A three-part story about a guy who never really fit in.

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PART ONE.

HIGH SCHOOL LOWS.

Paul Duncan adjusted his rucksack on his shoulder and headed through the high school gates. He had a feeling that it would be another bad day. As he reached the playground, he felt the eyes on him. The usual group of boys and girls swarmed over to him. Paul sighed and tried to prepare himself for the insults that would follow. The volley of verbal abuse came almost as one.

Here he is! Look at the state of him.  Look at those shoes! Duncan, does your grandad know you’ve got his shoes on? 

The group cackled and sneered. Paul turned to walk away. 

See you later, you loser. See you in class, you geek. 

High school wasn’t easy for Paul. He had really struggled with the transition from primary school. Having never really fit in at primary school, he found himself to be a complete outsider at high school. At primary school, he had been generally well-liked, but always found himself on the edge of any groups. He’d been friendly enough with everyone in his class, but had no really close friends. Now at high school, he was a loner and was alone, and found he was an easy target for would-be tormentors. 

As he was walking down the corridor, a few boys walking the other way, smirked and slammed their shoulder in to him as they were passing. Other boys pushed and kicked at his bag on his shoulder, in the hope that it would drop to the floor, spilling his books and files across the corridor. On this occasion he managed to keep hold of his bag and made it to the classroom. So far, this day was pretty much the same as the rest of his school week. 

During class there came the constant name calling and heckling, insults and paper balls were thrown in his direction. All this was repeated in class after class, day after day. If the teachers did notice the abuse that was always aimed at him, they did nothing to curtail it. Paul didn’t bother telling his parents or the teachers. What would be the point? What could they do? If they reprimanded the group of kids involved, then that would only make things worse. He would be on his own at some point during the day, and the pay-back would be merciless. Unless they provided security guards to escort him, though-out the day, then there was no point in reporting what was happening.

It didn’t help that he looked different than the other kids. While most of the other kids were fashion obsessed, Paul was more interested in books and Science Fiction. He had actually recently started writing his own short stories. What had started out as something to do during the school holidays, had become something of a raft that he clung to on life’s stormy waters. When the school tormenting would play on his mind, he would deliberately turn his thoughts to the story he was currently writing, and lose himself in a world of his own creating.

Most of the other kids were into fashion, their jackets, school bags and shoes were all a certain make and design, and their hairstyles were always of the latest trends. The boys paid as much attention to their hair as the girls, paying weekly visits to the hairdressers. The boys would arrive at school with their hair gelled, blown and styled a certain way. Paul stood out amongst the crowd with his thick mop of unkempt hair. He just didn’t see the fuss about fashion and wouldn’t have known where to start. It always fascinated him, how did the other kids know so much about clothes, hair and make-up? And unlike Paul, none of his tormentors wore glasses. He had been wearing glasses since he was three years old, his lazy eye being apparent even from the crib. He really didn’t mind wearing glasses, always thought they suited him, but his bullies clearly thought that his spectacles were another reason for the derision.

By the start of December, his class tormentors began mocking and teasing about Paul’s Christmas list.

What do you want for Christmas, Duncan? A Doctor Who annual? Star Trek toys? 

Paul said nothing, hating them and also himself. Why did he have to be into science fiction? Why was he like this? Why did he have to be different? Maybe it was his fault Maybe he should try getting into fashion and football, and try to be like the other boys in his class. The girls treated him almost as badly as the boys. They would ask where he got his shoes or coat from, feigning interest, and then cackle and shriek with laughter. They would ask him out on a date and then giggle at the ridiculous idea of dating a boy like him. He could hear them sniggering, daring each other to go and speak to him. Paul never responded to them, simply walked away, his cheeks burning red. He would hear in passing, talk of parties that had been held the weekend before, who had coupled up with who, and what a great time everyone had had. Not that Paul was invited to any of the parties. His school-mates’ parties were as far off and distant as the Oscar award ceremony in Hollywood. 

