Just a Holy Fool

It was the beginning of a Highland summer and I was grateful for the cool breeze that swept though the foyer every time a guest walked through the door. I had forgone my lunch break and begged my manageress to come in an hour early so I could catch a little sun during an afternoon rendezvous with friends. However, I had an hour left on duty and spent it chatting cheerily with some very English tourists and indulging them in my charming tcheucter accent which I had adopted especially for such situations.
I had parcelled out a few signature phrases like “If you expect rain then you won’t be disappointed” and the guests revelled in the Scotttish-ness of it all. Before I knew it, my manageress: Chaz, walked in and relieved me of my duty, with my best friend: Alice, bringing up the rear.
“Jo, can we go?” Alice whined and stomped, picking up my bag, rustling through until she found my rolling tobacco and leaving me no excuse for delaying her any further than my shift already had done.
“OK, OK, I’m on it.” I pulled myself from behind the desk, passed on the messages to Chaz and waved goodbye to the guests, following a very impatient Alice through the hotel and out to staff accommodation. I rolled and lit a cigarette en route, and muttered something about needing to quit smoking. Alice scoffed and turned for a moment as if she’d wait with me, then she smiled and ran from under the smoking shelter and over to the staff block, she snorted when she saw me cast a mock angry glare her way and flipped her curly, platinum blonde hair over her shoulder in return, flashing me that winning smile. I cursed her and giggled, sitting down to enjoy my smoke and get my head in gear for dealing with the hyperactive, stroppy, little friend of mine.

I quickly changed out of my uniform, much to Alice’s approval and she touched up my blusher while I brushed out my honey blonde tresses. We were soon in and out of the taxi and basking in the sunlight with our store-bought picnic and drinks, watching the loch rise and fall against the pier. A few friends had joined us in the town ‘to get the craic’ before they left for a birthday party some ten miles away. So, Alice and I packed up our rubbish – we’re glitterbugs not litterbugs – and found a bin on our way down the high street.
“So, we’ve to hit the chemist, buy tights, vanilla essence and at least two boxes of chai teabags at the rate we’re annihilating them.” I recapped our shopping list. Alice grabbed my arm, a stern look on her face.
“Oh, no, Joanne, we’ll need, at the very least: four boxes.” She grinned and I laughed in agreement, suddenly interrupted by my phone ringing. I picked it up, having recognised the hotel’s number.
“Hello, Joanne O’Connor speaking, the best receptionist in Scotland’s worst hotel. Did I mention my manager’s a bitch?” I answered in my most sing-song voice.
“Aye, fuck off you mad wee cow. Are you with Alice?” Chaz laughed at herself as I groaned in annoyance and handed the phone to Alice. I then zoned out – I needn’t ever eavesdrop on Alice because she couldn’t bear to keep secrets from me – and I patiently waited to be filled in. I was awoken by my phone prodding me in the face at the hands of Alice,
“Jack’s sick, I need to go in to work. So much for our shopping, eh?” Alice muttered and swivelled in the direction of the nearest taxi rank.
“Ali, you’re half-drunk, you can’t work bar!” I protested, knowing full well that she could be out of her eyeballs on heroin, riddled with bullet-holes and headless but still provide a more than adequate level of friendly, professional service. She threw me a cynical look,
“You think? Well, you can tell the ninety guests we have in tonight that the bar will be closed.” Alice smirked and I let my expression drop for dramatic effect, visibly apprehensive about being bludgeoned to death by the elderly armed with walking sticks.
“Well, when you put it that way… I think you’d better go to work, Ali, I’ll stay and get the shopping… see you tonight.” I pouted and hugged Alice quickly goodbye, as we both clocked a taxi pulling up in the rank across the street. She darted off towards it at, well, short-legged speed and I began rummaging through my bag in search of the evil list of dreaded lonely grocery procuring. I found it in my leather jacket breast pocket. Hooray for Jo.

Finally, after what felt like hours of trudging up and down and back up chemist and supermarket aisles the list was complete, and for a little “Well done, Jo!” reward I carried myself to my favourite watering hole, lovingly rechristened ‘The Scary’ for a celebratory bourbon and coke. Laden with bags I made it through the iron gates without puncturing anything, survived the serial killer steps that had nearly claimed my life on many a drunken night and fought brazenly against the door handle with my plastic-wrapped hands until the doorman came to my rescue. My saviour opened the portal into this modern day medieval tavern with a knowing look shot kindly in my direction. I grinned thankfully at him, and when he winked I knew I was home. I perched myself up at the bar and surrendered my bags at my feet. The barman - whose name was on the tip of my tongue but just beyond my memory’s reach – turned to me and smiled, cleaning glasses atop the counter.
“I would like two Jim Beams and coke, please. No ice.” I pulled my purse out and counted the exact amount on the bar before he had to ask. I welcomed my first drink briefly, throwing it back like a professional, but that’s where my technical ability ends. I could stomach the taste and never throw up, but I have no alcohol tolerance whatsoever and I’m the first to admit that I turn very quickly into a very giddy drunk. I sourced my tobacco and began hand-rolling a cigarette, and happy for my poisonous little nicotine treat I hopped off the barstool, narrowly missing an innocent, defenceless box of chai and made my way to the front door to light up.

