I have been a little away from The Weekend Story a bit because of some exciting new things to come and things in the making, but he is a story I wrote for my creative writing course in college. Let me know what you think. It take a different approach, not so much of a destination, but a journey. It’s a journey of everyday like and people we see and how we think and react around them.
The Games’ Conflict
It was a Sunday afternoon; my wife and I went to a restaurant on the beach, and the game was on. The game was football: Broncos versus Seahawks. My wife wanted to sit at a booth, but I persisted to sit at the bar. The televisions are clearer at the bar, the wait time for another drink is quicker, and of course, the game was on. I noticed a scent in the air: the location to the scent of wings were unknown, but I could have found them if I sniffled a little longer.
I escorted my wife to a booth so that she would be comfortable. She tried to engage in conversation with me, but my eyes were fixated on the, not so clear, television in the distance. I squinted my eyes, and jerked my head side to side; as though, I would catch the right angle. I never actually caught the right angle, so she insisted that I go to the bar, where I would stop trying to look around her. It wasn’t that she was in my way, it’s just that the glare was covering the entire television.
I went to the bar, only because my wife really wanted me to watch the game, and I sat next to a half drank beer: Budweiser; I guessed. The bartender came my way and said, “What can I get you?”
I replied, “Budweiser; glass if I could?”
“Sure thing!” He replied, with a voice that I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic, or if he was just being chummy. He turned and began working on my drink.
The half drank Budweiser was still without an owner, and the foggy, smudged finger prints indicated that the owner hasn’t been gone long. I figured the guy: Tall, fat, sweaty, dressed well, and had a big-fat gold bracelet, with a couple gold rings on his desired hand.
The bartender came back from where he left me and gave me my drink, he then asked, “You starting a tab, or are you a light weight?” His voice was ambiguous again. His smirk wasn’t too chummy anymore.
I matched his ambiguity, replying, “Are you trying to get me to spend money, or are you sincerely asking?” I smirked back at him. A small chuckle utter from somewhere behind me.
The bartender replied, “I’ll start you a tab.” He then walked away.
The small chuckle was found when I looked back, and I saw the fat bastard himself, only this guy was short. Other than his height, there he was: big-fat gold bracelet, a couple gold rings on his left hand, and he dressed like a businessman that’d try to steal money from any poor sap he could find. He sat down next to me, right where his sweaty, finger-printed glass sat. He hoisted himself onto the barstool and let out a loud, wheezing gasp. I waited for him to do something, like he was going to start a presentation.
He slurped his beer: looking at me out of the corner of his eye. He sat his beer down with a slam, and then coughed like a chimney. He wasn’t concerned with what was on the television because of the commercials. That was the time when he could hit the bathroom, was when the commercials were on. He stopped staring at me when the game came back on. His eyes were like hawks: he preyed upon the television. He then whispered under his breathe, ‘Come on Seahawks.’ He quickly spun his head towards me, any faster and he would have spun his head clean off. “You a Hawks fan?” His deep, persuading voice coughed up.
“No, actually, I’m not. I’m a Broncos’ fan.” I didn’t look over at him. He stared so close to my face, I thought he was going to give me a clean shave.
“Are you kidding me? A Broncy fan?” His eyes somehow got wider than they already were.
I assumed he meant ‘Broncos.’ “Yeah, they got an excellent Quarterback. You can’t beat that.” I wasn’t in this conversation with him; I was forced to reply; like clicking the ‘Accept’ on a ‘Policy and Rules’ question. You don’t want to accept, you just have to get to the end.
“Let me guess, you’re not even from Denver either, are you?” He waited for me to say, no, but I didn’t respond. “No shit, I didn’t think so!” His voice was getting higher, and his breath was strong and violent. The stench of cigarettes and a sum of twenty beers came from, what I presumed to be, his mouth; it was hot, thick breath. “Why are you even cheering for those clowns?”
“I just watch the sport; I like many teams, okay?. I choose a team I like most.” I have ignored every eye contact that he has given me, and still he hasn’t looked away.
He shook his head and asked for another beer, the bartender said, “You’ve had one too many, already. You know I can’t over serve.” A silent pause stood between the two, as the fat-man got restless. “Go pass out somewhere else.” The bartender suggested.
The fat man replied, “Don’t be a bitch like Bronco over here.” He looked at me angrily. The fat-man stood up from his barstool, but really dropped from his barstool, and stared at the side of my face. “Say, ‘you like the Hawks,’ Now!”
“I don’t think so big guy. Why don’t you sit down, before you hurt yourself?” It’s something about a drunk idiot that I cannot explain. They seem to excuse every level of decency, and they just follow their ignorance.
“I’ve never hurt myself a day in my life” His speech started to get slurry.
I assumed it to be the fat-man’s friend, stood up quickly and grabbed his shoulder and sat him down, “Sorry about that.” He said. The fat-man sitting a few barstools down.
My wife grabbed me and we left.
Give me you feedback! I wrote this for my Creative Writing class, and I want to see if it is okay.