THE OLD MAN

The old man in the pub said, ‘do you know, “The Last Time,” by Marty Robbins?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘but I’ll have a look on the internet, see if I can learn it.’
‘Oh, okay,’ he said. ‘Do you know...’ titles of a few other songs I’d not heard of.
‘Sorry, no,’ I said.
We sat next to each not talking, listening to the musicians playing. I turned to my friend about to say something to her when he tapped on my shoulder and said, ‘you got a pen?’
I didn’t, not on me, and nor did my friend, she said when I asked but I got a pencil from my jacket was the other side of the room.
‘It’s a pencil,’ I said giving it to him.
He used it to write, on a piece of paper about the size of a beer mat, my name, then he said, ‘I’ll make a list of songs, leave it behind the bar...’
‘Give it to the him,’ I said pointing to a man sat on a chair the right of a table halfway along the wall to the left of us, ‘he’s the landlord.’
Later, I told the landlord what I’d said to the old man, ‘do you know who I mean?’
‘What, you mean the cider drinker you were talking to?’
‘He’s a cider drinker, is he?’
‘He pissed himself in here a couple of times recently,’ he said.
‘Well, yeh, whatever,’ I said, ‘if he comes in gives you a list of songs for me, keep it, then give it to me next week.’