Liverpool Fan
- mattiapelizzari3
- Aug 5
- 3 min read
Updated: Aug 7
He is so excited by the new electric vehicle he is using. Yes, he finds it stupid. Tiny, weird shaped, three wheels and with a roof. Who needs a roof? If it’s raining, you get rained on. Ireland raised; born. But his perception of the green motion thing is changed by how people interact with it. Every morning, between the Grove(s), the Road(s), the Lane(s), and the Avenue(s), people turn their heads while he delivers the post. Now it is full of wit; his long face, sad eyes, and large smile. But like everything that is a good memory, time can make it harder to tell the happiness that a good story should carry. So, doing his job today, he smiles without reason. Really, he should look tired; and he is. He is really, instead, very tired. Just too much wrecked. He kept drinking last night, watching the Premier League. Liverpool, of course. No one else better than his national legendary football team. Liverpool is full of Irish.
A slight faint comes along as he steps out from the green auto-electric-mobile. His hand on the roof, bending to collect the envelopes that need to be delivered, and that motion where the stomach asks the brain, “how’s your head?”. He wonders why envelopes today felt so heavy. Who is that idiot that puts bricks into them? More pressure for his swollen feet.
Weather? Trash as always. Typical grey clouds and sun rays coming through. He wears the old, all scratched sunglasses he uses in the raves and football matches. They have been everywhere, even in places he doesn’t know. Once he lost them for three days and found them in his letterbox. Funny! Ah Ah Ah Ah! Fortunately he didn’t get new ones. But he might have something special for his cousin’s wedding. So ready to party.
The two oldies are there in the corner with a cup of tea and the synthetic gown. One looks more witchy, even if he could make good use of her. Her hair is just electrified all the time. He gives a good wave to Five Fingers. He calls the old one that because, compared to the other, she has all of them. Should he call the other Three Fingers? Chicken Paw? Mental note to laugh about with colleagues. They never had any sympathy for any of them. He walks towards them with a few envelopes. Today, who knows, it could be his day to crack a smile from them. Clack! Maybe have a small chat. Introduction. Karl (quick glance with the blue eyes lifting the shades… or maybe not for the red veins). That would be nice. He shows the name of the new neighbours from one of the bricks he is holding. More laughter, of course. He is already in Fiver and her friend’s heart. Best people ever on the Grove. They know he is a sound fella. Karl, they would say, they are two guys, we have seen them moving in, TO-GE-THER. He thought names ending with A were female. But two guys? Really? And not from here. He might spit on the envelope of those two. What else can he do? Go back to the city centre and protest in front of the TV shouting, “Go back to your country!” again? More riots? That’s where his Liverpool T-shirt got ruined. When they lit the fire to the Luas. Hahahaha! BOOM! But now, Fivy could easily fix it. They are good friends now.
Ah, no words of thank you on the delivery. Also, wasted time to say sorry luv to the witches. Clack! Electrocuted Five Fingers and Chicken Paw. His stomach is quite funny from the pepperoni pizza he had just before bed. Well, in bed. In his shared apartment. Thirty-eight and still renting. A council house would be nice. Clack! Breaking something and calling to fix for free. Ding-dong, here’s the plumber.
Clack! Another envelope! The foreign fella? Is he naked? Just there on the other side of the door? Painting at the mirror?
Where will this country go? They are just taking what is ours.
Rain.
Rainbow?
Forgot to spit on it!
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Check my previous short story: Spieli
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