Watch where you’re ****ing going will ye! Prick,’ he roared, staring her down. The girl stood there, shocked, tears welling. Embarrassed, I mouthed an apology as I passed.
We stood at the edge of the floor, our drinks perched on a ledge, grinning like idiots. It was busy, but not packed, even for a Friday. To our left a girl’s 21st birthday was cordoned off with bunting and balloons. To our right a brigade of lads in pearly white runners, skinny jeans and pink t-shirts stood motionless, a drink in one hand and their hip in the other. I reverted the chat back to school, to rugby and to women and we happily shouted over the music. The drink was hitting and the tension was lifted, for now anyway. For those moments, an hour or so, he was almost himself again, or at least the Deco I thought I knew.
At one point a wiry, wafer thin blonde girl with bony shoulders and pointy elbows weaved her way through the crowd. Deco, pissed at this stage, spotted her, stuck out an arm and dragged her over.
‘Question for ye gorgeous. If ye didn’t have feet, would ye wear socks?’
The girl shifted uncomfortably. ‘No, I suppose not.’
‘Well then why are ye wearing a bra?’ he said with a straight face.
‘****in dickhead!’ she roared swinging for Deco who had erupted in laughter. He fended her off and gently pushed her back into the crowd.
‘You can’t say anything to them when they’re like that!’ said Deco with a wry smile and a wink. He was still laughing as he finished his pint.
These frivolous moments were few and far between that night and appeared only for my benefit. Though funny at the time, they seemed forced almost, like the singer reluctantly wheeling out the big hit just to sate the punters, or the old dog performing the equally old trick. His heart wasn’t in it and I’d heard them all before.
We left before the lights came on. Outside the streets were busy and flowed under a clear night sky. Greasy men in red and white aprons flogged burgers and hot-dogs. Tired buskers stood behind empty guitar cases. Bustling, rowdy queues were forming for night buses while Gardaì in fluorescent jackets discreetly kept vigil in the shadows. A young girl stood bent over, hands on knees, surrounded by friends who placed caring hands on her back. She got sick, apologised, and thanked them for holding her hair.
I bummed a smoke and looked for Deco. He was stumbling down the street towards the quays, leaning into shutters and parked cars just to keep upright. I ran over and caught up with him, grabbing his shirt to steady him. As we crossed the river I realised I’d no idea where he lived. He thought about it. Eventually the word ‘Fairview’ fell from his mouth. ‘Come on, we’ll get a taxi.’ He refused, as I expected.
We set off, past the Custom House, IFSC, Connolly, Five Lamps and Sheriff. To our right, the river, murky and foreboding, softly gurgled and slapped the grotty banks. A red two seater coupe was parked outside the financial district. Deco stopped, peered in the windows and ran his finger along the bonnet. ‘Used to have one of these’. He took a few steps back and kicked the wing mirror clean off. I re-attached it as best I could.
We stepped over bums and side stepped addicts. A constant stream of taxis passed us heading towards town, some expectantly slowing down as they met us. Deco waved them on, nearly falling on to the road. We went over the canal, under the foot bridge and turned left at the school. I fumbled in my pockets and emerged with a fistful of receipts. He hadn’t paid for a drink all night. I didn’t mind. Not because he hadn’t but because I knew he probably couldn’t.
He led me down a badly lit alleyway of graffiti walls and burned out shopping trolleys. Sirens wailed in the distance. A light drizzle had descended. We trooped past newsagents and off licences, under street lights and into an estate. He squinted his eyes and pointed to the corner house. The wheelie bin was overturned in the garden, its contents scattered. The car in the driveway sat precariously on bricks. The paint was granite grey and chipped. Home.
A group of men, his room-mates, huddled outside smoking. Shaved heads and gold earrings were the order of the day. One of them had a jagged pink scar on his left cheek and a spider web tattoo on his neck. They hushed as we passed. Suspicious. On the steps to the front door Deco kicked a dirty needle under a bush, like a football, like it was natural, like he did it every day.
The front room window was smashed and sloppily boarded up with black bags and cardboard. Their television had been stolen apparently. ‘We’re in a recession don’t forget!’ he said and laughed hysterically. His shoulders began to bob up and down, he fell to his knees and his laughter slowly turned to soft angry sobs. He was like a child. Defeated and destitute. I grabbed him under the shoulders and hauled him up. A quick wipe of the eyes, a deep breath. He softly stabbed the door with his key. I grabbed his hand and guided it. He staggered over the threshold and gently pulled the door behind him.

**************

storker

I like it. The boom and bust expressed in terms of one man's career/status trajectory. I would have liked to know what Deco was building up to, and a something about how he got to where he was. I did find the accents to be a bit too hard-chaw Dub, but that's probably just me.

All in all, a compelling read. Nice work!

Stork

pickarooney

I know you probably copied and pasted from Word, but if you use more carriage returns and normal size font this will be a lot easier to read.

I'll get back to it later.

scribbler1

Cheers Stork. It was my first attempt at writing fiction and I really enjoyed it. And yes I copied and pasted from Word pickarooney. I agree it's not easy to read in this format. Cheers guys.

Any more feedback welcome!

tbfrance11

kinda had difficulty reading it (due to the format) but i really loved the concept and story thumbs up!

pickarooney

This was really good. The tense atmosphere between the two old friends was very believable. Like storker I was left wondering what exactly happened to Deco and would like to read a bit more about him and the narrator although I suppose it's easy enough to read between the lines (figuratively ).

scribbler1

Cheers France and Rooney. Yeah I deliberately left it open about Deco. I wanted the readers imagination to run wild! Maybe a little more info would have benefitted the story.

Thanks for sticking with it, I know the format is so bad!

I love hearing all this so any more feedback from anyone else would be great, thanks guys!

Happyzebra

Loved his piece... and I'm a hard one to please. Agree with the poster with regard the accents at the start but once you hit your stride it worked really well. Well done!