One evening as he watched television with his parents, his mother asked what he would like for Christmas. His mind automatically went to the usual gifts of science fiction themed presents. The taunts of the boys and girls suddenly rang in his ears.  He sighed. Should he really ask for the usual presents, books and Sci-Fi merchandise? Maybe the kids at school were right about him. He was really doing himself no favours. 

An idea occurred to him. 

‘I’d like something different for Christmas this year, if that’s okay?’

His dad raised an eyebrow at his mother, interested in what the boy would like instead of the usual gifts. Paul explained what he would like, his mum and dad listened intently. It was the last thing they were expecting.

Over the Christmas break, Paul and his parents put into action the plans they had made. They booked him in for appointments at the hairdressers, and the opticians, and had the day in the city centre going around the clothes shops. His mop of hair was cut and styled, gelled and slicked, like the cool lads at school. His glasses were replaced by contact lenses, and for the first time in his life, he cared about the clothes he wore. His train-spotter school anorak had been replaced by a trendy bomber jacket. His shoes and bag were also more in fashion. He felt different, transformed. The awkward geeky kid that had finished school for Christmas had been replaced by a more confident boy who dressed like everyone else. He looked at himself in the mirror and, for the first time, actually liked what he saw. 

His mother poked her head around the door.

‘What do you think, mum?’ Paul asked.

‘I think you look like all the other kids.’ She said.

Paul nodded. That was exactly what he wanted. It was only later, that he recalled the sadness in his mother’s tone. 

On the morning of the first day back after the Christmas holidays, Paul felt different, he felt special, and yet just like everyone else. For the first time in his life, he would fit in, this was his fresh start. He was dressed like the rest of the kids and he would act the same as them. He would even take an interest in sport, and check when United were playing next. He might even get a United shirt for his birthday, maybe a football too. If he practised at football, the lads might even let him join in the playground soccer games.

With his head held high, dressed just like everyone else, with his fresh hair-cut and contact lenses, he walked through the school gates and into the play-ground.

And then it happened. 

Despite his new appearance, and maybe even because of his new look, the kids flocked to him in the play-ground. They gathered around in a circle, pointing, sneering, mocking, and laughing. They pushed and shoved him, taunting. The torment was worse than before, even those who had previously left him alone, joined in and verbally attacked him. Most of the children in the school yard were now crowded around, enjoying the sport of baiting the geeky kid who dared to try and change and be like everyone else. 

The bullying was even worse than it had been previously. It was as though they hated him even more for trying to fit in. To his tormentors, what was worse than a geeky kid, was a geeky kid who tried to fit in, who thought he was like everyone else. They had him labelled, pigeon-holed as a nerd, so how dare he try and change.

In the school corridors, where he had previously been pushed and shoved, now there was howls of mocking laughter and pointing, the name calling becoming more and more unbearable as the day went on. In each class, the teacher had to tell the kids to be quiet as they jeered and heckled the new-look Paul.  

As he was leaving school, the hellish day almost done, a group loitered at the gates, waiting to taunt him as he was on the way out.

I think you look ridiculous, Duncan!

Paul stopped, turned around to face them. He glared at them, eyeing the boy who had called out.

‘You think? You think? What makes you think I care what you think? And my name is Paul.’ He said.

The group burst into laughter.

Paul walked home quickly, just wanting to get to the safety of his bedroom. 

He curled up into a ball on his bed and tried to process everything that had happened at school. Why had the bullying been even worse, even more merciless today? He was trying to be like them, dressing and acting like everyone else, so why had that been more offensive to the kids than not fitting in? Maybe that was it. It was bad enough that he was the outsider, the geek, the nerdy kid, but worse that he was actually trying to fit in, to be one of them. 

He went to the bathroom and washed the gel and gunk out of his hair. He dried his hair with a towel and then removed his contact lenses. He put his glasses back on, the spectacles he had declared he would never wear again. He looked at his reflection in the mirror. With his hair hanging down and his glasses he looked more like his old self. He stuffed all his new clothes in a bin-liner and took it out to the rubbish bins.

