Open Writing

In the pub a chap I've never seen before says, 'Who's that geezer over there?' He does a sort of back flip of his head.

'Oh, him,' I say, 'that's the geezer who looks after the geysers.'

'What do you mean, geysers?'
'The geysers on the waste land outside the town. You must have seen them.'

'No, I've never seen them.'

'You should get out more,' I say, leaning on the bar, sipping my pint.

'And what does that geezer over there do to the geysers?'

'Do to them?'

'Yes, do to them or with them or for them?'

'Hey, what are you, a reporter or something?'

'I work in an office, that's all.'

'Well,' I say, 'he scoops up dirt into his earth mover and dumps it on any geyser that spouts and by the time he's stopped that one spouting another one starts to spout, so all day long he's -'

'Yes,' the man says, 'I get the picture, thank you, but what I want to know is why the geysers spout in the first place.'

'Ah,' I say, 'they spout in order to give the geezer over there something to do and then in the evening he can come back here and enjoy his pint after a fair day's work for a fair day's pay.'

'Now let me get this straight,' the man says, 'are you implying that the geysers don't spout when he's not there? Is that what you're saying?'

I stare at him with contempt and hope it shows.

'Yes,' I say, 'that's exactly what I am saying.'

He twitches.

'So what's wrong,' I ask, 'do you have a problem with it or something?'

He looks down at my steel-capped boots.
'No, mate,' he says, 'no problem at all.'