Beasdale

by Sal

Beasdale, I can't stop thinking about Beasdale. He looks like Jesus but his hair is ginger. Long, ginger Jesus hair. I like him. But I can't help that.

I've never seen him in person. Just in a photo. He has a nice smile and a skinny demeanour. He likes to sit with his shirt off and eats his dinner like an express train. Beasdale is in my thoughts constantly. Beasdale says he is a retarded nerd. I told him I loved that type.

He just said, "Retarded nerds are for life, not just for shits."

I didn't really know what to say to that. So I told him I fancied Boris Becker. God, I reckon I love Beasdale. I think I'll tell him later. He wont believe me, he's already dropped a few inclinations that he doesn't believe a word I tell him.

He works in a bar in town, I don't know which one. I told him. I imagined it to be all dusty, like an old American type place, with dark corners for reading and mustard dome lights. I used to sit and think about Beasdale at work. Doing the crossword at the bar, or writing a poem. Gently giving out whisky and brandy to lovely girls with biros in their hair.

I told him that, he just said, "Don't get me started."

He likes a drop of scotch, he sneaks a few while he's at work, bolts them down.

I don't even know if Beasdale likes me.

I told him he was "Reassuringly familiar" the other day.

He replied, "That's nice to know."

I wanted more of a reaction than that, I'd just spilled my heart out, for gods sake. But that's Beasdale all over. Sometimes, I wait to see if he talks first. I can sit for hours, waiting. He calls me a llama or a donut quite often, I once asked him if these were affectionate terms.

He said, "It's just my script."

I invited Beasdale to meet me. He was away so I had to wait patiently for a reply. When he got back, he asked if I was taking the piss and asked if my name was really John. I thought I was going to choke on my apple juice. His words hurt and I didn't quite understand. I sulked for a while and told him so, that's the thing with Beasdale, you have to tell him everything. He just said that sulking was good, and I should go ahead. So I pretended I was Mrs Beasdale, wife not mother, drank some red wine and started saying my name like the kids do at school, in morning assembly.

"Goooood Moorrrrrrnnning Mrssss Beeeeeeeeeeaaaaasdaaaaaaaale." Obviously, he couldn't hear me.

Beasdale can draw, I've seen his pictures, he's shown me loads. He likes using charcoal. He showed me this picture of a pot doll he had drawn with its eyes missing.

I didn't like it, I told him so, "It's good, I just don't like the content."

He paused before he wrote, " Syaafe o tronic." and sent me another.

Beasdale's quite good like that, he never takes things to heart, he just gets on with it. I once asked him if he was crying on the floor, when I told him I didn't like one of his paintings.

He just said, "There's lots of crumbs on my floor."

I told him that didn't answer my question. He's bloody like that, Beasdale, you can never get a straight answer out of him.

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