His mother followed him outside.

‘What are you doing, love?’ she asked.

‘I’m getting rid of my new clothes.’

‘What? We’ve just spent a lot of money on that lot.’ She said. ‘Why do you want to throw them away?’

‘Because, I’m not like everybody else, okay? I tried to be, but the kids at school were worse than ever. I’m not sure I want to be like them, anyway.’

‘Is everything okay at school?’

Paul shrugged.

‘Well, if you ever need to talk, me and your dad are here. Whatever you need, whatever you want to talk about.’

He nodded. His mother placed a hand gently on her shoulder. 

‘And, don’t ever change who you are.’ His mother said. ‘Don’t change for anyone, not for your friends, not for a girl, not for anyone.’

As he headed back to his room, he vowed that he would never try to be like everyone else again. He recalled something he’d read about one of his favourite Sci-Fi writers. When author Ray Bradbury was boy, his friends had ridiculed his collection of comic books and his story-writing. Bradbury had gone home and thrown away all his comic books, took down his posters of Buck Rogers and rocket ships. He had tried to be like the other kids. And a week later, utterly miserable, he decided he couldn’t do it anymore. He decided, regardless of what his friends or anyone else thought, he was going back to his comic books, super-heroes and his writing. 

Paul reached for a paperback book from his shelves. He ran a hand through his mop of hair, and adjusted his glasses, before losing himself in the book.

PART TWO.

TEENAGE KICKINGS.

Six years later.

Paul Duncan met his friends in the pub. While most other nineteen year old guys he knew were into football and beer, he was more into reading books, watching films and writing his own weird short stories. All the lads he knew wore trendy beards and had their hair styled this way and that, dressing in the latest fashion, but Paul still clung to his mop of unruly hair and his glasses. Since leaving school, he did have a circle of friends he knocked about with. While they weren’t quite like him, they could be good company, and could be a laugh over a few pints of beer. They were into football, but, as Paul always joked, apart from that they were alright. 

He bought himself a pint of craft ale and joined the lads at the usual table in the pub. 

‘Here he is, Harry Pot-head.’ A lad known as Walshy said.

‘Have you got your book with you, Paul?’ A guy called Scott asked. ‘The match is on TV in a bit.’

‘Oh yes, well, I wouldn’t want to watch the football, would I?’ Paul smiled.

‘You’re such a loser, mate.’ said the notorious Charlie Fenton.

Paul winced at the reply. Whereas the others had been pulling his leg, a bit of friendly joshing, Fenton always seemed to be quite serious. Under the pretence of messing around, his words and his delivery could be quite cutting. You were always left with the feeling that he really meant what he was saying. 

They chatted and laughed and joked around, drinking pints of beer, Paul favouring the craft ales rather than the fizzy lager. About an hour later the match started, the television screens around the pub all showing the big game. Paul got himself another pint and flicked through his paperback book to find the page he was up to. 

Paul enjoyed the camaraderie of his friends, despite the constant reminders that he didn’t quite fit in, he was a friend but never quite one of the lads. As the match got under way, his friends turned to the big screens, cheering and hollering their support for their team, Paul buried his nose in the book he was reading. 

Just before half time, there was a controversial decision by the referee. His friends screamed in outrage, the player was never off-side. Fenton looked around at Paul.

‘I bet you don’t even know the off-side rule.’ He said.

‘Not, really, no.’ Paul said.

‘You need to get a life.’ Fenton said.

‘I’ll get one when you do, mate.’ Paul said with a grin.

Fenton glared at him, the anger at the decision on screen, mixing with the alcohol, and irritation that Paul had returned the wisecrack he had thrown at him.

‘Who are you talking to like that? You clown.’ Fenton growled.

‘Just watch your little game, Charles.’ Paul said.

Fenton hopped down from his stool, and marched across to Paul. The group’s attention shifted from the game onscreen to the aggravation between Fenton and Paul. 

‘You want some?’ Fenton said standing square in front of Paul.

