A Moor Top Afternoon

The half cocked smile of nervousness plagued an insecure man as he joined his long term associates on a table sat in silence. It was half past three on a Saturday, the pub would never really get going. It was the sort of place that kept changing hands, constantly under new management as the last character was either arrested or simply disappeared. Each time the Moor Top re-opened her doors, her walls had become increasingly bare, the fixtures and fittings having depleted further, the kind of place where nobody knew anybody’s full name. Yet somehow, against all the odds, and much to the disappointment of the local rumour mill, the place never did have the latest boarding removed to emerge a Pizza Express or an Albert’s Shed. This would have been much more in keeping with the upwardly mobile aspirations, and indeed achievements of its catchment area. The man’s associates were however men of routine, they had been coming to this pub for a long time, originally for the football. It was a City pub, or at least it had been. Now they came more to feed habits or to escape their real homes for reasons that in turn had escaped them. They had sat on separate stools for years in relative silence, they probably still would be, if not for the man, their change spread out in front of them in its entirety at the bar, everything must go, except for the occasional crumpled notes which must remain firmly in one’s pocket upon departure, undetected. An evening could be measured by both punter and bar staff with a glance at a man’s neat yet order-less spread of change. Trusting for all to see, until somebody gets too close that is. The man quickly broke his table’s silence, blurting out several words at once until he found his rhythm, and with a glance at his glass, a little confidence too. Today’s topic, miniature radio controlled helicopters, again. Hidden looks of distain bounced around the man instantly, the sort of looks that are apparent within the eye of the beholders, but which are not nearly as obvious on the outside, they were as quicker reactions as one would expect from fighter pilots, they’d be lost on the untrained eye, even on one another had the topic not been broached several times already that week. The man was upbeat, possibly undeterred as a result of his excitement, or possibly as a result of some kind of cognitive thinking technique, honed over the years to preserve himself from hurt, either way, a man like him never missed a trick, just as he never let on, the lack of enthusiasm had been detected. The man would carry on regardless. After all, it was he who had discovered these little micro-flying gems in a not infrequent visit to Manchester’s Modelzone. Having already flown one in store, the man had been so impressed he’d immediately bought a job lot, along with not quite enough batteries. An enthusiast of models from boyhood, the whole radio controlled helicopter thing had always been beyond reach. Notoriously difficult to fly and bloody expensive, they were an inaccessible magic for the true model aircraft enthusiast, the fanatical. Not so any longer, the Chinese had brought them to the masses at a scale that could be flown indoors and a price affordable to an adult man. It was up to him now to introduce them to as many people as possible, people who would have certainly remained ignorant otherwise. Surely they would recognise even just a little of what he had, this was bound to be a hit with the kids and therefore his peers for that reason alone, surely this would make them all smile. It was not about glory for the man, it was about acceptance and a little recognition, about making people happy. The man once again enquired as to how his associates had faired with their families since returning home from the pub with radio controlled helicopters. The relevant gents grumbled into their glasses with strained smiles and humoured the man. It was the least they could do, to expend some energy on somebody known to them for so long, somebody who continued to make the effort so generously with them. The truth was, that out of all of them, only one still had children at home, and those particular kids had been un-interested, un-interested in their father more than anything, simply being of an age where everything other than the opposite sex, social media and intoxication was just, ‘gay.’ In a nutshell, they were too old, and too young, stuck in the middle of the hormonal misery that was home life, keeping morale beyond suicide with regular wank fests and the pride taken in being so emotional. Another recipient thought of his helicopter still hanging in the closet under the stairs from the Modelzone bag in which he had brought it home, it had actually made sense to him, until the next morning when he had awoken thirsty and sore. He however dutifully acknowledged the gesture by offering the man another drink. The man accepted a Whisky with a cube of ice, and then brought out a tiny helicopter from a polythene bag to charge on the table in readiness for flight. As the Malt went down the little helicopter lifted from the table and hovered beautifully at eye level like an android Dragon Fly. The man had been practising. He rose from his chair and walked out into the pub to start recruiting more enthusiasts. This immediately struck a chord with a bored barman who had taken receipt of a little helicopter himself. The man enquired as to whether the barman had managed to get some batteries, if not he would fetch some in next time. Indeed the barman had, and the man was genuinely over joyed to hear that after several successful flights, the barman’s helicopter had been brought down by his cat and lost a rear propeller blade as a result. The man informed the barman that if he had a good look in the helicopter’s box he would not only find a spare propeller blade, but also a strip of metal with an adhesive back, the purpose of which was to glue to the nose of the helicopter to improve flight handling. The man flew his helicopter down from above the fruit machine and skilfully hovered the aircraft in front of the barman for a closer inspection of the nose, before landing it on the bar. The barman had thrown his box away, unbeknown, so the man agreed to acquire some spares on his behalf. The man then offered the controls to the barman so as to evidence his claim about the flight handling. The barman took the controls and opened up the throttle with far too much haste, sending the helicopter climbing rapidly up until it hit the ceiling, the barman tried to steer it away causing it to bounce along the yellow anaglypta, like a moth on a strip light. The man quickly told the barman to reduce the throttle, at which point the helicopter plummeted into a pint glass. The counter reaction to which was more throttle, and the poor little machine rocketed back up, hit the roof, and then fell back down again. The man’s face was a picture of seriousness as he sought to assist his young apprentice gain control of the tiny helicopter that was by now tearing across the pub. Those left drinking took in the spectacle as it unfolded, and all heads lifted, then fell back down again with a smile. Sales stayed up that Saturday, while conversation, glasses, and a helicopter rose, then fell back down again. And the man in the midst appeared to say the wrong things as he listened intently without evidence. This man he would always be, no matter what he did now, for he had always been this man in the minds of those who mattered to him.