Page 8 of Playing to Win

Andrew smiled. This was only his twenty-fifth or twenty-sixth rave. “May I tweet about it tomorrow? Pretty please?”

“Hell yeah! And you better mention me.”

They laughed together, then fell silent as they approached a young beggar sprawled against the side of a city rubbish bin. His head rested next to the words of an advert for home refinancing. Though his cup was set out next to a sign reading PLEASE HELP, he didn’t accost them or ask for money, only stared into the night with empty eyes.

Andrew couldn’t understand how someone could end up like that in the UK, which seemed to overflow with government-provided housing. Perhaps that bloke had run away from home, seeking adventure in the city.

Glasgow was an adventure, for certain. Its citizens’ brash humor and fearless banter had felt like a scalding shower when Andrew first moved here a year ago for university. But bit by bit, it was changing him. He saw himself growing less civil, less tolerant of formalities. The city was prying open his heart and soul, begging to peer inside.Ye show me yours, I’ll show ye mine, it seemed to say.

Thinking of Glaswegians, Andrew turned to look for Colin, the epitome of this city’s aggressive openness.

He was gone.

Andrew stopped and scanned his surroundings, worrying his would-be date had got himself mugged. Did the police even venture into these parts?

Then he spied Colin by the rubbish bins, bending over to talk to the homeless man.

Not just talking—giving him something.

Oh no, you’re not.As Andrew neared them, he caught sight of the pink-hued Royal Bank of Scotland note Colin was extending.

“Is this thing real, mate?” asked the beggar.

“Aye, and there’s nae more where that come fae, so gonnae no get any ideas.” Colin saw Andrew and promptly stood up. Then he stalked forward, brushing past him. “You either. Not a word.”

Andrew increased his pace to catch up—not quitehurrying, as that would be undignified. “You did not just hand over my hundred pounds.”

“It was my hundred. Now it’s his hundred.”

“It was meant for you.”

“I don’t want your money, pal.”

“But you need it,” Andrew said.

“If I kept it, then that’s my fourth tattoo sorted. I’ll just have ‘rent boy’ inked across my forehead.”

Andrew grabbed his arm. “Is that how you think I see you? As a rent boy?”

Colin stopped and studied him, pale eyes glinting in the streetlight. “Maybe.” He looked down at Andrew’s hand. “Gonnae let go of me now?”

Andrew did, but slowly, letting his fingers drift over Colin’s skin as he released him. “You said ‘fourth tattoo.’” He pointed to Colin’s arms. “I see only two there. Where’s the third?”

Colin smiled, for free this time. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

= = =

Colin scanned the street for signs of police as he queued up with his mates outside the Possilpark warehouse. On the whole, North Glasgow seemed quiet, what with the Commonwealth Games excitement centered in the East End. Men and women from all corners of the current and former British Empire had come to Glasgow to compete in what Katie had dubbed “The Queen’s Olympics.” The athletes and their drunken fans would keep Police Scotland well occupied tonight. Colin said a silent thank-you in particular to the scores of unruly Australians already nicked for drunken disorderly.

“What do you use in your hair?”

Colin jumped at the sound of Andrew’s voice close to his ear. “Sorry?”

“To make it all spiky in the back. Which styling product?”

Embarrassed to admit he used cheap crap from the supermarket, Colin said, “I don’t remember the brand. Why?”

“I want my hair to do that.” Andrew ruffled the back of his own head. “When it was very short, I could spike it like mad, but now it lies flat no matter what. Our hair’s about the same length, but yours goes out in all directions. It’s cool.”

---