‘Knock it off, mate.’ Paul said.

The others agreed, telling Fenton to sit back down, to get back to the game. 

Fenton nodded, half-turning, away, then grabbed the book from Paul’s grasp. Paul jumped to his feet, the rest of the group doing the same. Before Paul could move, Fenton ripped pages from the book. Paul and his friends protested at Fenton’s actions. He simply tossed the book back at Paul.

‘Just read your little book.’ Fenton said.

His friends told Fenton he had gone too far, that he was out of order, but he just shrugged, and returned to watching the football game. Paul finished the last of his pint. He put his coat on and, with the rest of the group apologising for Fenton’s behaviour, he headed for the door.

As he was walking home, his crumpled paperback book stuffed in his coat pocket, he passed a charity shop. In the shop window was a selection of local notices. There was adverts for car-boot and jumble sales, and a local cleaning company. One of the notices seemed to stand out. It could have been written just for him.

WTS Writing Group, meets Thursday nights in the Boat House pub at 7pm. Bring your own stories. 

Paul stared at the notice, reading it several times. A writing group, this could be just what he was looking for. Maybe here he would finally meet some like-minded people. 

Paul arrived at the pub just before seven o’clock Thursday evening, clutching a notebook full of his more recent stories. He felt nervous and excited, eager to see what the evening and the group would be like. He took a sip of beer and asked the barman where the writing group would be. The barman jerked a thumb to the flight of stairs at the end of the bar. Paul thanked him, and with nerves threatening to make him run out the door, shuffled towards the stairs.

The group were sitting around the room, at the pub tables, chairs and stools, with paper, files and pens out in front of them. They were a real mix of people, men and women of various ages. A man with reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, got to his feet as Paul entered.

‘I’m Peter, and you are?’

‘I’m Paul.’ 

‘Take a seat, Paul. We’re just about to start.’

‘Thanks, Pete.’

‘It’s Peter, if you don’t mind.’

Paul nodded and sat down, considering himself told off. 

Peter welcomed the group to another session of the WTS Writing group.

‘WTS stands for What’s the Story, and that is what we’re all here to find out. I’ll start by reading a piece I’ve written. This is a story about an old man and his allotment.’

When Peter finished reading, the group clapped and then detailed what they liked about the piece. Up next was Olive. She was a woman in her fifties with reading glasses. She read a poem about her grandchildren. Paul started to wonder if this was his type of group. Each reading that followed was nothing like his strange ramblings. There were sentimental stories about family holidays, another was a romantic tale about people finding love. 

Finally, Peter waved a hand in Paul’s direction.

‘And, Paul, welcome. What have you got for us?’ 

The group all turned to him, expectantly.

He flicked through his notebook. His stories just seemed so unsuitable for this audience, maybe his work didn’t have an audience at all. He went through the pages, a zombie story wouldn’t go down well, a serial killer story, maybe not, and there was a story about a weird flower shop, than even he didn’t understand. He finally settled on a story about a hitch-hiker and an escaped prisoner. When he finished reading, delivering the wonderful twist in the tale, there was silence. 

‘Right, well, yes.’ Peter stammered. ‘Thank you for that. I think we’ll call it a night there.’

Paul walked home crest-fallen and disappointed. The writing group hadn’t said as much, but he knew that the other members had been either offended, or confused by his story. If they didn’t like that, then they would absolutely hate the rest of his work. It was the same old question. Where did he fit in? Where was the group of like-minded people that he belonged to? Was he the only person feeling the way he did?

He stopped off at the pub over the road from home. He needed a pint and a think, a chance to process the evening, and decide where he went from here. He sensed that the writing group was his last chance at finding a group and a place he could belong, somewhere he fit in. With all this whirring around his mind, he went to the bar for a pint of beer. 

He took a sip of ale and sighed. The man at the bar next to him spoke.

‘Are you okay, son?’ He asked, in a thick Dublin accent.

He was somewhere in his sixties and wore a thick woollen jumper. He reminded Paul of an old Irish folk singer.

