100TWC - Day 31: Colours

"Samdip! Another juice?"

The bar was unusually crowded, even for a Friday, and I could see he was uncomfortable, but I hoped he'd stay for at least one more. It was hard enough to get him to come with us after work as it was, without the added disincentive of a loud, rebellious crowd. He looked over to me, then at his glass, then back to me, the turmoil clear on his face.

"Go on then. One more."

I smiled as I turned back to the bartender and added Sam's drink to my order. As I waited I became aware of a small group of tattooed men in grubby work clothes further down the bar.

"Samdip?" one said to his mates. "Kind of a name is that?"
"He'll be sam deep in the shit if I get my hands on him," a second one added as the others laughed.

I risked a glance in their direction. They had clearly been drinking for a while. Probably knocked off early and spent the afternoon in the pub. Several of them swayed gently where they stood and all were red-faced despite the day having a distinct autumn chill. The one who had spoken last caught my eye as I turned away. Too late.

"tchoo looking at?" he challenged in the universally recognised prelude to thuggish confrontation. I ignored him, hoping he would lose interest as rapidly as he had reacted to my stare. No such luck.

"You. I'm talking to you. Friend of Samdip."

His mates let rip with a chorus of mixed laughter, jeers and taunting repeats of "friend of Samdip." They were still in fairly good humour, but their notional leader was just getting into his provoked stride. He swaggered over and leaned on the bar beside me, his pudgy, red, sweaty face inches from mine as he repeated menacingly, "I'm talking to you."

His breath smelt like the bottom of a fish tank. I backed away.

"I'm not looking for any trouble," I murmured.
"I think you brought some with you," he sneered, jerking his thumb towards the window. "Ol' Samdip there. Friend of yours, is he?"
"I work with him, yes."
"Did I ask what you do for a living?" Fish Tank Breath leered, following me as I tried to avoid death by halitosis. "I said: is he a friend of yours?"
"I guess, yeah. He's a good bloke."

By now FTB's hangers-on had sensed the beginning of what they probably thought of as entertainment and began to gather round. The barman set a glass of orange juice down beside the rest of my order.

"That's twenty pounds and forty-nine pence altogether, please."

I looked over at my group. All were still deep in conversation, none of them looking my way. I guessed the crush in the bar would make it hard to tell the difference between regular punters and those just about to embark on halitocide, but even so I'd hoped at least one of them would have offered a hand with the drinks. I realised Fish Tank Breath was talking again.

"... pie on his head?"
"Sorry?"
"God. Are you deaf as well as ignorant? I said why does your best mate Sandip wear that pork pie on his head?"
"It's a turban. He's a Sikh."
"What's he seeking?" asked the man who had spoken first, earlier. This clearly qualified as the height of humour among his fellows as they all made a big deal of falling about laughing and holding their splitting sides. Fish Tank Breath ignored his mate's question. He changed the subject.

"That Samdip's drink, is it?" he asked, indicating the orange juice.

I handed a twenty and a five to the barman. "Keep the change. Yes, that's right. Sikh's don't drink alcohol."

"We'll see abaht that," Fish Tank Breath muttered, turning to the barman. "Put a double voddie in there mate, willya? My shout."

The barman reached for Samdip's glass. I covered it with my hand. "No, it's OK. Leave it."

"S'matter?" Fish Tank Breath asked, moving even closer to me and exhaling aromatically. "My drinks not good enough for ya?"