Little Otis
Otis spit sideways, wiped his mouth, and chased after me with an empty can of Fosters in his hand. Little bleeder's only seven but he's mad as they fuckin' come. Whole fuckin' family's mental. Take the old man - Psycho Sol. The Old Bill did. Five years back. Give him a seven stretch for settin' fire to the neighbour's dog. Kept shittin' on his lawn, so one day, when it's
doin' it's business, Sol creeps up and takes his lighter to it and . . . WOOF.
Tried lightin' up the Old Bill when they come an' all, standin' there flashin' his lighter like it's some sort of fuckin'
flamethrower. The Old Bill's just pissin' 'emselves. Waited for the lighter to go out, then jumped the cunt.
Sols' got five kids, all with his old girl - Shirelle. She used to be Doreen, but Sol made her change her name. Mad on music,
Sol, see. Loved the old Atlantic Soul stuff from the sixties. That's how Otis got his name - Otis Redding. And the others.
Mind you, they weren't so lucky. Especially Aretha. He had a right fuckin' time of it at school. Poor bastard ended up goin'
to some fancy art college down in Brighton just to get away. Saw him when I was down there with the lads last year. He
was doin' some drag act on the pier with a little dog called Puff and he was all dressed in some pink leotard bollocks. I think if Sol had been there, he'd have jumped up on that stage and ripped his fuckin' arms right off. Mind you, he weren't very good. The other three, the twins Percy Sledge and Booker T, and Rufus Thomas, they're still at home, like Otis. Percy and Booker, they're ten, and Rufus has nearly left school, so he's gotta be fifteen or something. Not that he's ever at school.
Always hangin' about outside my house, sittin' on the wall, suckin' on a spliff.
He's all right, Rufus. Just the puff's really fucked him up. Paranoid, you know. I've only gotta open the front door and
he's runnin' down the street. Either that or he jumps off the front wall and crouches down behind it, hiding like. 'Cept it's
always the wrong side, you know, in the garden. Best ignore him. That's what I normally do. Walk down the path pretendin' I don't see him, then off down the street, shakin' me head. Sometimes I look round, and he's back on the wall, but
soon as he sees me, he's back off again, this time hidin' on the street side. Look back three or four times, sometimes, when
I'm bored. Just to see him fallin' off the wall.
So I got Otis chasin' me with this beer can in his hand. I'm nearly forty and I ain't as fit as I used to be. He's put a spurt
on, and the fucker's catchin' up. I can see Shirelle at the door shakin' her fist at me.
'Fuckin' get him, Otis,' she yells. 'Fuckin' have him.'
Like I said. Proper scum.
I'm near the end of the street, just about turnin' the corner. Get out of sight of the little sod and I'll be all right. He'll
give up then. But I'm strugglin'. Slowin' down. Can't go on. Do anything to neck the can of Falstaff I nicked off him, but I
ain't got the time. I'm fucked, sittin' on the pavement, back against the passenger
door of a light blue Cortina.
Here he is. Otis Redding.
He's starin' at me with them evil little eyes, and his face is red, like a tomato. Chucks the empty beer can at me head,
and digs in his pocket. Pulls out a lighter.
Fuck.
(c) Ian Ayris 2010