‘Yeah, kinda.’ Paul shrugged.

‘What ails you?’ 

Something about the guy, made him answer more honestly than he had intended.

‘I dunno, it’s just, I’m different to everyone else. I’ve never really fit in anywhere. I’m not like everybody else.’

The Dubliner put his pint of Guinness down on the bar and gave him a hard glare.

‘Now, why on earth would you want to do a thing like that? You don’t fit in? Fantastic! That’s a good thing. Do what you want to do, do what makes you happy.’

Paul explained that about not fitting in with the football crowd, and then the writing group not being on his wavelength either.

‘If you want to watch football and drink lager, then grand, good on you, but if you would much rather be having a drop of whiskey and reading your book, then you better grab your paperback book and that bottle of single malt, Irish of course. And the fact that your writing is different to anyone else’s, that’s fantastic. The world is full of people all trying to be different, trying to stand out from the crowd. And you do that naturally. It’s not a bad thing, it’s actually positive.’

Paul laughed, but he had to admit the guy had a point. 

‘Do you know, I’d never thought of it like that.’ Paul said.

Paul raised his glass, Cheers.

‘Slainte.’ The old man replied. 

PART THREE.

WISHFUL DRINKING.

‘So do you feel better about things now?’ The Irishman asked. 

Paul nodded, he did actually feel better. Maybe, as the man said, it was a good thing that he was his own person.

‘If you had one wish what would it be?’ The man asked.

‘I had a run-in with a lad recently, I’d like him to see how I feel.’ Paul said.

‘I’ll drink to that.’ The man said. 

They clinked glasses. 

Charlie Fenton woke and stretched in bed. Today was the day. It was derby day, the day when Manchester United played Manchester City. When two rival football teams played each other it was known as a derby match. The Manchester Derby days were the highlight of his year. Whistling a United football chant to himself, he jumped in the shower.

He arrived at the pub just before eleven thirty that morning, rubbing his hands together in excitement. 

‘Right then, lads.’ He said. ‘Are we all set for the football?’

His group of friends turned and laughed. 

‘Football? Have you heard yourself?’ Walshy said. 

‘Ooh yeah, let’s all watch the soccer. Get a life, you loser.’ Another lad chided.

‘Alright then, what are we doing today?’ Fenton snapped.

‘It’s Manchester literature festival this weekend. We’ve got a weekend of book signings, and author interviews lined up.’

‘Don’t forget the poetry readings.’ One lad added.

‘Oh, yeah. That’s my favourite part.’

Fenton burst out laughing, pointing at the lads.

‘Very good! You guys nearly had me going there. Poetry readings? Book signings? Do me a favour!’ Fenton said.

His friends looked at him like he had lost his mind.

‘You mean you actually want to watch the football?’ Someone asked. 

Nobody spoke, all eyes were on him. He wondered what on earth was happening. The last time he’d spoken to the group, they had been as excited for the football game as he was, now, though it seemed they were into books and reading. Like him, none of them had read a book since they’d left school, and yet here they were excited for the literature festival. One guy, Paul Duncan, a hanger-on to the group, would read books but he didn’t seem to be here today. And yet, the lads were now more into literature than football. And they seemed to be quite serious. 

‘I’m just messing with you.’ Fenton said, forcing a laugh.

‘You had me going there. I thought you actually wanted to watch football then.’ 

Still unsure quite what was going on, he decided to go along with the group. If this was all a mad dream, then he would just ride it out and see what happened, and hopefully wake up soon. 

Sure enough, his friends were as good as their word. With Fenton following along, the group caught the train into the city centre and excitedly rushed down Deansgate high street. 

‘Did you know,’ Walshy said, ‘that the word gate in British street names comes from the Vikings. The Norse word for street was gatan, and over time that became changed gate.’ 

‘Really? That’s fascinating.’ Someone said.

