Lloyd 2.1

Smelly Paul

Scott Lundrigan
‘LLoyd’ by Scott Lundrigan
8 min readMar 29, 2014

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2.1 Smelly Paul

Lloyd was capable of doing things out of character, but only when he was alone and off his face. A few weeks ago Jess visited her brother for the weekend and on the Friday Lloyd stayed in with Yep, drinking wine and eating cheese.

Yep didn’t criticize or ridicule him. Her quiet affirmation was consistent whether he was making an astute observation on the political climate, a critical point of view about the state of reality TV or an “I knew it” as regards the latest celebrity pedophile revelation.

“Who’s your favourite pedo then?”

One of the UK’s better known deceased pedophiles

“Yep!!!”

Alone with the dog he’d get lost in personal, playful worlds; without rules or boundaries or naysayers railing against his natural creative energy. He kept a folder full of printer paper under the mattress in the bedroom, which he extracted on nights like this. He’d make up comic strips and characters, write poetry and stories, paint and draw pictures, keeping finished results in art folders at the back of his wardrobe. Having Yep there as a drinking companion gave him an excuse to go out of a night too. She generally had to do her final ablutions between ten and eleven which was ideal for people watching.

The surrounding area had an abundance of student flats. He’d see pissed youngsters using the road he lived on as a thoroughfare and envy them. They were a constant reminder of everything he’d missed as a young man and he often felt when drunk — that if he could get near enough — some elixir-of-life magic would rub off and connect him to the rest of the universe.

The typical British student will often fall asleep at 3pm in an empty ‘bottle-nest’ with a cone on his head.

As he walked aimlessly, he looked in every window that wasn’t obscured by a curtain or blinds.

Why was watching the lives of others so important?

Why was it comforting, no safe, to know that everyone did the same thing at the same time for the same reason every single night?

“Awwwwww he’s so cute,” said a couple of young girls passing by hand in hand. He’d done half a bottle of vodka in the house as well as wine. Now he had a hip flask in his anorak.

The wind picked up.

“Thank you” he mouthed, with wet wob-sided smiles. He was so drunk. He really wanted to flirt, but no.

The building at the end of the street used to be a pub. It was on the corner of queen’s park road and elm grove and had been renovated into student flats. Through the basement windows he could see people in what he supposed was a living room. There was a steady stream of bodies coming and going from in and around the building.

The people at the front porch didn’t seem to mind as Lloyd passed through with his dog. If this was the kind of party where no one really knew each other then it bode well for him. Maybe he could blend in and chat aimlessly till he grew tired… tell brain finally…’shut off for the night’.

He made his way through the lobby, on into the kitchen, stealthily taking beers before sitting.

“Is that your dog”, said someone.

Lloyd hoped he wasn’t about to get kicked out. The voices owner was heavily acne’d, had both eyes closed, hinting at severe sight problems. He was on a plastic chair, stooped, gnarled and overweight in second hand clothes, with a backpack and a T-shirt that said ‘Miami Beach’. Despite being aged between 18 and 25 he looked like he’d had a hard paper round. Lloyd thought they’d met before…

Noteable reference to Miami beach even though the T-shirts owner has never ventured further than London unchaperoned.

“Is that you’re dog?” he said again

…his clothes needed washed, as did his face; eyes crusting, hair greasy, brittle and uncombed. There were faint whiffs of shit coming off of him.

“Yes it is”

“Is it a boy?”

“No…do you not recognize me, you come into the shop don’t you? Sometimes?” said Lloyd, but the man wasn’t listening.

“Is it a girl?” continued the man, staring at Yep.

“Yes”

“And what’s her name”

“Yep”

“What is it though, her name?”

“Yep, It’s Yep”

“What’s her name” he said again.

Lloyd thought the best way to end the conversation would be to give her a generic dog name that could be understood or pronounced without the need to ask any more questions.

“It’s Bella, her name is Bella”

“And can I hold her?”

“No, Not really”

“Why?”

“Because she doesn’t like being held”

“And does she bite?”

“Yes, yes she does”

Two or three people came into the kitchen; one of them started petting Yep, picking her up for cuddles and making a fuss. Lloyd felt bad for lying about her but the man didn’t seem to notice. The little sight he had use of was being utilized to stare at a clock.

“What time is it?” He said to no one in particular.

No reply.

Perhaps everyone was already accustomed to the incessant questioning.

