Doorman

Billy grabbed the drunken young man by the collar of his coat and pushed him out the club’s door. The young wee man was ranting and raving, shouting even. Most of it was slurred and incoherent.

“You fucking gorilla bastard ye,” growled the wee fella. “I’m gonna... get ye sacked...”

Billy sighed, a resigned look on his face. The wee fella kept speaking. Yet somehow the voice seemed more distant and quieter, like under water. Perhaps Billy had finally mastered the art of stoicism, drowning out outside noise.

Perhaps not, said a voice from his subconscious.

Not you again, thought Billy.

Yes me again, said the voice. I’m always here.

As am I, said another voice. It sounded more feminine.

Mother and father, Billy thought.

If you like, said Father. Though that sounds a bit too Freudian for what you are.

And what exactly am I? Billy asked.

A doorman, stated Father. A street thug. A hoodlum. Your suit is nothing more than a thin veneer.

Hush, said the Mother. Our Billy is not a hood. He is a gentleman and a scholar.

He is not, Father insisted. Reading Mayfair for the articles does not make one a scholar.

It was Hemingway, a third voice said. It was younger than Father, yet still masculine. Brother.

Is that the extent of your imagination? asked Father. Family figures?

Our Billy holds these figures dear to him, Mother defended him.

He went to the river. The river was there, said Brother.

That’s Hemingway, Billy thought. Wasn’t it?

How would you know? asked Father. You’re a bouncer. Can you even read?

That’s not everything I am, Billy thought. I’m not-

What? asked Father. Stupid like other bouncers? A roided out meathead with anger issues, unpaid child support, and alcoholism?

Well aye. I’m not that.

Good for you.

Back in the world outside his head, the wee lad was still giving out to him.

Look at him, Father said. Shouting at you.

Aye, Mother agreed. Triggering flashes from the past.

After you hurt your brother, Brother concluded.

Are you talking about my father? Billy thought.

No, Father said. You are talking about your father. We are just voices in your head.

He stood in the doorway, merely a shadow, said a hissing voice. He was yelling at you, frightening you.

That’s why you get mad when someone shouts at you, Father said. Because daddy was mean to you.

I’m not angry now, Billy thought.

Aye. Just disassociating. Now that’s a healthy way to handle confrontation. Curl up into a ball. That way daddy won’t hit you.

My father never hit me. I think.

He wouldn’t! Mother said. You were a good boy.

The best boy, Brother added.

A scared boy, the hissing voice said.

A strong boy, a growling voice came. It sounded like a gorilla.

Billy’s attention was on the wee lad again. He was trying to light a smoke and had stopped shouting now.

Look at him, the Gorilla said. He’s a fucking pencilneck. You could break him in two.

He was indeed a wiry fella.

Kill him, Gorilla said. Kill him now. Before he insults us again.

Aye, Father continued. That would be bad. You can’t handle more shouting.

You’ve a low opinion of me, Billy thought.

Well I’m you. Or some aspect of you. The aspect that disapproves of you. You’re the one that associated me with your masculine parental figure. How unoriginal.

Come now, Mother said. Our Billy is a sensitive soul.

Like Hemingway, Brother added.

Yes! Mother exclaimed. Like Hemingway. A hard man, yet sensitive. But not in a fruity way.

You’re quite fruity, Father said. You painted as a wee lad.

That doesn’t make one fruity, Mother said. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with being fruity.

Crush the wee fella, cried Gorilla suddenly.

The wee fella was still battling with his lighter. He was still wiry, still barely standing.

Still crushable, Gorilla insisted.

You did the right thing, Mother said. Tossing him out. He was groping girls. You’re a gentleman, Billy. Old fashioned, traditional, a knight in white armour.

A misogynistic prick, Father added. You don’t like women, do you Billy?

Sure I do. I love my wife, Billy thought.

She’s a saint, Mother praised her.

Protect the pretty lady, Gorilla said.

Aye, sure. You love your wife. What about other women? What about that girl in school who called you odd? Do you love her?

Obviously not, Billy thought. I haven't seen her in almost 30 years.

There you go then, Father said. Deep seated misogynism.

Is it misogynism? began a cheery voice. It sounded Happy. If you love all women? Love to look at them, touch them, have them touch you? Like the wee fella. Can you blame the lad?

Awful, Mother said. Our Billy wouldn’t lay a hand on a woman without her consent. A perfect gentleman, so he is.

Lay a hand on the wee fella, Gorilla said. Lay him out.

Hemingway often had fights, Brother said. To defend his or someone else’s honour.

Yes, Gorilla replied. Let’s duel him. Defend the wee girls’s honour. Let’s bash him over the head.

Aye, Happy agreed. Maybe sweets will come out.

The wee fella muttered another curse under his breath. The cigarette fell from his mouth and he cursed louder.

Wouldn’t it be class to be drunk? asked Happy. A pint of Guinness, nursing it slowly.

Or chugging it! Gorilla said. Ten vodkas too.

Let’s get smashed, Happy exclaimed.

But we’re working, Mother said. The bouncer can’t be losing the run of himself like that. He must remain sober.

Boring, Happy said.

The wee lad narrowed his eyes. “Look ye fucking ape. If you won’t let me in I’ll...”

What? Murder us? The hissing voice said. Danger!

You're scared? Father asked. Pathetic.

Maybe he’ll ask us a second time, Mother suggested. Yet more politely.

He will fight us, Gorilla growled. Finally.

He will buy us a pint? asked Happy. Let’s get a-boozing.

I told you were an alcoholic, Father said.

I barely drink, Billy thought.

Aye. Because you already drank it all.

The wee fella opened his mouth to finish the sentence. He closed it again, like a fish. He seemed unsure how he was going to finish it. The wee fella turned about and left, disappearing into the drizzle.

You fucking pansy, said Gorilla. You let him leave.

It’s for the best, Mother said. No assault charge.

Typical, Father went. No backbone.

I don’t wanna go to jail, the hissing voice said.

Billy inhaled deep, then exhaled again. He did it again and again. Moment by moment, the voices died down.

Then everything was quiet again.