Page 8 of Sorry, We're Closed

With over an hour to spare until I’m due to open, I slide my book out from the back of the shelves hidden under the coffee machines, and begin to flick through the chapters, desperate to know when he’s going to kiss this goddamn boy. Maybe today might be a good day after all.

Four

Avory

It’s official, unpacking is my least favourite part of this lifestyle. Packing can be fun, because I can pop up the boxes, tape them together, cover Marcus’ face in tape when he's not looking, and then throw all my things into any box, and call it a day.

Nonetheless, all the unpacking is finished, all the boxes are folded up and stored in the van for our next venture, and Marcus is headfirst in the fridge, cracking open two beers. I fear for his teeth whenever he couldn’t find a bottle opener, but they somehow remain pearl-like and perfect.

“To us! We did it again!” Marcus’ deep voice booms as we clink our bottles together, half of his disappearing within one swig.

I have always dragged behind Marcus when it comes to drinking, but I will never turn down the familiar warmth of this liquid gold. I could never explain why, but I could only ever stomach beer when it was in a glass bottle, rather than a can or poured fresh at a bar.

There have been too many times where someone has bought me a pint of this, that or the other, but I had to slide it over to Marcus, which he always found entertaining. This soothing feeling is abruptly interrupted by a rumbling sensation festering in both of our stomachs. We glance at each other, wondering if the other heard it as well.

“Bud, we haven’t eaten today.”

Our eyeline moves to the bottles on the counter and then back to each other. Marcus carries himself to the fridge, which appeared empty, but he feels the need to shut it and open it again, hoping something would appear.

“Avory, tomorrow, you, me, shopping.”

“Marcus, tonight, you, me, dinner, what?”

Marcus slaps his pockets until reaching his back pocket, pulling out his deep chocolate, leather wallet and hands over a few notes to me.

“I don’t know Marcus; it might take a bit more convincing for me to keep drinking on an empty stomach.”

Marcus rolls his eyes at me as he approaches.

“Ah, my dear Avory, maybe you should watch your bottle more, because you’re not drinking anything, son.”

My eyes dart to the counter to see one empty bottle and my bottle in Marcus’ hand. He wiggles his eyebrows before sipping. I couldn’t figure out when or how he managed to do that without me knowing.

“If you don’t mind, could you run down and get us some take out please? Anything you stumble upon first, it’s a Friday night, everything will be open.”

“Yes, grease sounds incredible right now!” I grab my platform boots and begin lacing them up, the extra height bringing me close to Marcus’ eyeline.

“Avory, please get going, seeing you my height makes me want to squish you to when you were ten-years-old again.”

“Ugh, whatever, Dad. Back in a bit,” I mock Marcus as I salute two fingers and grace the streets of Tetherton.

While he is my uncle, he’s always had a fatherly role in my life. Marcus feels it as well, or so he’s mentioned quietly before, yet we have this silent agreement that while he may play the uncle, father, big brother figure in my life, my real father, his brother, is still out there somewhere.

Marcus always said that he could never face his older brother again if we ever saw him, knowing that I adopted him as my dad, but he also never declined our bond or our agreement. I respect him massively for the change that I brought to his life.

Following the falling path down Tetherton’s high street, I begin to make a mental map of everything that surrounds us. Many chain grocers with neon signs plant themselves in between the pastel coloured, family run businesses like jewellers, bakeries, and cafés.

An array of white, blues, and greens flood the streets while the bold interruptions of black and khaki-coloured pubs and bars, all with silver and golden floodlights and signs outside, barge their way into my eyeline.

These pubs, amongst the many others, are going to be our stages for a while, so it only feels right to sneak a peek inside. I peer into the windows of some of the bustling pubs, piercing singing and cheering pouring out of the front doors, beers being tossed into the air before splashing across the hardwood floors.

Tall, burly bar men with beards down to their chests, their heads rolling between customers justifying why they were out at this time of day, serving pint after pint to the people who only get giddier with every gulp.

Marcus would love this; Marcusdoeslove this. It’s the “Not a care in the world, everyone is friends with everyone, just getting drunk on pure happiness” environment which he loves. This is the audience we play for; we do what we do for them. I feel the excitement spark within me, ready for our first show with the people of Tetherton, these people.

All these venues blend into one as tension builds in my stomach, having completely forgotten why I was sent out here. I pause to browse the street, eyeing up the catalogue of take-out options which we could eat at; kebabs, pizza, Chinese, Indian and a classic fish and chip bar, which stands out amongst them all. The grease and salt practically lacquered the brisk, evening air.

I must stop myself from dribbling as I head over to the dark blue chippy, the white tiles and walls highlighted by the harsh, flickering overhead lights. The silver counter mirrors anyone close by and as I approach, a figure in all black forms in the metal.

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