Pause for thought. Here’s a little soliloquy from your narrator:

Ahem, thank you.
I’d say I live my life with my head in the sand, but that just wouldn’t cover it. I, in fact, blindly wander day-to-day forever in a three-legged-race with my best friend. And when her ankle isn’t bound to mine and she isn’t yelling directions in my ear I really struggle to function. Thus, my internal navigation systems fail and I drift off into my thoughts, like what’s happening here.

That’s when - after miraculously escaping the door – between trying to light my cigarette and walk, I ended up thrusting myself into the chest of a strange man. I yelped in shock then looked up to see a man, perhaps not as strange as one might’ve hoped. To add insult to his injury my apology was delayed as I stared intently into the painfully blue eyes of Norman Reedus, no doubt furrowing my brows and half-glaring, determining whether it was actually him or if I was just hallucinating. He cocked an eyebrow confusedly and I fell out of myself laughing and braced myself against the wall in the narrow alleyway. He took a step nearer cautiously, as if approaching a lion with dementia.
“Hey, sorry. Are you okay?” Norman’s familiar voice and soft accent confirmed my fears. I composed myself.
“Mmm, yes.” I replied slowly and lowly, as was my custom in awkward situations, and my most prominent personality trait became apprehension. I drew a long breath from my cigarette. Norman chuckled and I was taken aback by how adorable his laugh was and mentally scolded myself. I hate fangirls. He turned his head and gazed down the alley and smoked quietly opposite me. With a sigh and a quick glance at me, as if he had something to say, he finally mustered the will to break the ice.
“It looks like rain.” Norman said, tearing his eyes from the mountainous skyline and looked to me for a reply. I have a perverse, cruel and sarcastic sense of humour, so I could barely contain myself. Having stifled a cackle, I kept my eyes low and my voice level, but the smile I tried to hide was pulling at my lips.
“Do you know where you are, darling? It always rains. Always. And if you’re lost, the U.S. is that way.” I said, pointing lazily to the west. It was no use, I smirked at him, and he smiled a little with the cigarette between his lips, never breaking eye contact. There was something above and beyond the dialogue, some common wisdom, and he knew I knew exactly who he was. He knew I wasn’t mocking his accent or his nationality, but my own habitat and how isolated and obscure it must seem to someone like him. There was a look in his eye, not of attraction, but of understanding. And I had never felt so compelled to know someone in my life. I sighed as I crossed Norman’s line of sight to press my finished cigarette into the wall-mounted ashtray. I felt his eyes follow me and felt unshakeably vulnerable.
“Look, I chatter incessantly when I’m nervous, and you’ve made me suddenly very self-conscious of the sound of my own voice, so you could at least have the decency to buy me a drink and calm these nerves.” I commanded shakily. Norman’s grin widened.
“Of course, I owe you at least that for showing me the way home. After you,” he stubbed his cigarette and held the door open for me, showing no sign of revolt as I accidentally brushed up against him walking past. He moved quickly behind me and closed the space between us. “Don’t be self-conscious, I love your voice.”
I turned and raised an eyebrow questioningly as we reached the bar.
“Everyone up here sounds like this.” I told him. Norman narrowed his eyes,
“Not the accent, I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s great. But your voice is...” He whispered loudly enough for only me to hear and trailed off when he caught the barman’s attention.
“Drew!” That was the barman’s name I’d just yelled in happy remembrance. Drew laughed,
“I’ll be with you in a sec, Joanne, I’ll just serve this gentleman first” Drew then faced Norman and greeted him just as I interjected with
“Ha. Don’t let him fool you, it’s all an act.” I took a sip from my long-standing Jim Beam and scrunched my nose at its warmth. The two men looked at me incredulously and I shrugged and battled on with my room-temperature beverage. I surrendered and launched myself up on to the bar, leaning across on my stomach, reaching for the ice bucket to quench my need for something cold. Dropping three ice cubes, pausing and throwing in an extra one in my drink for luck, I turned to Norman and grinned. He cast a glance around the room, and I gathered my bags while his attention was directed elsewhere, and relocated myself in a corner booth, suddenly in full view of him as he his eyes locked back on mine. I gave him as huge a smile as I could muster, and leaned back against the wall, my legs up on the seat and ankles crossed, heels hanging off the edge. He must have found some aspect of my pose inviting because he turned to Drew, muttered thanks and crossed the room to my dark little corner, placing his drink on the table and sitting across from me, clearing his throat and resting his elbows on the table. I shot him a sideways glance and failed to hide my interest.
“So, Joanne, tell me something about yourself nobody else knows?” He asked, portraying absolute sincerity.
I was in shock. How the fuck does someone like me answer a question like that from someone like him?