“Those people wouldn’t know artistic integrity if it jumped out of a hedge and bit them on their soft, dangly parts,” Doug said thoughtfully before returning to the moment. “Well, maybe that was a bit harsh.”
The pub was dark by this point. It was after 10pm, by which time the waitress had taken the helm at the dimmer switches and lowered the lights to approximately a shade darker than “Intimate” on the mood-lighting scale. Possibly closer to the “Hide the Rat-infested Filth” marker, in fact. Doug examined the pub.
A couple at the jukebox flipped endlessly through the albums, playing that back-and-forth game of finding out that their musical tastes don’t actually mesh completely when put in practice. This was quickly followed by a thinly-veiled struggle for dominance at the jukebox controls. In the end, war was averted because he had the loose change to pay for it – so they compromised and she chose the songs.
Next to them at the pool table was a foursome enjoying a game. Random chit-chat was punctated by the occasional explosion of laughter at a closely-missed shot. The waitress, Wendy, slipped past them, between the regulars, and back to the bar. Her trips were like little moonshots from the homebase of the bartop and out between the unheavenly bodies in seats. In and out she wound, dodging one and orbiting another, until she touched the far corner by the fireplace before falling gently back through the masses to terra firma for another pitcher or two.
Doug turned his attention to his companion in the booth. Bob’s head popped up over the edge of the table for a furtive, darting glance at the smoky environment. He then dropped back to his original pose with his head resting comfortably on his forepaws.
The conversation between them had almost dried completely, Doug realized, so he looked to tying things up.
“Let me tell you,” he temporized, “I have been to a lot of Ice Capades shows, and those sorry bastards wouldn’t know artistic integrity if it jumped out and bit them. And that would be a generous favour.”
By this time, Bob had completely lost interest and had burrowed his head into the safety of Doug’s burlap backpack. Inside the bag, the cat slithered in circle a couple of times before settling down carefully with his tail curled around and over his paws. His watchful eyes peered out the darkened opening.
Presently, the waitress docked herself at the table long enough to drop the carefully-folded tab before moving on. Glacing at the total, Doug grimaced. He dragged a couple of unwilling twenties from the safety of his wallet and threw their poor bodies onto the bonfire of his life.
“Well, Bob, it looks like we’ve used this place up.” With that, he slid free of the booth table and stood on slightly wobbly legs. “Come on, Bob.” Doug swung the pack up and over his left shoulder, making Bob emit a kind of indignant “Mwerp!”
Outside, the chill cut suddenly into him, and he pulled his coat closer to his body.
“Alright back there, Bob?” Doug called over his shoulder.
“Ow,” commented Bob.