Perhaps this will turn out to be a fruitless endeavour, but I rather like to think that my writing has improved in the several years in which I’ve been practicing. Many may disagree, but hardly anyone reads any of what I’ve written any way, so to the person sitting at the back of the hall heckling to their hearts content, I say this: I’m doing my best.

This is a rewrite of the opening scene of my very long forgotten work, published on this blog as The Job Scene 1. It did evolve from the three scenes published here into a 50,000 word … thing … but despite my best efforts of turning it into something decent1, Reading it back I have realised how amateurish and quick the writing is. What better way of measuring progress than to compare oneself to ones own historical attempts?

Standing in the rain opposite the coffee shop, all I could think about was the rain dripping down the inside of my jacket collar, and the conspicuousness of a man such as me loitering on a street corner. One of those I could fix, the other I could not. There’s not a part of that street that had a better view of the door to that coffee shop and no one told me who to meet, just that I’d know him when I saw him. Not the most useful tip off at the best of times.

After an hour of standing around, the water soaking through my shoulders, a man approached the door. Jeans, t-shirt, leather jacket, short brown hair. Could be anyone, but what struck me was a slight stretching of his jacket as he raised his hand to open the door. That man was carrying. If he didn’t want to hear about the shit that I slinging, then I didn’t know who would.

After a few more minutes — enough time to let him order and find himself a seat — I made my way over the road into the shop. It was a cookie-cutter Starbucks inside. Baristas up the front, yelling out names and pouring coffee at an ungodly rate, a short line of customers waiting to order and one guy at the front of the queue who seemed intent on ruining everyone’s day as he constructed a drink from every extra on the menu. There were a few customers sitting in, some with laptops open, convincing themselves that they could still work in such an environment while scrolling social media on their phones.

My guy had disappeared, but there were stairs at the far end so no doubt he was making himself comfortable up there. Odd decision for a man with a weapon. Felt like he was backing himself into a corner.

Took a few more minutes to get my order, after the queue blockage cleared and the guy walked away with a two-foot tall mountain of cream and sugar. I gave them a fake name, of course, in case any thing went south in my discussion with my guy.

Upstairs was same spread out tables and coffee-themed artwork. There were a handful of customers dotted around, but I spotted my guy sitting on the far side, facing the stairs. He had a broadsheet spread before him on the table.

Time to go to work.

Making like I’m surprised, and spreading the biggest, cheesiest grin, I approached him directly.

“John?” I said through grinning teeth, “is that you? Christ, it’s been a good few years, mate, how have you been?” I’d like to thank the academy.

Credit to him, he cottoned on instantly. “Bloody hell, Steve, didn’t expect to run into you in a place like this. I’m doing well, you know, keeping things ticking over.” He gestured to the empty seat opposite and cleared away his newspaper.

Shit-eating grin still on my face, I took up his offer, setting my coffee down in front of me. He was a slim man, unassuming, you wouldn’t pick him out of a crowd. Only thing that gave him away was a neat scar just under his eye. War wound perhaps?

He smiled at me, but it was the kind of soulless smile that didn’t touch his eyes. It was a look to make weaker men weep, a look that said: who the fuck are you and why the fuck are you here?

I lowered my voice, “Grapevine tells me you have work?”

He nodded, “Aye, usual kind of job for a usual kind of fee.”

Spot on. Enough to get my foot in the door and my pockets lined. I could prove I was hot shit, but without any of the stress of something more complicated.

“Who’s the mark?” I said.

“Look, hands on the table, you’re not getting my best,” his voice was friendly but firm, like your favourite school teacher giving you a bollocking for not paying attention. He retrieved a small notebook out of his inside jacket pocket and revealed a flash of pistol grip hidden in his waistband. Might have been intentional, but I kept his gaze as if I hadn’t seen it.

“I’ve got a nurse, a police officer, and a house husband.” He flicked through a few pages. Slim pickings.

“C’mon mate, only those three? You don’t know who I am, so I can forgive you that, but I’m good for the work. You’ve got to have something better?”

His smile evaporated, “first off, I am not your mate and I am not your friend. We’re not about to make some cocoa and braid each other’s hair. Get that shit out of your head right now. Some friend of yours told you I was here and suddenly I owe you a good mark? No, you get the dregs until you prove to me you aren’t some jumped up little shit. Or you can fuck off and I can give it to the next of my punters.” He gestured behind me, where two people looked over at us. Looked like I jumped the queue.

“You think just because you found me I’m supposed to think you’re billy big-bollocks? Nah, I’ll give you a job and see what happens. Quite frankly, mate, you are nothing to me.”

For a moment we were locked in a staring match. Who the fuck did he think he was? But I would prove it to him, I’d get the job done, better than any of his other punters and certainly better than him.

“Fair enough,” I said finally, “give me the husband.”

“Excellent choice,” he said snapping back to a friendly voice. He ripped a page from the notebook and slid it across the table to me. I leaned forward to read it.

Jonathan Ponting, 35, 9 Blackbird Av. 300 lb/d

Christ, this guy moved more product in a day than I’d seen in my six months in the business. My new employer noticed my surprise as I whistled quietly through my teeth.

“Yeah, not one to fuck around with,” he said.

“And this is one of your easy jobs?”

“Yep. He shifts a lot of gear, but he won’t put up much, especially if he has his kid over. You should be able to get it done quickly and quietly, and if not —“ he shrugged, “— you’ll be out of a job.”

With a nod, I returned to my smily Oscar-winning long-lost-friend persona. “Great to see you mate, good to catch up, maybe I’ll see you here next week?”

He smiled again and shook my hand, “Office hours are ten-thirty ’til four.”

The note disappeared into my pocket as I finished the rest of my brew. I was down the stairs and out the door into the rain before he could say another word. One house husband in the suburbs and I’d be back on the payroll. It would be easy.

Jury’s out on whether that’s actually any better. It’s still perhaps a little too quick and short, but to me it feels a bit tighter, with less “I did this…” “I did that…” and more showing instead of telling. Maybe in a year I’ll do The Job Scene 1 Redux Redux just to really labour the point.

  1. It turned from a man intimidating smugglers, to a smuggler trying to smuggle propaganda into a dystopian Britain, to a smuggler trying to smuggle children out of a dystopian Britain. It became too stale over the many years I’ve worked on it, but it has served its purpose of teaching me how I write. ↩︎