Trying to write like Stan - Part 2

What Stan’s version of a ‘gym’ is.

Dimly lit. Neat rows of dumbells and brown medicine balls, ascending left to right according to weight. A kettle, but no sink. There is a hand-drawn ‘No Smoking’ sign, and also a full ashtray,

In the toilet, men project browny-yellow arcs onto porcelain. The basin is tiny - the kettle has to go sideways to get under the tap. You can never get it more than half full before it spills. Like a public bar’s gents, there is no mirror.

-

“Whattta think?” I said. “Thoughts?”
“It was okay.”
“Yeah?”
“I didn’t like the mirror bit. Describing something by what it’s not - he just wouldn’t do that. You’re trying too hard.”
“So I’m a tryhard?”
“Yeah. You’re a tryhard.”

Trying to write like Stan - Part 1.

You and Stan aren’t talking about the same ‘gym.’

“Just because certain words mean certain things to you, doesn’t mean it's the same for everyone else. We all lead different lives.

In Melbourne a sauna's a brothel ya know? In Adelaide a pint is only the size of a schooner unless you say 'imperial' - anyway - In Hervey Bay a schooner's a fucken boat. Different things, signifiers.”

He paused to light a cigarette.

“Fucken. If you pissed yourself, I’d say you’d pissed yourself.” He said. “Doesn’t mean Stan'd say it like that.”

I stared at my chewed up thumbnail. “What would Stan say?”

“He’d say that you’d ‘done a piss inside your pants.’”

“Then what would he say?”

“He'd say you're a twit.”