“Fletch?”
“Smithy?”
The middle-aged man at the bar is Larry Smith. We haven’t met since high school.
I’d always regarded him as an empty-headed lout.
“Still got your long hair I see,” he says.
I recall how he’d taunt me with “bloody hippy” all those years ago.
“A teacher? You?” he says, boasting he’s retired after selling his successful dry-cleaning business.
A few beers on, he holds forth.
He now has opinions.
“Brexit keeps Britain British.” “Trump will preserve jobs.”
Blah, blah.
I humour him for another pint.
Making my excuses I leave, thinking “once a jerk always a jerk.”
“Smithy?”
The middle-aged man at the bar is Larry Smith. We haven’t met since high school.
I’d always regarded him as an empty-headed lout.
“Still got your long hair I see,” he says.
I recall how he’d taunt me with “bloody hippy” all those years ago.
“A teacher? You?” he says, boasting he’s retired after selling his successful dry-cleaning business.
A few beers on, he holds forth.
He now has opinions.
“Brexit keeps Britain British.” “Trump will preserve jobs.”
Blah, blah.
I humour him for another pint.
Making my excuses I leave, thinking “once a jerk always a jerk.”
