The Gift of Change

The Gift of Change

By Anthony Brien

Twitter: @LittleSparkBoom

https://www.amazon.com/author/anthonybrien

Anthony Brien 2017
Terms and Conditions:
The purchaser of this book is subject to the condition that he/she shall in no way resell it, nor any part of it, nor make copies of it to distribute freely.
All Persons Fictitious Disclaimer:
This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and co-incidental.

Garfield was right, Monday mornings suck

You know something's gone wrong in your career choices when you wish public transport would take longer. That new bus lane has sped up my journey by ten whole minutes, efficient bastards. Why is the world speeding up when we can't even get the basics right, like clean renewable energy or an end to poverty. It's like putting your foot down on the accelerator when your brakes don't work, crazy. Shit, must be positive, counsellor Grimm drilled that into me at the last session, so on the brighter side I now have ten more minutes each morning to visit Angelo's for my daily caffeine hit.
"Cheers driver." Nothing, not even a grunt, arsehole. No, stop that, he's probably just had one of those mornings, he got us here safely that's the main thing. Heading to the cobbled side street to Angelo's an unkempt fellow with long straggly hair, indistinguishable from his beard, was singing and attempting to play a beaten up acoustic guitar with only four strings. His voice was all right, gravelly like Rod Stewart's. He was obviously a bloke who'd hit hard times. Orbiting a good arm's length around him I slingshotted myself up the alley towards Angelo's.
Angelo was sat outside fagging it as usual. Apart from having been born in Turkey and spending most of his life in Yorkshire, he is stereotypically Italian. He spent four years growing up there and considers himself to be Italian through and through and any comment to the contrary really offends him. "Merhaba Angelo, 'ow do, can you make us a brew?" He sprang up from his seat looking around frantically "Shut your bloody mouth Phillip, are you trying to get my place burned to the ground?"
"Come on Angelo, no one cares that you're Turkish, people around here love you." As if to contest that statement Mr Papadopoulos emerged from the Greek restaurant across the street scowling at Angelo and sweeping as if every brush stroke was meant to remove Angelo from the street, the two locking eyes like bucks locking antlers. Angelo had antagonised things though, last week he superglued Papas' keyhole mechanism so customers had to climb through the window. Angelo sat back down and I joined him.
"Actually Philip I'm worried people will know I'm from up north, people will expect Yorkshire puddings and a dominoes league, I just don't want that hassle."
"I like playing dominoes."
"Me too. Look you're missing the point, a dominoes night will bring many people expecting pizza, the rest will cover my place in fag ash, I don't need it Phil."
"Might be worth a try, get people in, you're a bit tucked away up here. Maybe we could just have a game at the weekend to start with."
"Nadim, get off your fat ass and get Phil's usual." The skinny lad jumped, stopped cleaning the tables and dashed inside. Angelo flicked his cigarette ash and completely missed the ashtray, undoing Nadim's good work. "Lazy lad, but makes good coffee. Saturday is good for me, you bring the tiles."
The scruffy fellow at the bottom of the street had started singing again. "I didn't realise you'd started open mic mornings, who's the musician?"
"Pah!" Angelo's cigarette flew out of his mouth and actually into the ashtray for once. "Better sounds have come from my morning rip rap." Nadim came rushing back with the coffees and another cigarette rolled for Angelo.
"His voice was all right, it's his guitar that's rubbish."
"A good man doesn't blame his tools."
"It's got four fucking strings Angelo."
Angelo downed his double espresso with his newly lit cig in his mouth. "That's two more strings than a Dutar."
"Is that an Italian instrument?"
Angelo took a long drag and ignored the question. "If you think he's so good why don't you put some mulah where your mouth is and help the guy back on his feet?"
He had a point, I just avoided the man. I've got a perfectly good guitar at home gathering dust, he could make better use of it. If he gets famous maybe he'll write a song about me or give me a mention on Jonathan Ross or something, that would show counsellor Grimm I'm not self-centred.
"Hey, fluff head, didn't you hear me, I asked if you wanted another for the road." Angelo's cigarette remains were already scattered on the table and Nadim was cleaning them up.
"Oh, yeah go on then, I've no meetings this morning." Nadim shot inside to get the coffee before Angelo could issue the order.
"I'm going to do it."
"Do what?"
"Help that guy. I've got a guitar at home he can have." Angelo's expression was not so enthused.
"So you're fucking Simon Cowell now." Nadim was out with the second round of drinks and sod knows what number of cigarettes for Angelo. "You need to help yourself in this world, focus on your own shit. I mean no offense, but you've not exactly got your shit together." Angelo's cigarette was bobbing in his mouth as he spoke, like a wagging finger telling off a child. "Just give the man some change or something, like a normal person would."
The idea was well rooted in my mind now, tomorrow I will give him that guitar. I downed my latte, left my money on the table and dashed towards work with a new spring in my step. Angelo shouted something after me, like "Just some change" or "your change." As I passed the down and out guitarist I gave him a knowing smile but no change, soon though, but not of the coinage variety.

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Above is a sample. I have published a short story on the Kindle Store and I've made it free to buy until 23:59 27/03/2017. It can be found here -

http://a.co/8HJB5oS

or via my author page here

https://www.amazon.com/Anthony-Brien/