From: "Kevin Dyer" <Khjd@kam.pl>
Subject: 
Date: Tue, 30 Dec 1997 20:06:30 +0100

 Hello

My name's Kevin Dyer and I live in Poland. I'm 43 years old and still
living (today's estimate from my GP). Until six years ago I wrote
regularly.  Chiefly football bits and pieces and short (very)
stories. I was invited to Poland on a one year teaching contract and
one irascible child, a beautiful, young wife and six years on, I'm
still here. The only difference now being is that I and my new wife
own the school.  I have been interested in writing humour for many
years. I have never been published under that genre, but I do hope to
change that.

That's enough about me. Yes, I could see you yawning. YOU I'm talking
too.

My response too: What is a humour writer?

A person who can send a few words in different directions, and bring
them together in a manner which puts a smile on peoples' faces!  Or:
Our writers' hum "Wait ... Ha!"

Here is a short story I recently wrote. It need a few cranks with a
screwdriver to tighten it up a bit but I still welcome your thoughts
and crits.

                                                Courting troubles
  Turning his back to the wind, Raymond looked up at the sign on the
restaurant. He took out a piece of paper from his pocket and read it. The
flashing neon sign and the name he held in his hand were the same:
'Bailey's.'

  Nine twenty-five, he thought. Good. Five minutes early. He popped an extra
strong mint onto his mouth and headed for the entrance.

  The doors opened up into a small, dimly lit foyer. Eyeing up the furniture
and decorations, Raymond realised that this was going to be an expensive
date and checked his wallet. He handed over his coat to the attendant and
gave himself a quick once over in the mirror. Jeans were the wrong choice,
he thought, while doing up an errant button on his shirt. But it's too late
now. He backed away from the mirror, turned and entered the restaurant.

  He chose a corner table and took the seat that gave him a clear sight of
the entrance doors. As he lit a cigarette he felt a cold chill run from the
base of his spine to the back of his head. If I knew she was going to be
late, he thought, then I would have had another beer. He sucked on his
cigarette and studied his new surroundings.

  'Would you like to order a drink, sir?'

Raymond's attention had been focused on a group of young men sitting at a
table beside a statue of a naked boy standing in a small font. He looked up
at the young man standing at his table.

   'Just a...' You're a waiter, he thought. '...A beer, please. No. Hold on
a minute.' He picked up the wine list and quickly thumbed through the pages,
realising that he had better order something that would impress his date.
'Better make that a bottle of Bo ... Bola ... '
'A number twenty-seven, sir?'
Raymond nodded, and watched open-mouthed as the waiter, wearing nothing
more than a black pair of leather shorts, left. He drew heavily on his
cigarette.

  Why did she suggest meeting here, he wondered. Glancing at his watch, he
realised that Mandy was ten minutes late.

  Mandy? Or was it Sandy...

  I'd had a few drinks he realised, thinking about meeting her at a disco
the previous evening. But not enough to forget her name. He settled on
Mandy.

  He pushed his cigarette into the ashtray and was toying with its last
glowing embers when he noticed a tall girl entering the restaurant. She had
long dark hair that hung below her breasts. Is that...? He wondered.

   She headed towards his table.

  An unexpected sound of water splashing changed the direction of his
attention.

  The group of young men sitting at the table near his started laughing and
clapping loudly.

  The boy statue was urinating in all directions.

  Stopping beside the statue momentarily, the girl chose the table below a
huge picture. As she sat down she smiled at Raymond, who was sitting
directly opposite her.

  Raymond quickly looked up at the picture. It depicted two naked boys
dancing in an open hay field.

  It was then that the handcuffs of reality broke free and the truth forged
a pattern that Raymond's brain could comprehend - he was in a gay bar!
Brightly coloured tablecloths; youths at the table close by wearing
make-up - one even had his arm draped around his friend's shoulder. What an
idiot I've been, he thought angrily to himself. No girl with any
self-respect wants to make a date with a fool who obviously drinks too much.
She agreed a date to humour me, his thoughts continued.

  The boy stopped peeing.

  The silence caused Raymond to look up. The waiter was heading back to his
table with his order.

  The waiter popped the cork out and poured out half a glass. 'Would sir
like to try the champagne?'
'Wha ... oh, yes, of course,' he answered, trying hard not to look at the
waiter. He picked up the glass, sniffed at it, and swallowed its contents in
one.
'And, sir?'
'It's fi ... fine.' He eructed into the palm of his hand.

  At thirty quid a bottle I'm not going to waste it, he thought, as he
poured himself out another glass. He glanced in the direction of the
dark-haired girl as he casually dabbed at the over-spill with his napkin.
She was lighting a cigarette.

