Through the Eyes and Mind of Mr. Elliot Foyle

The music blared and the dance floor pulsated with some ungodly noise as the bodies of well-known clubbers swung to the beat. Laughter and shouting emanated from heart of the crowd, while those about the bar and tables stuck to socializing with strangers. The air was thick with sweat and perfume. A nice change from the ever-present smell of tobacco he was constantly subjected to at his workplace, a man noted. 1

Elliot Foyle hated smoking. He was even less fond of shrill noises, too much lipstick, and people who were much too drunk for the safety of those surrounding them – that being said, it was a mystery to him why he came to this club every night of his life. It must be something about the atmosphere of the place, he thought as he took another sip of his customary late-night Screwdriver; it certainly wasn’t the décor. The club was familiar to him, and it was conveniently located between his apartment and his work. Add that up with his love for a properly mixed drink, and one would have exactly one half of the reason why Mr. Foyle frequented the ‘Seventh Deadly Sin’. 2

The other half may be concluded later, as Elliot requires the reader’s utmost attention at this point. He looked at his watch absently and tried to remember what day of the week it was. “Ah, Thursday nights.” He murmured to himself in a light British lilt. He tapped a button to illuminate the face of his watch in the dimmed light; it read 11:36PM. “Thursday, 11:36PM. Just about time for Shades and Mohawk to make their weekly appearance.” He had barely uttered the phrase when the mammoth bouncers burst through the crowd and slammed two rugged-looking men against the wall a short distance from Elliot’s seat. ‘What a coincidence’. 3

They were both quite obviously intoxicated; one was wearing sunglasses, even in the dark of the club. Said man was now attempting to pull himself off of the floor with the aid of an irritated young woman’s chair, whom Elliot noted. “Man, I…he! Aww, God – wait, man, he was ashkin for it!!! He – woaaahh…!” the man had slid groggily to the floor at the feet of the bouncer, possibly due to the fact that the woman had kicked her chair out of his hand. ‘Shades’, as Elliot called him, fired off as many different gestures as he could to illustrate the situation at hand, but it seemed to Mr. Foyle that this would be one of their frequent ‘toss out’ nights. ‘That was rather faster than usual.’ Elliot glanced sideways at Shades’ companion, who indeed sported a battered Mohawk. He lay there like a slug. Was it a form of defense, or the fact that he was out of his skull on Jack Daniels and been thrown against the wall? 4

‘One can only wonder…’ Elliot concluded; he tipped back his head and finished off his drink. He looked at the empty glass in mild interest, then waved down a waiter by the name of Greg to replenish his drink. He wordlessly accepted the Gin and Soda that Greg had prepared for him ahead of time, and instead turned his attention to the man standing in the window. The Watcher, Elliot called him. Every so often he would drop in and spend his evening staring out at the streets of New York. Was he waiting for something? Remembering someone long ago? Mr. Foyle would never know, and never intended to know. He was simply an observer to the world, just like The Watcher. Elliot with his Gin and Soda, The Watcher forever mixing his Brandy. Elliot had never seen him actually drink it. 5

Elliot started. He blinked and swished his drink around, mulling over tonight’s gusts. In a sudden flash of thought, he remembered the young woman from before; the one with the chair. Now that Mohawk and Shades were lying on the sidewalk, he could get a clear view of who he recognized to be someone he had seen before. She was sitting with her friend, whom he had also seen before, as they came here together now and then for a little fun. ‘Well,’ he corrected, ‘at least Brunette comes here for a little fun.’ He quietly observed the pair over the rim of his gin. The first woman had hair like a bird; short and feathery and bleached as white as her shirt, almost as short as a man’s hair. A sharp contrast from the tumbling mass of brown curls undulating about her companion’s happily dazed face. White, as he had decided to call her, hadn’t touched the shot glass sitting in front of her –she looked as she always did when he saw her. Pissed. 6

