The chip shop and the pub sat next to each other on Albany Street. They functioned like a pair of lungs: the pub drew people in, and the chip shop expelled them. The chippie had a big broad window, usually fogged, and a narrow walk-space. Menu boards were suspended from the ceiling by chains pinched from the marina. You made your order, and then you stood outside until your number was called. Three dollars, bag of hot chips, piss off. The pub, on the other hand, gathered people in, tucking them away into folds and crevices. People in that place could slip between the cracks of the couch like so many pennies, and you wouldn’t see them again for six or eight months.

I stood across the road looking at the two buildings, trying to decide what I wanted. My left and right hands pulled me in different directions. Go there, said one. No, there, said the other. Alright? asked Francis, who had just come round the corner. Trying to decide where to go, I replied. Francis tugged at his little wagon, bringing it in closer. His gremlin, riding in the wagon, scowled up at me. I don’t want a full meal, I said, looking away from the gremlin as it started picking its nose. Just something to think about before the talk tonight. Francis nodded sagely. Do you want to sit down or do you want a walkabout? he asked. Chippie, you walk. Pub, you sit. Easy. Easy, I repeated, automatically. We stood quiet together. A couple of cars went by, windows zipped shut against the cold. What’s the talk? asked Francis. Eighteen eighteen, saints and prelates, I said. It’s a study of the libraries of eighteen different churchmen from eighteenth century Scotland. That’s nifty, said Francis. Bit of alliteration. Although I would have thought it was about the year, going from the title. It makes more sense if you see the poster, I said. His gremlin hoiked and spat on the sidewalk.

Can I ask you something? I asked. Francis graciously passed over the dad joke, clapping his hands together instead. What is that? I said, pointing at the gremlin. That’s Francis, said Francis. You named it after yourself? I asked. No, Francis said. That’s me. Me when I was younger. The gremlin yowled and threw itself about in the wagon. Francis grabbed the handle and steadied it. Surely you didn’t look like that when you were younger, I protested. Oh, I did, Francis replied. I looked just that bad. Neglected. I took this one to the doctor, and he was very unhappy. Shook his finger at me, and said, you’ve got to take better care of yourself. He scratched at his beard. So now I cart him round with me. Try to show him some things. Eh? He nudged the wagon a little, trying to get a response, but the gremlin was inspecting some gum on the footpath. He’ll try and eat that, Francis told me. You watch him. Oi! The gremlin shrunk back into the wagon, chastised. Where was the talk? Francis asked. Burns One, I replied, not looking away from the hairy little beast in the wagon. Might come along, Francis said. See how you get on at the pub. He strode off, towing the gremlin behind him, and waved a farewell over his shoulder. I hadn’t decided on the pub, I said to no one.

I decided to go to the pub. Too cold to be standing around. A bag of chips was alright if you were going somewhere, and you could eat them on the way, but if you were just waiting around the pub made more sense. It was shortly after five, so the place was filling up. One table held a couple of professors from the business school, who were grousing about their pay. Another had a sandy haired man in his mid-forties trying to persuade a student to join a cult. Two couples in a booth had folded up around each other, for warmth, and a gaggle of technicians had commandeered the flat screen. It was displaying only static, but one of the technicians was fiddling with something on the back. Every time the picture briefly flickered or flashed into view, the technicians roared, as if their favourite team had scored a goal. I ordered a thin beer that cost too much, and wedged myself into a table in the corner.

As I settled into the hubbub, something prodded at my leg. I peered under the table, and found two long, grimy ears, like earmuffs made of kiwi beaks. Alright? asked a gremlin. Come out of there, I ordered. The gremlin hoisted itself up onto a chair next to me. Mind if I sit? it asked, after the fact. I pursed my lips. I don’t have any money. The gremlin shrugged. Don’t want your money, it said. Can I try your beer? I moved the mug away from it. No. Go bother the pigeons. The gremlin shivered. Too cold, it said. And the pigeons are scary. Seen them pick up little fellas like me. Only takes a couple of them. Can I have your scarf? No, I said, more insistently. Why are you bothering me? The gremlin cocked its head, and its ears wobbled. You’re bothering yourself, it replied. I’m just trying to warm up. It reached for the mug, and I moved it further away again. That won’t warm you, I said. It will if I have enough of it, the gremlin said back. I stood to leave. The technicians by the flat screen howled and stomped: they had seen six seconds of a McDonalds ad. Come on, whined the gremlin. It won’t kill you to share a little. Do yourself a favour. I caught on to what the gremlin was implying. You’re not me, I said. I didn’t look anything like that as a child. The gremlin smirked a little. Didn’t you? it said. Something in the slant of its smile caught at me, and I recognised myself in full. My breath went. The gremlin waited patiently. Well, I managed finally, if you are me when I was younger, you shouldn’t be in a pub. Not an appropriate place for a child. I gave the gremlin my scarf, and then my coat. Where are we going? it asked. We’ll go to the chippie first, I said. Then there’s a lecture on tonight. What’s it about? asked the gremlin.