  A strange thought entered his head: For what reason would a girl like her
come to a place full of homosexuals? She can't be a... She's a ... a 'He'

  He emptied his glass and refilled it in a manner that conjured up deep
shock.

  I wonder if She ... he thought, as he looked at her legs for any sign of
hair.

  She crossed her legs. Her short skirt giving him ample opportunity to
inspect more than he had seen in recent years. He became aware that she was
looking at him. Her smile didn't look manly. But then, he mused; a man
dressing up as a woman wouldn't want to look like a 'man'. He didn't return
her smile.

  His heightened curiosity found him imagining a six-foot man at the
underwear department buying silk knickers. He smirked when his thoughts
reached: "I'll take these please, and: Do you think I should try on this
navy blue dress or this green one?"
  He braced himself when he correlated his grinning to the looks he was
getting from some of the other customers. He decided against finishing the
champagne. The celestial mechanics of alcohol had got him into this
situation and here he was again with his alcohol-driven life support system
switched on.

  He lit a cigarette and drew ponderously on it.
'I'm sorry.' He said, as his exhaled smoke dispersed around the dark-haired
transvestite, who was now standing in front of him.
'Just an accident,' 'She' said. 'I can see you're alone. Do you mind if I
join you?'
'You're a woman.'
'Is that a question or a statement?' She asked, while taking a place at his
table.
'Yes. No ... I mean ... I thought you were... Sorry. Please sit down.
'Thank you,' she said, choosing to ignore his incoherence. 'I'm Claudia.'
'Raymond. My friends call me Ray.' By speaking slowly, he assumed she
wouldn't realise how drunk he was. 'I can tell by your accent that you're
not from Bristol.'
'London. Though I do tend to travel a lot. I like this place. It has a
special 'feel' to it. Do you come here often?'

  Raymond had read all about some girls having a liking for picking up men.
He was going to enjoy this experience.

  'Yes,' he lied. He rested back on his chair and coolly tapped the ash from
his cigarette onto the tablecloth beside the ashtray. 'About twice, maybe
three time a week. It has a kind of atmosphere you don't get anywhere else,'
he continued.'

  'Would you like to order anything else?'
Raymond had been too immersed in his new friend to notice the waiter
approaching. 'Just a coffee, please,' he said, remembering his earlier
thoughts about his alcohol consumption and resolving at that moment to
change. 'And you, Claudia?'

  His moment of anxiety passed when she also ordered a coffee.

  'It certainly has bags of that.'
'?'
'Atmosphere,' she added quickly.
'Oh, yes. Bags of it.' He leant forward and stubbed out his cigarette,
taking care that he used the ashtray. From his point of vantage he could see
that she was about twenty-five, much the same as himself.

  'So, Raymond. What work do you do?'
'I have a small antique shop,' he answered. Reasoning that it sounded more
interesting than a second-hand shop. 'It's nothing special, but keeps me
busy. What about you?'
'I'm a freelance writer.'
He didn't quite know how to answer. But the waiter, returning with the
coffee, excused him for a moment. Remembering that Claudia liked this place,
he decided not to comment on the waiter's clothing. He settled on: 'A
writer... That sounds int...'
'Do you come here to meet new friends?' She interrupted.
Well I haven't done too badly tonight, have I? He thought, dropping a
sugar-cube into his coffee. He steered his eyes away from her breasts and
answered, 'Sometimes. Have you written any books?'
'No. Just articles.' She took a sip from her coffee and as she replaced the
cup on the saucer, asked: 'Do you like sex?'

  Raymond's loins were tap-dancing. He filled his glass, his will dissolved
by the unfolding events. I'll show you later, he mused. Later goings on was
currently being played in his mind. He half-emptied his glass, rested his
elbows on the table, and said: 'With the right person.' He took another
quick mouthful and added, 'It has to be the right person, you know - and the
right time. I mean, you take yourself - If you've spent eight hours banging
away at the typewriter writing about some murder or whatever, do you then
feel like jumping between the sheets and bang ... sha... and making love?'
Claudia smiled. 'Well, I don't usually spend quite so long as eight hours
writing. It the researching that takes the time. And sometimes the material
I'm researching makes me feel ... well, you know.

  The film in Raymond's mind was now X-rated. He took out another cigarette
and fumbled for a light.

  'I see.' He said eventually. You have to research before you commence
writing. What's your current project?' He went back to his internal film.
'I'm currently interviewing men who cruise gay bars' she said, looking at
him. 'It's for a national newspaper.'

  'That's good news,' he answered, grinning inanely. 'Shall I order another
bottle of champagne?'
'Yes, Raymond. That would be nice.'


Kevin Dyer
Khjd@kam.pl