Sunday, December 13, 2009

Foot in the door


--You're wha'? said Terry.
He said it loudly over the noise spilling out the door.
--I'm the new bartender. I just got here from Canada.
--Eh -- I'll get the gaffer.
Terry went in the pub, leaving the Canadian standing in the parking lot with his suitcase. It was Friday night and there was a young couple making out at one end of the lot, and an old fella puking his ring up at the other end. A few people came out the door. One of them mumbled something at him about crack, but he couldn't make it out with the accent. He was about to say something back when Terry arrived, followed by Mr. Crummy.
--Now just who the fuck are you meant to be? said Mr. Crummy.
--I'm Nate Freake, said the Canadian.
--Wha'? Come again?
--I'm the bartender from Canada. From the recruitment agency.
--Are yeh jokin' me? Sure you were suppos' to be here over a year ago. I don't need a bartender now, Mr. Crummy said. --Wha' the fuck am I supposed to do with yeh annyway?
Mr. Crummy's tone was harsh and serious. Nate looked to Terry to see if there was any support there. Terry just away into the overcast sky. A group of middle-aged men went past the three standing in the door and nodded towards Mr. Crummy. Inside was the sound of laughter and shouts, a Robbie Williams song playing. Nate wondered if moving to Dublin had been such a good idea.
--Well, I was told to make my way here and that you'd have a job and accomodations for me. It's not like I can just hop on a bus and go home.
A smirk crept across Terry's face and he pursed his lips, swallowing a laugh. His boss gave him a sideways glance.
--Jaysis. Yis may as well come in for now till we sort this ou'.
Nate picked up his suitcase and stepped over the threshold into the porch.
--Just stay ou' of the way in the lounge over there, said Mr. Crummy, pointing towards the door on the right. --I'll get in touch with tha' bollix from the agency an' we'll see wha' can be done.
--Thank you, said Nate, as he made his way into the lounge.
--Terry, see tha' the lads on the bar get him a pint. An' for fuck sakes, if annyone else shows up sayin' there're here for a job, tell 'em to go back where th' fuck they came from, righ'?

4 comments:

Jon said...

interested to hear what you might think of the accent/dialect attempt... too much? not enough? suggestions for authentic accents in writing without taking away from the reading?

thanks!

timmy said...

the accent/dialect is well done - i think it's a good idea to limit it to the dialogue - it's when a whole story - or whole novel! -is attempted in dialect that it can be a bit much

Dan Leo said...

Yeah, it's all in the execution. Like "Trainspotting" I think is all told in brutal Scottish dialect, but I got a kick out of it. Roddy Doyle's novels are thick with Dublin accents, and they're fun. Twain of course used a lot of dialect, and he's generally considered not to suck. But if it's not done right it can be a real pain in the ass to read. All language is dialect, really.

Jon said...

timmy,
thanks... i'm trying not to overdo it...

Dan Leo,
Actually, Doyle is what I'm basing the dialect on... i've been devouring his work lately... both for academic and enjoyment purposes... good pick-up on that... thanks for your thoughts!