“No-ones answering me”, still whining, still fishing.

Then

“Why’s no-one answering me……..What am I supposed to doooooo?”

Lloyd remembered whenever this man came in the shop to make a payment for his TV, his carer did all the talking for him — like a translator — presumably to avoid disgruntlement. Where was he now?

Had this man escaped? Like a bear? From the zoo?

That’s not PC.

“Its ten past eleven” Lloyd gave in.

“What eleven ten?”

“Yes”

“Ten past eleven then”

“Yes”

That was enough.

“But the clock says Eleven eleven?”

A ruggedly handsome, imposing tree of a man entered the kitchen. The owner or renter of the premises, presumably.

“Are you with him…?” he said to Lloyd, pointing at the bear.

“…He’s been sitting there all night asking people questions but nobody knows who the hell he is. Look, I know he’s not “well” or he has a condition or something but you’re going to have to take him home because he’s upset a few folk, right?”

“I don’t…”

He left.

Lloyd sat in silence. It was just him and… Paul?, if he wasn’t mistaken.

They looked at each other uncomfortably, on and off.

“I need to get to a bus stop but I can’t see the bus times properly, would you be able to help meee?” Paul held onto the last syllable and let his voice hike up an octave, as if words pained him. It was irritating.

Lloyd let particles collide for a moment.

“Ok I’ll walk you to the bus stop”

“Not yet”

“When then?”

After five minutes of sitting in silence — for no reason whatsoever — they left. Lloyd now felt sober. Yep ran alongside him with an item in her mouth she’d found on the ground. He hoped it was something nice. He was in no mood for extracting sanitary towels or diapers from her hairy boatrace.

A present from Yep (xmas 2013)

Lloyd examined the smelly enigma astride him.

“How did you end up in that house, Paul”?

“I got lost. And were you walking your dog tonight?”

“Yes Paul”

“What at the party?” “And do you take your dog to parties…?”

He had him there.

“…How often do you walk her, is she your dog”

“Often and Yes”

“And can I hold her?”

“Paul, I already told you before…”

“And what time is it?”

“It’s half past eleven”

“Eleven thirty?”

Paul itched his scrotum through his tracksuit bottoms.

“Yes” said Lloyd

“Half eleven then?”

“Yes”

“But the clock on my phone says…”

“Paul..!”

“What?”

“Leave it”.

The bus stop that Paul was leading them to seemed needlessly far and Lloyd wondered why he hadn’t picked an earlier one on the same route. Yep was flagging, stopping whenever she got bored, so eventually, Lloyd picked her up. When they finally reached the stop, Paul slumped himself down and squinted up at the sign.

“I can’t see it” he said. He slobbered a lot when he talked. Lloyd wished he had tissues or a muzzle for him.

Not PC

“Well if you tell me where it is that you want to go then I can give you an idea of the times?” he offered.

“You’ll need to stay with me or how will I know its came?”

“You can ask the bus driver”

“And how will he know?”

What does that even mean?

Lloyd was tired. If it transpired the bus was going back in the direction of his house (which he wasn’t going to rule out) then maybe it’d drop him and Yep home along the way.

All the buses in Brighton carry photographs of confused giant people on the side.

They waited for an age and Lloyd’s house was en route, thank God. Alighting, Lloyd had a word to the bus driver, told him where Paul needed off and asked him if he could notify the breathing burden when he arrived just in case he forgot or fell asleep.

*

It was hitting 2pm, and there hadn’t been much headway statistically. Sharon eyed him from the office for the hundredth time.

“You know what Lloyd, if this is what its’ going to be like with you all day, we may as well call it quits now, yeah?”

“I’m trying my best Sharon, I’ve made the effort to come in today unlike some people and we’ve only been in a few hours.”

“Well it’s not fuckin good enough, how long have you been in this job and you can’t even make a fuckin phone-call properly? I’ve been listening to you all day and you’re pathetic”

“It’s not my job to call them” he said in as calm a tone as he could muster, but it seemed to make her more irate. He made a ninth cup of tea.

She followed him with her good eye.

“You know what Lloyd, just go fucking home like everyone else, I’ll do it meself”

Oh yeah, you can my book LLoyd on Amazon for £1.80 GBP or $2.99 USD

An absolute steal. Should be charging more really.

Anyway, Just type ‘Scott Lundrigan’ into the Search Engine… Or ‘Lloyd’.

Cheers.

Bye.

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