Of course, it was plain to him why she always seemed as such. She was leaning back in her chair looking glassily at Brunette with some mix of weariness and contempt. Brunette was actively gesturing and talking in a slurred manor, and she almost knocked over an empty glass in a particularly wild description of some sort. She groped for a tall, half full glass that White had been steadily scooting away from her as she ranted – ‘Long Island Iced Tea,’ Elliot smiled. ‘Judging from the other empty glass, it’s her second tonight.’ Brunette took a long draught whilst White closed her eyes and sighed in resignation. 7

He watched her lay her head on the table as her friend stumbled to her feet. ‘How many times has this happened before?’ He mused as Brunette tottered towards the dance floor – she had apparently given up on White. Instantly, a man jumped up and began to dance with her as she giggled once again. ‘That was quick.’ He frowned a moment; ‘No, not really. Considering how she’s dressed herself, that is.’ Strutting about a bar in a micro-mini and pink pumps wasn’t exactly being subtle, he reasoned. Elliot looked back at White. She was wearing a plain T-backed beater. He looked back at Brunette; she was hanging off the arm of the man. He looked back at White; she was moodily picking at her chili fries. Mr. Foyle sighed, ran a hand through his sandy hair, and started in on his drink. He already knew how their night would end. 8

When he was halfway through, he stopped to enjoy the rare flavor of a drink worth buying. He licked his lips and cracked his knuckles. Elliot had done this for years now; arriving, ordering a Screwdriver, watching, ordering a Gin and Soda, hailing a cab, and falling into bed for the next day. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if that was sad. 9

The thought gently dislodged itself from his mind when he caught sight of a short blonde at the bar, reaching to accept two Martinis from Tom, the bartender. This time Elliot smiled with his eyes as well as his mouth; the Martini Girl was here. She too smiled, but it was more in sadness than for joy. She would come here once a month, order two Martinis, pray, drink them, and walk out the door. Elliot observed her performing these activities with curiosity; Tom had once told him her story. Elliot knew he would never repeat it. 10

‘One for her’, he watched her pause before taking the second one ‘…and one for her father.’ As she tipped the drink down, Elliot bowed his head in respect for the long lost soldier. He himself could never take on such a duty; though he was of able health, Mr. Foyle was afraid that the job was not of his temperament. Notwithstanding, he felt that a token of respect was in order for the man whose body was never found. 11

Elliot was jerked from his thoughts by a rather annoying buzzing in his pocket. Slightly vexed, he touched a button on his phone to turn it off – it was midnight. Mr. Foyle finished his drink in silent musing, and called Greg over once more. He handed the waiter exact change. They exchanged a polite goodbye, and he hailed a cab to take him home. 12

The car ride was short, the traffic was appalling, and the driver swore in a language that his passenger could not recognize. Elliot Foyle stepped into his apartment and got ready for bed.13

As he flossed and brushed his teeth, Elliot reflected on his day. He thought of his boss’s odd ties and bad toupee, his coworkers and their cool attitude towards the world, their blatant apathy to those around them. ‘And they wonder why a man such as myself would frequent a bar.’ He spat out his toothpaste and sat on his bed. 14

Elliot peeked up at the mirror on the wall beside his bed. He thought of Shades and Mohawk lying in a car somewhere, passed out and broke. He thought of The Watcher finally setting down his drink and loping towards the door. He thought of White with Brunette sleeping in the back of her car, careening down the highway with the windows down and the music up. He thought of the Martini Girl dozing in the back of a cab, dreaming of a special someone reaching for that second drink. 15

He stared at the mirror hard. "What’s all of this about?" Elliot asked aloud - had only spoken once before that night. He didn’t know if he was talking to himself or to some other higher power. "What does it all mean?" He stared at the mirror until everything blurred and morphed before him. He could no longer see his own face staring back at him in question. 16

Mr. Elliot Foyle sighed, blinked a few times, and turned off the lights. 17

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