The Notoriously Lacidasical Working Class

1

notorious

/nə(ʊ)ˈtɔːrɪəs/

adjective

famous or well known, typically for some bad quality or deed.

"Los Angeles is notorious for its smog"

He slipped his coat off the banister and adjusted the scarf around his neck. The bitter wind wrestled with the tassels of his scarf and rustled at his coat.

His steps echoed harshly throughout the subway. As he reached the steps, rain started to assault the passersby, several of which held newspapers and magazines over their heads to protect them from the sudden, though not surprising, downpour.

At long last he reached his destination. The ongoing onslaught of rain had created a glossy coating on his trench coat. It's once pale beige had become a dark tan. Before entering the smart building he shook out his coat to oust the stagnant water that remained in the material.

The seats in the waiting room were cold and uncomfortable, but to be fair, they were better than the Severn Express Bus seats. He always hated catching it.

"Yes, of course, I'll catch you then."

A pause. Quiet settled in once more. Only to be shattered once more.

"Six sounds great. Yea, see you then."

The voice grew louder as the speaker grew closer. Cas sat staring at the floor, imagination running wild at the thought of who created this booming voice. He pictured a man of impressive height, good stature, Oxford-trained, with a broadening chest, like that of many middle aged men.

In many senses, Cas was right. A man of approximately 6'2 strutted round the corner, good stature, and a broadening chest. What Cas didn't expect was the definite impression that this man was a foreigner. And an American at that. One could tell, by the tan, and of course the way in which he walked. Americans had a way of walking which distinguished them from the British.

The two made brief eye contact and shared a polite smile. Cas went to utter a quick 'good morning' but before he could he was interrupted by the American.

"You that author? Um, Novak?"

"Uh, yea, that's, uh that's me"

"Good luck"

A quick smirk and the American was gone. And Cas was left non-plussed at this man. He seemed to be a bit of a prick, and Cas didn't appreciate the patronising tone the American used.

"Novak? You're up."

This was it. His time. He was going to smash that meeting, and get his book published.

He stepped out of the meeting room, eyes glued to the floor and a sad smile set upon his face. He expected it, he did, but it still managed to hurt more than he could care to explain. The cold grasp of rejection grasped at his heart. His eyes stung but he would not allow himself to cry, not here.

With his coat securely on and his manuscript safely in his satchel, he began his journey back home. The weather, as usual was grey and drab, and once again reflected his feelings.

With his heart sunk further than before he stepped slowly over the threshold to his home. At long last, he could let him self go.