Charley Mitchell the Bar Stool {Part 11}
by phill
(My apologies for the delay in getting part 11 written and posted, Christmas has a habit of getting in the way of things. Anyway, without further ado we return to the adventures of Charley and Dave!)
‘Tomorrow?’ asked Dave,
sharply. ‘Tomorrow I’ve got work. I do have a livelihood to maintain, you know. I’m not a complete slob.’
Charley had wondered how Dave kept his refrigerator stocked full of gourmet foods. ‘What is it you do?’ he asked.
Dave replied through a mouthful of stuffed olives. ‘I’m a social worker. I help people who are seeking benefits from the government to fill out the necessary forms. Dot the i’s and cross the t’s, that sort of thing.’ He swallowed the olives with a look of relish and continued. ‘It can get very confusing for those who aren’t accustomed to it. There’s a lot of jargon, and most people who need assistance aren’t the most well-versed in navigating paper trails.’ Dave waited for Charley to give a critique of his workplace, but when it wasn’t forthcoming he grinned. ‘Didn’t see that coming, did you?’
Charley had to admit he hadn’t. He had expected a more menial labour to occupy Dave’s working week. ‘Wouldn’t that mean that you have been trained as some kind of lawyer?’
‘Correct!’ exclaimed Dave, leaning his head back and letting thinly sliced ham unfold from his fingers into his mouth. ‘I graduated from university with a bachelor’s degree in law. Unfortunately you know how it is with such occupations. Only the top dogs get through to the really glamorous jobs. The rest of the bell curve must find stable work and employ themselves the best they can.’
‘Of course. But surely you might have accrued some time off in your term of service?’
‘Would that I had. I have a tendency to need mornings off for emergency situations. As a result, I don’t have any funds left in that particular chronological bank.’
‘Emergency situations? What the hell do you call this then, a normal occurrence? What emergencies have you had to attend that have caused you to lose the privilege of calling in sick?’
‘My grandparents dying, a house fire, severe pneumonia, burglaries, a flooded apartment, two broken bones, a manic-depressed brother, do I need to go on?’
Charley’s tone softened. ‘Please excuse me, I didn’t realise. I’m so sorry.’
Dave’s eyebrows raised as he took a bite out of a thawing roast chicken. ‘You needn’t be, I made them all up. They were all excuses for hangovers. When you have a hangover you don’t feel like doing anything, especially not things that require squinting at small print and trying to communicate with imbeciles. So nowadays when I need to call in sick, I need to provide watertight proof otherwise they just won’t believe me.’
All sympathy Charley might have had for Dave evaporated. ‘Hangovers? You abused your employers kindness for the sake of hangovers? Don’t you ever think of what the future may hold? Do you not have plans past your next drink?’
Dave snorted. ‘For a start, you’ve obviously never worked a government job if you immediately employ the notion of “employer kindness”. Furthermore, I do make plans, but in this case they didn’t quite extend to include the possibility of you showing up. And now that you mention it, I feel like a drink might help me digest some of this.’ He waved his hand to encompass the massive pile of food on the kitchen counter. He walked over to Charley and calmly picked him up, ignoring Charley’s protests as he set him down and used him as a stepladder to reach the cupboards that sat above the stove-top’s hood. From the cupboards he retrieved a bottle of what looked to be very fine whiskey and a small leather case, and set them on the table. Stepping down from Charley, he undid a fasten on the front of the case and opened it to reveal a pile of handwritten scrawl on variously sized scraps of paper and notebooks. He looked at the pile of food awaiting him before rustling up a lowball tumbler from underneath the sink and pouring himself a measure of the whiskey. He sipped slowly at it, obviously savouring the flavour as he perused the myriad torn book pages and hastily scribbled instructions that spilled over the table. As he browsed he moved the displaced foodstuffs into little piles, grouping them according to recipes he was thinking about following. Every now and then he would cluck through his teeth as he realised he didn’t have enough of one thing or another. Charley watched on with interest. His earlier suspicions had been correct, this was Dave doing what Dave did best.
Related posts: