A Day In The Life Of Duncan Nesbitt (standard:humor, 2365 words)
Author: Hulsey	Added: Mar 14 2011	Views/Reads: 3062/1981	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
My attempt at comedy.

Today should have been a glorious day for me. The sun was shining, I had
my health, I loved my wife, and I was on my way to a new job. But it 
was not a good day. My sixteen years old daughter, Tricia had just 
relayed to me that she was pregnant! How could she? Well, I mean, I 
know how she could, but why? And with Charlie Frazer! Charlie fucking 
Frazer, goddamn it. Forest Gump was Einstein compared Charlie Frazer. I 
did not know it yet, but my day was going to get worse; a lot worse. 

Uncle Sam's was one of those new-fangled American theme bars that had
just opened on Tottenham Court Road. The pay was good, so I guess I was 
willing to put up with all the American crap; even going as far as 
wearing the stars and stripes waistcoat and red shirt, but I drew the 
line at wearing a top hat. 

My first impression as I walked through the front door of Uncle Sam's
was how tacky it was, but I have to admit, the furnishings were top 
class. A large, white, marble oval bar was set in the centre of the 
room. The customers as they did in America ,would sit around the bar if 
they so wished. I would get used to it I suppose. 

The manager, Mr Darcy, a young man not long out of school, greeted me. I
noticed immediately that he was not wearing one of those ridiculous 
waistcoats. I was introduced to Penny, a likeable, redheaded, short 
girl, who was constantly chewing gum of course. The numerous stars and 
stripes flags reflected in the global silver lights. This would take 
some getting used to. 

Darcy approached me. "Duncan, I have to be somewhere else, I'm afraid.
Open up in five minutes... Steve and Jenny should be here at any 
minute." 

I answered the telephone when Darcy departed. A meeting indeed! It was
Steve, phoning in to say that he was sick. That's all I needed on my 
first day. Well, I suppose it shouldn't be too busy, not on a Sunday 
afternoon. 

I opened up and a burly, shaven-headed man, who was wearing a white
vest, and his arms covered with tattoos, followed me in and immediately 
headed for the toilets. Only one customer. Perhaps it would be quiet 
after all. 

A small man, who was wearing a green tank-top entered the premises. He
looked to be in his fifties, was wearing spectacles, and sporting a 
Bobby Charlton haircut. 

"Yes, Sir, and what can I do you for?" I asked. 

“What can I do for you?" he responded. 

"Sorry?" I quizzed. 

"It's what can I do for you? Bloody Yanks, cannot even speak the Queens
English." 

I couldn't be bothered telling him that I was born in Camden Town. 

"What can I do for you, Sir?" I put the emphasis in can. 

"I'll have a pint of best bitter... I cannot drink that American crap." 

"A pint of best English bitter it is then." 

"That's not English,” he complained. 

"Sorry?" 

"It's not English. Its brewed in Ireland." 

"Indeed... A pint of our best Irish bitter, Sir." 

I hoped that he would only have the one. The last thing I needed this
afternoon was a moaning old crone like him. I had more pressing 
worries. My bloody daughter for instance. 

Penny was stocking the shelves, so I prepared myself to serve Tattoo


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