There’s a Dave for everything.
The Rock Bar, what a dive, peeling paint on the door and Fat Dave still hasn’t fixed that smashed window. The place is dark and seedy but I love it, it’s where I first met the missus, God bless her.
Nothing much changes in The Rock Bar, same crappy fittings, same beer, same music. Although one thing is new, a Dave Grohl poster is up on the wall alongside the Floyd’s Dave Gilmour — quite an honor for the American upstart to be in such company, if only he knew he’d finally made it.
“Alright, Dave? The usual?”
“Yeah. Cheers, Dave.”
“How’s the little lady, Dave?”
Fat Dave always asks after Steffanie. He’s a bone idle slob but he’d stick his neck out anytime for my wife, she’s an angel in his eyes… and mine too of course.
“As air-brained as ever,” I tell him, which she is.
“Best barmaid I ever had,” Dave says. “You fixed that motor yet?”
Bit of a sore point there, one damn thing after another. New clutch, new diff’ and now a new alternator is needed. My bargain BMW is proving to be anything but.
“Get a recon’, Dave,” Fat Dave suggests. “Dave Walker could get you one cheap.”
“That’s a thought, Dave. Does Dave still drink here?”
“Sure, he’ll be here in five minutes.”
That’s the great thing about Fat Dave, he knows the networks, ALL the networks — if you know what I mean. Beer is only a sideline in The Rock Bar, although I doubt if Dave’s other trades get entered in the books.
Dave Walker walks in, with Dave Morris no less.
“Hi, Dave. Good to see you again, Dave,” says Dave Walker to Fat Dave and me.
“How you doing, Dave?” I ask him. “Been a long time, Dave,” I say to Dave Morris.
Dave Morris is a c**t. Back in the day, he wouldn’t leave my Steffanie alone, wouldn’t take no for an answer. So I clocked him, he won’t have forgotten it, but he got the message and we’ve never mentioned it since.
“Dave here needs an alt’ for a 320 Beamer,” Fat Dave says to Dave Walker.
“When by?” Dave asks.
“Well… anytime now would be handy,” I tell him.
“I could pick you one up by the weekend,” Dave says.
Dave means go and pinch one off some other poor sap’s motor, light fingerered sod. I’d sooner not touch it, especially if Dave Morris is involved.
“Suit youself, Dave,” Dave says, when I decline his offer.
“Try Wreck Breakers, Dave,” suggests Dave Morris. “They’ll have one for sure.”
“Where’s that, Dave?”
“Behind the old brewery on Southside.”
Hmm, perhaps Dave isn’t such a c**t after all, being all helpful and that.
“Ask for Dave,” Dave tells me.
“Right, thanks, Dave.”
“Tell him Dave sent you, you’ll get a good deal.”
“Excellent. Cheers, Dave.”
“No problem, Dave.”
Well… there you go.
I won’t mention it to the wife, she wouldn’t trust Dave as far as she could throw him.
Catch you later.
David Gaye xxx