The Foibles of Combat Jim
This is more of a brief encounter, really...

I’m sure somebody’s ended up with this nutjob as a housemate, and I can only thank fuck it wasn’t me...

I should’ve known things were going to turn strange when we checked into the hotel.

Jim was wearing a long trenchcoat type affair and he sidled up to me as I sorted out the roomkeys and said: “I could easily hide an AK-47 inside this coat, you know. They’re really lax on security round here.” And he looked round the lobby for threats like he was secret service and I was the fucking Queen.
“Errr, it’s a Travel Inn,” I replied, as the nice Nigerian lady behind the counter handed over our keys.

On the journey down on the train Jim tried to strike up a few conversations with me, but I really didn’t know how to respond to openers like: “Wouldn’t it be great to do what they did in The Dear Hunter with the revolver? Do you know the best way to kill a man with one hand tied behind your back? In a combat situation you can drink your own piss and survive.” I just sat opposite him, looking perplexed.

I’d been sent down to Brighton for a week by my company to teach the people in the office there how to use a new computer system. I was the sales bod, and Jim was the fella who put the system together. What I didn’t realise was we’d be sharing a room on account of my employers being tighter than a virgin clams’ growler saving herself for her wedding night.

So, we go up to the room and unpack. But before I can find somewhere to put my case Jim starts scanning the room, rubbing his hands over the furniture, tapping the surfaces and peering about like a meerkat on drugs. After a short while Jim breathes out a sigh and says: “It’s ok. We’re ok.” And the tension seems to drain from him momentarily.

Jim opens his case, lays all his cloths out on his bed. He’d tied his socks into a neat bundle with string, and his shirts, and his trousers, even his pants. He then systematically put these items away in his wardrobe in order of size. I, on the other hand, flung open my case, got out the Lynx, had a quick icy spray under the arms for the Jack Frost effect, and lobbed my case in the wardrobe. Packing finished. “Fancy going for a pint?” I asked.

Jim looked at me like I was insane. “We’ve got work tomorrow!”

“Errr, its two in the afternoon. ..”

Jim shook his head firmly. “I need to prepare myself... Mentally.”

I felt like saying: “Have you had a head trauma recently?” But instead I shrugged and fucked off to find a pub.

On the way out Jim offered me something. It was small, black, cylindrical. “What’s this, Jim?”

He beamed at me: “Rape alarm.”

Well, I wasn’t planning on getting raped. I chuckled and said: “Jim, if I get into a rape situation its usually me doing the raping...”

He didn’t think that was funny. He just stared and I could almost visualise his anus puckering up in fear.

“You need to know death isn’t a stranger to me,” Jim said with a strange calm zen expression on his beady little face.

I shrugged and went out.

I came back later that evening, about half eleven. It was Sunday night and I was in work the next day, I’d got talking to a few Brighton fans in this pub and we were talking about football and drinking beerskis. Nice peaceful Sunday in my church the pub getting ever-so-slightly sloshed with the other parishoners.

And when I returned to the Travel Inn I waved at the receptionist, wished her a good evening, and ventured up to the room. And found it locked. I tried my key again. It was still locked. I looked at the gap under the door. It was dark in the room. I thought Jim had gone to sleep and really didn’t want to wake him. I wandered back down to reception and asked if they could come up and have a look. I’m a complete thick twat when it comes to those key card things in hotels. I usually end up trying to swipe my Blockbusters card twenty-odd times before sleeping in a broom cupboard. The receptionist tried the lock a few times. No joy. So I knocked lightly on the door.

Jim answered before I’d even finished knocking. “You’re late!”

“Sorry, Jim,” I replied. And I went into the room to settle down for the night. I went to turn the light on.

“No!!! Leave it off!!!”

Fair enough. I felt bad for getting Jim out of bed. I fumbled round in the dark and slipped into bed. As my eyes adjusted to the light I noticed Jim’s bed was still made and empty. I scanned the room and saw a shape sitting in the chair, motionless.

“Errr, what are you doing?”

Jim whispered: “Have you seen Leon...? Well -”

I’d had just about enough of this mental patient in waiting. I slapped the light on and saw him sitting in the chair, staring at me. There was a small coffee table beside him. On the coffee table was something rather large, shiny and menacing looking.

“Right, I’m off,” I said, and got dressed, found my suitcase, and went down to the reception to sort myself out with a new room.

The next morning we’re in the Brighton office. I’m showing a load of people how to use the computer system and the sales patter they need to use in conjunction with it. I hadn’t seen Jim so far that day – he was off doing whatever it was he had to do. I’d found my own way into the Brighton office with the aid of this fabulous invention named a taxi, I’m sure they’ll take off one day and soon every town and city in the UK, possibly the world, might have them.

The fact I had avoided Jim was fine by me, the fucking lunatic.

During a break the office manager who I knew quite well pulled me to one side.

“Spanky, we’ve had a complaint,” she said gravely.

“Ohh? Is this about the joke I told in the icebreaker? Sorry, I’m not too PC sometimes but the mental image of a penguin holding up Tony Blair’s severed head really is-“

“No! Tony Blair??? No. It’s about James,” she continued. “He says you hurt his feelings...”

My response wasn’t the most professional, “ He thinks he’s in Combat 18!!! And I hurt his FEELINGS???” I was pretty pissed off.

She sighed, “He was so upset he hasn’t come in today. If you have to share a living space with someone even for a short while you really must learn to make allowances for their foibles...”

Foibles???? Fucking FOIBLES???

Which probably explains why I now live with a group of practicing Satanists. They’re pussy cats really, and the smell of sacrificial blood is ok after a while... but the endless fucking chanting!!! Fuck me!!!

Fucking FOIBLES!!!
( SpankyHanky, Mon 2 Mar 2009, 12:06, 6 replies)

I'm slightly scared, having read that
But also tremendously amused.
(LongJohnBaldry, Mon 2 Mar 2009, 12:19, closed)

click
sounds like a geezer i used to share with
(Errin C, Mon 2 Mar 2009, 12:21, closed)

What a lunatic!
clicky :-)
(Save Us All !!!, Mon 2 Mar 2009, 12:23, closed)

Sounds familier...
He wasn't Mike from Spaced was he?
(Burt Burt, Mon 2 Mar 2009, 13:06, closed)

Too thin...
but rather similar, come to think of it. How many of these war nutters are actually out there???
( SpankyHanky, Mon 2 Mar 2009, 13:18, closed)

A Foible
I though they were things that hung from Xmas trees?

Anything shiny but not round.

Because the round things were baubles.

Or have I got it wrong again?


.
(Pill Popper Thank you Sasha Shulgin, Mon 2 Mar 2009, 15:07, closed)