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fellowshippers2004-06-20 06:56 pm
glasgow-blue.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2004-06-20 06:56 pm
Naked Lunch
For jerel: blue, plate, special
Title: Naked Lunch
Word count:525
Disclaimer: I. Am. Making. This. Shit. Up.
Crossposted:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
glasgow_blue
Feedback: Is welcome.
There's a girl at the next table with long red hair. She's reading a book, but Billy knows the game is already afoot--he's seen her sneaking glances across the spine. It's only a matter of time before she'll come over with a pen and an out-stretched palm.
He sizes her up, glances at his watch, and makes a bet with himself. Six minutes. Maybe as many as eight if the waitress shows up at a critical juncture. Ten on the outside, with allowances for natural disaster, armed robbery, or the sudden arrival of Jesus on a motorbike.
She turns the page. Taps her foot. Takes a sip of tea from a pale blue mug. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
Billy turns to his menu. What he really wants is a proper order of fish and chips fresh out of the fryer and folded into yesterday's Globe. With a nice lager to cut the heft of the grease. What they've got is nothing close.
Five kinds of salad. Grilled salmon. Grilled chicken with basil and artichoke. Four kinds of low carb pasta. Low carb pasta? There is a sautéed grouper, but Billy makes a strict point of never eating a fish that is bigger than his own head. Especially if it isn't even fried. The only thing that even resembles chips are oven-roasted yam strips with a honey-ginger dipping sauce.
The waitress comes, but Billy waves her off. Instead, she clears the girl's table and plates clank, reminding him of his bet. Billy's fingers begin to twitch. It's a conditioned response. He sees a pretty girl and turns into one of Pavlov's dogs, salivating for the chance to smile, chat, and sign whatever gets put in front of him.
He can sign his name in his sleep now and has done so on more than one occasion--including an unfortunate incident at Dom's place that left one wall looking a bit like a public toilet stall.
Sometimes, he signs and signs and signs until the letters spell nothing at all. Until they become another language and Billy feels the need to ask for an interpreter. When that happens, he sits up late writing out anagrams of his name.
William Boyd
A BOLD WILY I AM
ADLIB WILY OM
BALD I WILY YOWL
A BLOW ID LIMY
He makes words and phrases until the letters make sense again. Until he can reclaim them.
Billy's watch chimes out the hour and he realizes that fifteen minutes have passed. He's lost the bet. Low carb pasta with chipotle chicken it is. In Scotland, they would at least have the common decency to batter and deep fry the poor bird.
The waitress is busy with a table of studio reps. The girl is still reading, but she's packing up her bag with one hand. Soon, then. On the way out.
Billy cracks his knuckles. Wonders what makes being in movies special enough that people want your autograph.
But she doesn't stop. She breezes by him with a bright smile and disappears out into the day, leaving only a slight whiff of citrus perfume.
When the waitress comes back, Billy orders the steak.
Title: Naked Lunch
Word count:525
Disclaimer: I. Am. Making. This. Shit. Up.
Crossposted:
glasgow_blueFeedback: Is welcome.
There's a girl at the next table with long red hair. She's reading a book, but Billy knows the game is already afoot--he's seen her sneaking glances across the spine. It's only a matter of time before she'll come over with a pen and an out-stretched palm.
He sizes her up, glances at his watch, and makes a bet with himself. Six minutes. Maybe as many as eight if the waitress shows up at a critical juncture. Ten on the outside, with allowances for natural disaster, armed robbery, or the sudden arrival of Jesus on a motorbike.
She turns the page. Taps her foot. Takes a sip of tea from a pale blue mug. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
Billy turns to his menu. What he really wants is a proper order of fish and chips fresh out of the fryer and folded into yesterday's Globe. With a nice lager to cut the heft of the grease. What they've got is nothing close.
Five kinds of salad. Grilled salmon. Grilled chicken with basil and artichoke. Four kinds of low carb pasta. Low carb pasta? There is a sautéed grouper, but Billy makes a strict point of never eating a fish that is bigger than his own head. Especially if it isn't even fried. The only thing that even resembles chips are oven-roasted yam strips with a honey-ginger dipping sauce.
The waitress comes, but Billy waves her off. Instead, she clears the girl's table and plates clank, reminding him of his bet. Billy's fingers begin to twitch. It's a conditioned response. He sees a pretty girl and turns into one of Pavlov's dogs, salivating for the chance to smile, chat, and sign whatever gets put in front of him.
He can sign his name in his sleep now and has done so on more than one occasion--including an unfortunate incident at Dom's place that left one wall looking a bit like a public toilet stall.
Sometimes, he signs and signs and signs until the letters spell nothing at all. Until they become another language and Billy feels the need to ask for an interpreter. When that happens, he sits up late writing out anagrams of his name.
William Boyd
A BOLD WILY I AM
ADLIB WILY OM
BALD I WILY YOWL
A BLOW ID LIMY
He makes words and phrases until the letters make sense again. Until he can reclaim them.
Billy's watch chimes out the hour and he realizes that fifteen minutes have passed. He's lost the bet. Low carb pasta with chipotle chicken it is. In Scotland, they would at least have the common decency to batter and deep fry the poor bird.
The waitress is busy with a table of studio reps. The girl is still reading, but she's packing up her bag with one hand. Soon, then. On the way out.
Billy cracks his knuckles. Wonders what makes being in movies special enough that people want your autograph.
But she doesn't stop. She breezes by him with a bright smile and disappears out into the day, leaving only a slight whiff of citrus perfume.
When the waitress comes back, Billy orders the steak.
no subject
And i really enjoy short fics ^.^
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I'm glad it worked for you. I was going for that "could've happened" feel. :)
no subject
the sudden arrival of Jesus on a motorbike.
Great line.
There is a sautéed grouper, but Billy makes a strict point of never eating a fish that is bigger than his own head.
::snort!!:: I have a great mental image of Bill picking up the grouper and comparing it to his head in a mirror to see if it's too big. He grimaces disapprovingly and sends it back. XD!
The bet and the name anagrams are great. I love it when you illustrate what makes your Billy tick.
Great writing, as always. ^_^
no subject
I am SO glad that my Billy rings true for someone who isn't me. {g}
I have a great mental image of Bill picking up the grouper and comparing it to his head in a mirror to see if it's too big. He grimaces disapprovingly and sends it back.
LOL!!!
no subject
no subject
Elliptical. Cool. {g}