Based on the poem “The Ashtray” by Jim O’Donnell
“Beer Garden At Rear!” Mark always had to stifle a laugh at the chalked-up sign on his way into the pub. The back yard of Meaney’s could hardly be described as a garden, not even after the owner threw in a few ailing spider plants. For that matter, thought Mark as he edged his way past the after-work crowd at the bar, it didn’t even have that much to do with beer, unless you counted the clusters of barrels lining the walls. “Beer garden”, he reflected, was a dressed-up version of “smoking area”; it was the owner’s way of ensuring that the new indoor smoking ban had as little effect as possible on his punters – and more importantly to him, his profits, thought Mark. Then he realised he was smirking to himself in a public place. Again.Mouth set in a firm line now, he reached the doorway to the beer garden and paused. There were the usual few wasters in the corner, he noticed, already on their third or fourth pint; a cluster of office girls puffing away over glasses of the nasty white wine they served here; and some desultory couples. He took all this in through his peripheral vision – his attention focussed on a good-looking girl sitting at a table by herself. Because, Mark reflected as he made his way with careful nonchalance through the tables towards her, this smoking area poorly disguised as a beer garden actually had a third purpose, the real one for most of the people who came out here: sex.
Or, to be more precise, the rituals leading up to sex. Non-smokers couldn’t understand it. They claimed that smoking was dirty and repulsive. Which, of course, it was – except to other smokers. Only smokers understood the sexual potential of the whole process. The instant solidarity between people ghettoized into a confined space to do something frowned-upon. The initial approach as a light is sought and offered. The closeness of heads as the light is given. The long, slow suck of the first drag. The half-closed eyes as the nicotine sinks and soaks through the body. The certain knowledge in that moment that you do not care how sick fags will make you, you love them dearly. The shuddering, sighing exhale and the eyes that meet in shared filthiness. After that, the door is wide open. The people who come out here, Mark thought, are driven here by the law, but kept here by sex. That’s a good one, Marky boy, said a voice inside his head. He forced himself not to smile; might use that one if the opportunity comes up. Speaking of which…
“This free?”
The girl nodded, not looking up. He scraped back the chair, angling it as he sat down opposite her. Essential when you there were just the two of you, he knew; lets you see her out of the corner of your eye without looking directly at her. You pick up these little tricks with practice, he thought as he placed his cigarette packet on the table-top. He felt in good form this evening – no, great form. He was tingling with positivity; heady even. Lock up your daughters, Mark Foley is on the town! It’s going to happen tonight, he thought. He could feel it.
She still hadn’t made eye-contact, seeming fascinated by her shoes. He was not put off, though; he knew the game. She was not smoking yet, either – she must have arrived only just before him – so there was still everything to play for. The ashtray sat in the middle of the table between them, unused and pristine. Even the humble ashtray, he reflected, had its part to play. Time to move. He reached out and pulled it towards himself. It made a tiny screech against the table-top. Her head tilted slightly towards him. Advantage, Foley. Whenever she lit up now, she would have to reach over into his territory. There was something between them now: a connection, a bridge of some sort; maybe even a sparkle? Hey, man, it’s Friday – call it a sparkle.
He sank a little deeper into his chair. She was hard to read, this one, he admitted to himself. The determined lack of eye-contact would have put him off except that every time he glanced at her, it was as if she had just looked away. He slid a cigarette from the packet but did not light up; he turned it between finger and thumb against the table-top, musingly, as if still considering whether to smoke it or not, keeping a sidelong eye on her to observe the effect. Sure enough, she shifted in her chair and her hand moved unconsciously to her bag. To her cigarettes. She chewed her lips so they almost disappeared, then filled out again as she released them, fuller and redder. I’m making her want one, he thought with tightly controlled delight.
The ashtray was still clean, so he could place his fingers right inside without dirtying them. He pulled it closer again to himself, forcefully this time. If she wants one now, he thought, she’ll have to ask for it. She’s already asking for it with her body language. If you’re reading it correctly. He nodded to himself, his excitement dampened slightly; so much room for misunderstanding in this language. She was biting her lip again now, looking almost as if she might cry. OK, he thought, maybe she’s the uncertain type; let’s concede something. He slid the ashtray back in her direction a little, casually, as if unaware of doing so. It was roughly in the middle again now. He almost caught her eye for a split second. His head swam slightly at the sheer intimacy of the occasion.
He wasn’t sure exactly how much time had passed, but suddenly, he saw that she was touching the ashtray now, right where his finger been a moment before. She circled the rim with her forefinger, slowly – deliberately? He had to look at her for longer than a split-second now, wanting to be sure of her intentions, but she looked miles away. Impossible that she didn’t know what she was doing to him. Now it was his turn to shift in his chair, his heart racing. The signs added up, he was sure; she would reach into her bag any second now. He had his lighter ready and waiting. You’re in like Flynn, Mark my man.
Afterwards, he wasn’t sure how it happened, how the other man approached. But suddenly he was there. “Do you mind if I…”
The thug leaned in, ramming a stub into the pristine ashtray, their ashtray. He was gone just as quickly. The purity of their connection had been violated, destroyed, as surely as the inside of the ashtray now bore a dusty grey smear.
The girl seemed to wake up, almost shaking herself, as if not quite sure how she’d got there. Mark watched helplessly as she gathered up her bag and now – now! – pulled out her cigarettes. He fumbled with his lighter but she was walking away, placing a cigarette between her lips. She paused as she reached the doorway, again reaching into her bag but casting a glance around her at the same time. One of the wasters swooped in with lighter outstretched. The girl smiled at him as she accepted the light. Now they were chatting, the girl tossing a swathe of shining hair over her shoulder. Mark noted with despair, now that he had a proper view, that she really was beautiful. What was that idiot saying to her? Why was she nodding? His despair turned to disbelief as he watched her allow the waster to take her elbow and lead her back to his table.
Crash and burn! He had to resist the urge to shake his head violently, as if to dislodge the voice that mocked and scorned. Useless, he knew. He flicked his lighter and cupped the cigarette with trembling hands. Inhaling hungrily, he closed his eyes and waited for the smoke to take hold.
(c) Orla Shanaghy 2006 and 2007
