Hanging out with #160 felt kind of like taking your pet space alien for a walk. I knew him from Frenchie’s, and it was rare to find him outside of his natural habitat. The thought of him interacting with the outside world on a daily basis was a perplexing one. Whichever side of the bar he was on, he provided a constant barrage of the snappiest one-liners; nobody could hold a candle to his routine. He went through a procession of creative haircuts and frequently insulted people, which at least he did in style. He would occasionally get sacked from Frenchie’s and then mysteriously end up working there again. “Happy comeback night,” I said to him on another triumphant return. “Yeah, apart from the cracked skull and stuff,” he replied; there’d been another fight that night.
A year or two ago I heard he was working in the kitchen of another pub, and when I wound up at a lock-in there, I asked one of the staff if he knew #160. I was subjected to a full five-minute rant about why #160 was a terrible person. Thing is, I sometimes love terrible people. Sometimes I worry about what would happen if you locked #160 and #98 and #207 in a room together with a large quantity of alcohol.
We kissed a couple of times: the night we went to CC’s and I subsequently went home with #159, and one night in Frenchie’s when a straight boy chatted me up and complained that it wasn’t fair.
The last few times I’ve run into him, he’s called me Five. I thought he was being funny at first, but now I think he’s genuinely gotten my name confused.