The Rampant Horse and the Buddha’s Pint

The rain had done what it always did on the Longcroft - poured down hard. Biblically hard. The front of the Rampant Horse was slick with it, the gravel outside now more puddle than path. Inside, the pub was its usual glow of amber light, a mix of warm beer breath and cheap aftershave.

Dave, still damp from the trudge over the railway footbridge, took his usual seat near the fire.

Vinny, nursing a pint and a half-finished packet of pork scratchings, looked up from scratching behind Scraps’ ear. The terrier lay curled under the table like he was meditating.

“Buddhism,” Vinny announced, apropos of nothing. “That’s what I’ve been reading about.”

Dave raised an eyebrow. “You? Reading? Are you it wasn't a take away menu or something?”

Vinny ignored him. “It’s not a religion, really. More like… a lifestyle. Peace. Inner calm. Giving up desire and all that.”

“You give up desire?” Dave scoffed. “Not a chance I've seen the way you eye up the local eligible widows."

Sandra, behind the bar, looked up just long enough to flash a smile.
“Not just widows,” she said, "Vinny is very familiar with local drainpipes as well as angry husbands."

Vinny grinned. “See? Temptation everywhere.”

Dave leaned in, conspiratorially. “Carol tried yoga once. I came home to so much moaning and groaning from her bending I thought the zombies had invaded.”

Ken the barman, polishing a glass with the same rag he'd used for the last fifteen years, huffed. “Do Buddhists talk this much shite, or is it just you two?”

“You need to work on your inner calm, Ken.” Vinny shot back.

Lecherous Lee sidled up to the bar, looking like someone had squeezed him into a leather jacket two sizes too small. “Alright, Sandra,” he leered. “If you were a Buddhist, would you believe in reincarnation? Beause I swear I died and came back just to see you in that blouse

Sandra, handed him a pint. “If you die again, make sure it lasts.”

Keith limped in, coughing dramatically, a bandage on his wrist and a look of martyrdom on his face.

“Sick Note!” Dave called out. “Survived another Monday then?”

“Barely,” Keith wheezed. “Doctor says I’m not to exert myself.”

Dave chuckled, "It's more likely aliens would land than you breaking a sweat Keith."

“You walked here!” Ken pointed out to Keith.

“Spiritual exertion, Ken,” Keith replied, sitting down slowly. “I’m on a journey.”

“To the bottom of your third pint,” Vinny muttered.

Dave turned back to his pint. “So go on then, Vinny, what does Buddhism say about living in a place like Longcroft?”

Vinny considered. “Probably that suffering is inevitable. But you’ve got to learn to let go and accept what is."

“Let go of what?”

Vinny gestured around the pub. “This. The pint. The telly. The desire for Ken to crack a smile. Sandra’s cleavage—”

Sandra lobbed a beer mat at him. “Oi!”

Vinny ducked. “See? Desire leads to suffering.”

Dave shook his head, chuckling. “I’ll stick to what I know. Couple of pints, curry on Friday, and trying to get through life without throttling Carol’s sister.”

“You’re basically a monk,” Vinny said.

“A married monk with high blood pressure.”

Scraps stirred, sniffed the air, farted and went back to sleep.

“Anyway,” Dave said, downing the rest of his pint. “If you become enlightened, Vin, will you stop nicking my crisps?”

“Enlightenment is not about crisps,” Vinny replied. “It’s about transcendence.”

“Well, transcend yourself to the bar and get the next round in.”

Ken growled from behind the counter. “Buddha help me, you two are the reason I drink before I start my shift.”

Vinny stood, stretched, and headed to the bar like a man on a spiritual pilgrimage.

Scraps padded after him like a tiny, scruffy disciple.

Outside, the rain started again.

Longcroft’s version of karma, no doubt.