“So, you only harvest the good experiences?” I asked, quite enjoying the game that either he started or I did, and he truly believed he could sell time. He looked at me and answered: “Not just the good times, obviously the sensation of love, a party at the Playboy Mansion or a child growing up are some of our finest wines, each sip to be savoured for the pleasure and happiness. But some require just the house wine and we provide those with times like watching six episodes of some trash American series. Then you curse when it’s 3am and feel tired the following day at work; or you’re in a pub on an average night like this, having a quiet drink with a friend. Those bits of low event time can be scrubbed clean and used like new for our clients. Think own brand with no taste till you add your own recipe options.” I really had trouble trying not to smile or even burst out laughing as he tried to bring me into his world. “You harvest the good and average time, so I guess only leaving mostly just bad times?” I enquired, now making odd sense from his logic.
“Totally, can you see now why often the bad times stick in your mind, whilst some of your best can barely even be grasped in detail?” He leaned in again and said: “Well, we do harvest some of the bad times, we do have some clients with particular tastes.” He took another gulp of the ale, more for a dry mouth than the ale itself. I leaned in as well to encourage him to continue. “They are more difficult to harvest, dangerous one would say. Protective gear is necessary and a lot of man power.”
“Wow!” I said. I would like to think it was an act of clever wit, but it was the only thing I could think of as he described the act of harvesting time like some sort of mining operation. Time, drilled, collected, cleaned, packaged and sold to… “Hold up, who are your clients? Who buys this time off you? Something like time must be expensive and you would not be selling it in a student pub.” He looked straight at me, his almost closed eyes boring deeper than made me comfortable. He raised his glass of ‘Shoggoth’s Old Peculiar’, motioned a respectful tilt and proceeded to down the last of the golden liquid. He took a deep breath and said: “You’re right there, I would not be selling it here,” looking around at the now mostly empty bar and the few odd groups, well past the drunk and boisterous stage. He then stood up and looked down at me, “I was just taking your time up and now I bid you farewell.” With that he walked up to the door. The doorman, who looked like he wanted to be going home, opened the door and let him out into the night. I sat there for a minute, looked at my book, noticing the ale puddle gone and tried to process what just happened with little real comprehension, except the guy was not playing with a full deck. I picked up my mobile, pressed the unlock and looked at the time. It was 2am and I wondered how that happened. So I finished my pint, stood up, put my coat on, grabbed the book and left the pub, saying my farewells to the doorman and went home cursing myself as I would be tired at work tomorrow.
*Shoggoth’s Old Peculiar – Hops grown by HP Lovecraft and brewed by Neil Gaiman
Thanks to the Hobbit Pub for use of glasses, tables, bartops and I hope Adi enjoyed the pint once not needed for the photo shoot.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4
He looked directly at me, well as best as I could tell he was. “I’m not selling watches, knocked off or otherwise. I am offering you time, time to experience life, time to enjoy the curves of a naked lady in your bed, time to be dancing to the rhythm of your favourite band or time to be reading that book of yours.” I stared at him, now quite confused, thinking is he a time share salesman wanting me to buy a bit of house on an island now too full of British tourists? “What is that you reading anyway?” He lent over and fingers adorned with gothic silver jewellery grabbed the book from my hands and pulled it over to him. He closed the book, losing my page and began to read the front. “The Wanderings of Alha…, Alhazzz, Alhazzz red?” he gave up trying to pronounce the title and offered the book back to me. As he lent over, the short sleeve of his shirt lifted up his arm and revealed a tattoo, which seemed to be a stylised octopus, tentacles reaching out from the cotton material that masked most of the head. “Well,” I remarked as I took the book back with annoyance at him losing my page, “I did have time to read my book until you showed up.”
“OK, lets begin again. I’ll tell you what, I’ll get us a couple of drinks and then we can have a proper chat.” As he stopped speaking he pulled a ten pound note out from his jeans pocket and put in on the table. I looked at him blankly, wondering if he was about to ask me to go get the drinks? “Look, you’re a regular and the bar is three deep with students who have all the time in the world. You and me, well, you are not so fortunate after all this time. You’re a regular, you’ll get served quicker than me.” I could not disagree with his reasoning that I would get served quicker, but his remarks about my time left me curiously unnerved. Partly for the free drink and partly for the chance to get some time away from this man, I grabbed the tenner and was about to ask what he was having when he spoke: “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
“Pint of Shoggoth it is then,” I remarked as I walked away and began to work my way to that one point at the bar where regulars get served and others get told to move out of the way of the glass collector. Well, in truth, regulars get asked to move as well, but we have learned to move first or expect an insult before being asked to move. The punk barmaid, dressed in tartan, black, green, pink, red and numerous other colours, hair to match and advertising a zombie film from the days when horror still shocked and got banned on her ripped t-shirt, served my requested two pints of Shoggoth with a bubbly smile before moving on to serve the ever increasing numbers of students wanting to drink booze, who themselves had elements of a zombie mob about them. Grabbing the two pints and with a skill only years of pub life can hone I made my way back to my seat, avoiding drunken youths dressed in golfing outfits, without spilling a drop.
He looked directly at me, well as best as I could tell he was. “I’m not selling watches, knocked off or otherwise. I am offering you time, time to experience life, time to enjoy the curves of a naked lady in your bed, time to be dancing to the rhythm of your favourite band or time to be reading that book of yours.” I stared at him, now quite confused, thinking is he a time share salesman wanting me to buy a bit of house on an island now too full of British tourists? “What is that you reading anyway?” He lent over and fingers adorned with gothic silver jewellery grabbed the book from my hands and pulled it over to him. He closed the book, losing my page and began to read the front. “The Wanderings of Alha…, Alhazzz, Alhazzz red?” he gave up trying to pronounce the title and offered the book back to me. As he lent over, the short sleeve of his shirt lifted up his arm and revealed a tattoo, which seemed to be a stylised octopus, tentacles reaching out from the cotton material that masked most of the head. “Well,” I remarked as I took the book back with annoyance at him losing my page, “I did have time to read my book until you showed up.”
“OK, lets begin again. I’ll tell you what, I’ll get us a couple of drinks and then we can have a proper chat.” As he stopped speaking he pulled a ten pound note out from his jeans pocket and put in on the table. I looked at him blankly, wondering if he was about to ask me to go get the drinks? “Look, you’re a regular and the bar is three deep with students who have all the time in the world. You and me, well, you are not so fortunate after all this time. You’re a regular, you’ll get served quicker than me.” I could not disagree with his reasoning that I would get served quicker, but his remarks about my time left me curiously unnerved. Partly for the free drink and partly for the chance to get some time away from this man, I grabbed the tenner and was about to ask what he was having when he spoke: “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
“Pint of Shoggoth it is then,” I remarked as I walked away and began to work my way to that one point at the bar where regulars get served and others get told to move out of the way of the glass collector. Well, in truth, regulars get asked to move as well, but we have learned to move first or expect an insult before being asked to move. The punk barmaid, dressed in tartan, black, green, pink, red and numerous other colours, hair to match and advertising a zombie film from the days when horror still shocked and got banned on her ripped t-shirt, served my requested two pints of Shoggoth with a bubbly smile before moving on to serve the ever increasing numbers of students wanting to drink booze, who themselves had elements of a zombie mob about them. Grabbing the two pints and with a skill only years of pub life can hone I made my way back to my seat, avoiding drunken youths dressed in golfing outfits, without spilling a drop.
*Shoggoth’s Old Peculiar – Hops grown by HP Lovecraft and brewed by Neil Gaiman
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4