Fenton looked at his friends in bewilderment. This just didn’t sound like them at all. They didn’t usually talk like this. The chat amongst the group was usually bawdier, real men’s stuff, not facts about history. The only facts they would discuss would be about football, who scored in the cup final for United in the year they won the treble. This was all so strange.

The literature festival was in a large marquee in Albert Square in front of Manchester town hall. The group filed into the large tent and headed to the bar. Fenton ordered a pint of his usual lager. When they shuffled into the row of seats, facing the stage, he noticed that he was the only one drinking lager, the others opting for odd-tasting craft ales and dark bitters. This was new. Normally, Fenton and the lads drank the same brand of fizzy lager. They would down pint after pint of beer, and would sneer at anyone who drank the craft ales. Whatever was going on, he was clearly out of the loop when it came to even what beer to drink. 

Walshy flicked through the programme for the afternoon’s events.

‘Jim Grant is on first.’ He said.

‘I do like a bit of Jim Grant.’ 

‘His early books were the best. While his latest stuff is decent, it’s not a patch on his early work.’

When Jim Grant walked on stage, the crowd whooped and applauded. Fenton was so confused. This guy was a writer, not a rock star, not a footballer, and yet the audience were going crazy, his friends included. Not wanting to stand out, he clapped along, while wondering what the fuss was all about. 

When the author had finished his talk, and read from his latest novel, Fenton’s friends raved over the writer and the speech he had just given. They went to the bar for more beer. This time Fenton was ready. He wouldn’t be the odd one out, drinking lager, he copied the other lads and opted for a pint of Ringo’s Ears, a bitter brewed in Salford. While the others sipped their beer and exclaimed how nice it was, Fenton tentatively tried the ale. He winced at the bitter taste. It was the worst pint of beer he’d ever tasted. This would take some doing. He took another swig. Still not convinced, he told himself that it may taste better the more you drank of it.

 The afternoon went on with more authors and poets taking to the stage to speak, recite and perform. Fenton and the lads drank pints of strange tasting ales and clapped and cheered as the literary figures performed. 

As they stepped off the train back in Salford, Walshy spoke to the group.

‘Are we meeting at the same time tomorrow, then? Day Two of the literature festival.’

The group all agreed they wouldn’t miss it. 

‘You up for it, Fenton?’ 

‘Definitely, count me in.’ He said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.

He lay in the darkness of his bedroom that evening and wondered, once again, just what was going on. Maybe all this was a strange dream, maybe someone had spiked his drink and he had imagined everything that was going on. Still unsure what to make of anything, he finally drifted off to sleep.

The next afternoon, he went to the pub at the time he’d agreed with Walshy and the boys. He went to the bar, ordered a pint of Ringo’s Ears ale, and then went over to the lads. They were gathered at the usual table.

‘Are we all set for the literature festival, boys?’  He asked.

The group burst out laughing.

‘Fenton, you’re hilarious.’ Walshy said.

‘Literature festival? How much did you have to drink last night?’

‘It’s non-stop football today, mate.’ Walshy explained. ‘Tottenham versus Arsenal this afternoon, then Liverpool play Chelsea. Sunday afternoon football, you can’t beat it.’

Fenton nodded, the relief sweeping over him. The world had clearly returned to normal. He was back with the lads, his mates, for beer and live football on the big screen. He shook his head at the awful craft ale, and returned to the bar to get a pint of lager, a beer he could actually drink. He found himself relaxing, grateful that everything was back as it should be. Football, beer and the lads. All was well with the world. 

As he joined the lads once again, he spotted Paul. He was sipping a pint of ale, and reading a paperback book. Fenton approached him slowly, a smile on his face. Paul lowered his book and glared at him.

‘Don’t even think about ripping this book up. I’m warning you.’ Paul said.

Fenton pointed at the book.

‘Is that the new Jim Grant novel?’ Fenton asked.

‘You’ve heard of Jim Grant?’ Paul said.

‘Of course, I have.’ Fenton replied. ‘They reckon his early work is the best. Let me buy you a beer and you can tell me about his new book.’

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom