Right Away Monday, page 23
—Evening fellas, comin in for a drink?
I’m h’immediately disgusted with m’self for that girlish voice, but I know at the same time that that’s mainly what’ll get them h’in ’ere throwing their money round. Fuck it. The bald grey suit, h’older than the others by h’at least twenty years, ’e slips on the sidewalk and catches ’old of the door for balance.
—I dont know young lady. What’s on the menu?
With my brightest smile and my nipples gone ’ard as little rocks with the cold, I dredges up that quaint old bouncy stunned touristy h’accent I knows they’s dyin to ’ear.
—Whatever tickles yer fancy. Whaddaya ’ave in mind?
And with that they h’all walk in be’ind me, stompin their boots and doffin their pricey wool scarves and leather gloves h’on the table near the h’exit. A tall dark-’aired one of ’bout thirty-five with a two-day scruff that reminds me h’of a Men’s Fitness cover model, ’e leans in close to the bald grey suit and says:
—Jerry, ask her if she does that thing with the fish.
Behind Jerry another suit snorts loud and slaps ’is leg:
—Get your mind out of the gutter Baker. What a thing to say.
—Fuck off Dawson. I’m talking about a drink.
And h’another, a nerdy type in dark-rimmed thousand-dollar h’eyeglasses goes:
—Yeah, it’s called something though. Shriek or Squeal, something like that. There’s a poem too. Kenneth and his wife had it done last year.
’Cept for one quiet fella in the back who I cant get a bead on at all, looks to me like the h’aggression factor is pretty low with this lot. H’easy marks for a few dollars ’opefully. Two kindsa Yanks, h’in my h’estimation: the ones that throws their money away like they cant get rid of it quick anough, refusin to h’acknowledge its value, like it’s just too ’eavy to be luggin round in their pockets, and the ones that counts out pennies, ’oarding h’every last cent like h’every time they makes a purchase they’s potentially bein ripped off. This crowd ’opefully falls h’under the former category. And if they’s lookin for a Screech In they’ll be payin through their h’eyeballs by the time I’m done with ’em. I’m just about to pipe h’up and tell ’em what they’s lookin for when the bald grey suit, Jerry, boosts ’isself h’onto a stool and shouts right proud:
—A Screech In. That’ll do us tonight. Can you do that young lady?
I plant my hands firmly on the bar and let my breasts rest softly on the lip of the register. They line h’up h’obediently ’long the bar. Whipped dogs h’already.
—Can I do a Screech h’In? Youse ’appened to stumble h’upon the queen tonight Jerry.
Jerry flushes, delighted to be singled h’out by name, by a slender young thing like me no less, h’in front of ’is younger h’associates.
Course I could ’ave, you know, h’at one point during my long and glamorous bartending career, really labelled m’self the Queen of the Screech h’In. I’d say I riddled h’off close on five ’undred in the few years I was workin at Traynor’s Quay h’on Duckworth. Some nights I’d do ten or twelve and walk ’ome ’oarse. I begged the manager to let me wait tables, clean toilets, just be a regular bartender, a bouncer h’even. But ’e’d only laugh h’at me and smack my h’ass and tell me I was the best ’e’d ’ad in years, that I was, h’in fact, the Queen. Cant believe I put up with that fat prick long h’as I did. And the tourists, rich, bustin-at-the-seams roly-poly piggies with their h’endless stupidity and h’ignorance, their h’insatiable thirst for ’umiliation. Telling me ’ow cute we all is, Newfoundlanders. H’askin me to say things h’again cause they just loved the h’accent so much, ’ow it was just to die for. Saying stuff like ’ow they wanted to h’adopt one of h’us. And I finally snapped and said to one couple late h’on a Saturday night:
—Yeah, take a run down to B—and meet the gang. Go scrape my child’ood h’off the bedsheets.
They werent long settling their tab then. No tip for Mon that night.
—H’of course I can do a Screech h’In. So long h’as youse got the paper?
—Paper?
I gives ’im a playful smack on the back of ’is ’and.
—The money Jerry. Silly.
And with that I swear they h’all rises a couple of h’inches in their fine leather shoes and puff out the chests of their ’and-spun suits, diggin for wallets and weighin h’out their change. The very mention h’of money and their cocks just stiffen. See that. Bald Jerry raises a stubby ’and, waves h’off the commotion.
—I’ll get this one, fellas. On me. How much sweetheart?
I tilts my ’ead and sets my bottom lip in a playful pout. I reaches h’over the bar and straightens Jerry’s tie while I calculates the charge. Jerry goes beet red.
—Let’s see b’ys. Five of ya, h’at twenty five bucks an ’ead, that’s one twenty-five.
Jerry makes a slight jump like ’e’s been grazed in the h’ear with a lead pellet. ’E catches himself fast anough though, h’obviously not wantin to come ’cross h’as a tightwad h’in front of ’is younger, fitter and less laden-down “friends.” A layer of sweat beads the bridge of ’is nose all the same. ’E gives ’is wedding band a twirl. ’E seems to be the h’only one wearing one and I kinda feels a bit bad for a moment before Jerry slaps a stack of bills h’on the bar and shakily counts out an ’undred and thirty dollars.
—There you are sweetie, and a little something for yourself as well.
I sweeps the money in and stashes it under the drawer in the register. So I’ve gotten m’self paid now, no matter ’ow the rest of the night h’unfolds.
Jerry looks round at his company for h’approval but they’s h’all suddenly h’immersed in their h’own language of carbohydrates and digits and h’exchange rates and stock market nonsense. Jerry seems so lost. Men’s Fitness pauses ’is mumblings about a stewardess in Boston and slaps Jerry ’eartily ’cross the back.
—Youse’re a wild man Jerry…
And doesnt that just get Jerry’s goat h’altogether. A big, porky face-splittin grin, delighted that someone’s finally said it h’out loud. ’E slips ’is newly flaccid wallet back into ’is shirt pocket. ’E’s like the fat kid ’ose mother’s h’after sendin to the playground with a bag of candy to buy ’is way h’onto the merry-go-round. I gives ’im h’another little lovetap.
—Is that true Jerry? Youse a wild one?
—You’ll find out missy, when you serve up that whiskey.
From “young lady” to “sweet’eart” to “sweetie” to “missy.” Where’s this night ’eaded I wonder?
—Actually Jerry, it’s not whiskey. Screech is rum.
Black rum. A couple of his comrades snicker and Jerry seems to deflate, beet red h’again, ’is ’ead down and ’is eyes to the floor. Poor doomed fucker.
Fuck, there’s not anough Screech left h’in the bottle on the bar. I’m sure I can put h’on a decent, believable h’act, but it’s gonna be ’ard to pull h’off a fake, and prolly illegal, Screech h’In without the main h’ingredient. And a fish or something, cant go without that. Maybe downstairs. Mike keeps a reserve of liquor downstairs for busier nights. I searches the cupboards beneath the stock, just to make sure, before I leaves the bar h’unattended. From be’ind me comes a thick Texan h’accent, the fat guy who ’asnt spoken yet, ’as to be. I knew ’e’d be trouble.
—Hwe’ll settle foar a hwet tee-shirt contest if yud rather? Yuh look lahk yud put oan a good show.
I whips round with the near h’empty Screech bottle ’eld by the neck. The h’entire line pulls back, terrified I’m gonna use it h’on one of their daily-moisturized faces. I zeroes h’in on the source h’of the voice, jowly and sweaty, ’is paunch belly stretchin ’is shirt buttons to the popping point. A steers-’ead belt buckle. Tie thinner than the h’others, shirt collar longer and sharper. I woulda pegged ’im for a Texan if ’e’d h’opened his mouth or not.
—Well why dont we make it a contest cowboy? I’d say youse could gimme a run for it.
And the crowd laugh, the tension broken. Jerry laughs the loudest, h’unconsciously flauntin ’is relief h’at not bein the butt h’of a joke ’bout male titties.
—She got you there Jackman. Ha!
—Shit woman, Ah was juz yankin yer chain.
Some fucken h’apology. Blubber fuck. I takes the h’opportunity to ’ide the Screech bottle be’ind my back and slip towards the basement door.
—Jerry me old cunt. Will ya watch the bar for me for a sec? Make sure none of these pups take advantage?
Sometimes I knows it’s best to tone down me h’accent a bit, some people h’out there dont h’understand plain h’English. Jerry nods with all ’is ’eart, ’appy to be selected as the h’obvious choice to be the man in charge. I makes the dash towards the basement door, and I ’ears Men’s Fitness say:
—I’m pretty sure she was supposed to say “me old cock.”
And then Jerry:
—No, no. That was right. You heard her wrong. That’s just the way she talks.
At the bottom of the stairs there’s a box of liquor. I roots through it. Smirnoff. White Bacardi. White Morgan. Lamb’s. Jameson. Fucken Valentine with his h’Irish whiskey. But no Screech, and none of these dark anough to pass for it. In the far corner be’ind the door I finds h’another box labelled h’Imperial Rum. Plastic forty-h’ounce bottle h’inside with the seal not h’even broken. But when I lift it h’out the bottle’s h’only ’alf full. I tips it h’upside down and liquor leaks h’out through the stopper. I digs through the rest h’of the box and find h’Imperial Rum h’ashtrays and coasters and a few stray glasses. The loose ends of some promotional drop-h’off. I can vaguely remember the sales rep droppin off a case at the bar last year. And Mike sellin it at ’alf the regular price. But there was something ’bout it, this metallic taste. Lead? It was a bad batch, recalled a week later. But Mike kept it round the bar and managed to peddle it h’off to the desperate. No sensible drinker would go ’andy to it. It was h’even a bit of a h’inside joke at the bar for a while, h’offering it to someone on the ’ouse to get a kick h’outta their reaction:
—’Ere Jim, ’ave a sup of this.
I brings the tip h’of the bottle to my nose and gags a little h’at the smell. Keith suckered me h’into takin a shot one night, h’evil little bastard. I spent the ’ole next hour ’eaving up in the women’s toilet. I ’olds the h’Imperial Rum and the Screech bottles together towards the light. They’s pretty much the same colour. Fuck it, if they wants a Screech h’In they’ll get one.
I pours the h’Imperial Rum h’into the Screech bottle, gives it h’all a shake. Looks good to me. Now, a fish. Or something like it. I pulls stuff round in the deepfreeze, ’oping maybe Mike got some salt fish or some fillets. I lifts h’up what looks to be the ’ind quarter of a moose. Could ’ave the flabby fuckers kiss this, or lick it. But it’s too ’eavy to carry h’upstairs and it stinks like burnt vomit any’ow. I shuts the deepfreeze and rummages further into the damp tangle of busted barstools and h’empties, leaky guitar cables and warped speaker cabinets and kegs and h’out-dated beer promo signs, tryna find h’anything that might pass for a realistic Newfoundland symbol or icon or what-h’ever youse wanna call it. Not that them bloated bastards h’upstairs would know the difference.
And what’s this? A pair of rubbers. The h’old fashion kind too, blue-black with the red soles. I h’upends it and a fine beige dust flumps h’onto the floor. Some tiny shiftin, a scurry in the dust as a grey-powdered h’earwig shuffles from beneath the mess. Cant tell if it came from the boot or not and I dont give a shit. Death to all ye that h’enters ’ere. Doom. I brings my ’eel down on the vile little beast without a moment’s ’esitation. What was it we useta call them things?
Back h’upstairs I flies h’into h’action with some twisted, ’ybrid version of the h’old spiel rollin off my tongue like I’ve spent a lifetime re’earsing it. It’s just pourin h’outta me, h’easy and slick, h’even slightly removed, h’almost like I’m sick of doin it and now I’m h’only h’experimenting with the tirade in h’order to keep it h’interesting for m’self. Somewhere in the back of my ’ead I knows the words, the “monologue” is not quite h’accurate, far from standard, but it must sound h’official anough to these well-padded h’American h’ears and ’specially where I’m roarin into their faces at full speed. And I know too that they’s ’ardly gonna protest because what’s h’underneath my voice is as toxic as the contents of the bottle in my ’and.
—Gentlemen, gentlemen (not you Tex), can I ’ave your attention please? Before we begin I need youse h’all to write down your names and mailing h’addresses in this little booklet. And I h’ask youse to do this for me now because I’m dreadfully h’afeard that h’after youse partake of this most sacred of Newfoundland rituals, youse may h’experience a rather confused h’identity and not h’even remember y’ h’own names and may be h’overcome with a bizarre, but h’understandable, desire to deny where youse’re presently from.
They h’all laughs h’at that and nudge each other, buckin their gullible ’eads at me. And of course Tex pipes up with the h’inevitable question:
—Hwat do yah need our names and addresses foar?
And it just keeps pourin h’outta me:
—Well, my portly friend, once youse ’ave successfully completed the traditional Newfoundland Screech h’In, bestowed h’upon youse will be h’all the benefits and bliss and, sadly, the burdens h’of becoming a H’onorary Newfoundlander. And we will mail you a certificate to prove it. Per’aps one of the most valuable documents you will h’ever possess!
I place a h’empty shot glass in front of h’each of them as they scrawl their precious signatures into my notebook. A h’excited shuffle courses through the line of them, plump Jerry lickin the tip of his pen and bouncin h’ever so slightly on his ’eels, glancin round h’at his buds as h’if to say ’Ere it comes fellas, I told you so. Who’s the man? But as I look deeply into h’each pair of bloodshot, thirsty eyes I ’ave to deduce that there’s not a man h’amongst the lot.
When I’m done filling their shot glasses with “Screech,” Men’s Fitness says:
—Arent you suppose to play a little Newfie music right about now?
I was wondering when that word was gonna rear its h’ugly ’ead. But nevertheless, h’even though it’s to be fully h’expected h’at a time like this, from the mouths of h’ignorance, as h’usual, I still gets that h’old familiar sinkin in my belly and my ’and grips tight round the neck of the bottle for the second time tonight. H’all these years of bartendin, nervous round h’aggressive, ’orny drunks and I’ve been surrounded by weapons the ’ole time.
I lays the bottle back down and smiles my brightest once h’again, h’adjust the wiring of my bra.
—Yeah, I can play something like that. Gimme a second.
I turns to the stereo and shuts down the Pogues and pops The Very Best of Valentine Reid into the slot. The first track, “Gun Shy,” kicks in ’ard before I realizes the choice I’ve made. Val’s youthful vocals fills my head like some long-dead friend come back to convince me to find some quick way to join him in the h’afterlife.
A glance through the glass caught you strolling by
Your sights dead ahead as the hardest of hearts stepped aside
For that reckoning glint in your eye…
The h’Americans dont know what to make of it though and Men’s Fitness goes:
—What’s this crap? This is not Newfie. What about that one, what’s it called? “Sonny?” “Sonny’s Dream?” Who sings that one?
I spins around on my ’eels, remembering ’ow much I h’always loved “Gun Shy,” the strength I useta gather from it when I first ’eard it on that little transistor radio at my bedside in B—. H’only thing got me through ’alf the time, Val’s songs. I’m suddenly h’overcome with a wave of remorse or regret or guilt or sympathy for Val. That night I went to meet him after my shift a few weeks back, fuck. ’E was well-on h’already by the time I got there, ’is eyes wide and barren, ’is fingers tucked h’into the waist of his jeans. This thin cloud of crack smoke streaking across the kitchen. And I should ’ave turned back right then and there. Then I saw the ’uge mound of blow on the counter next to ’im and I just went right for it, h’everything h’else went h’out the window, that’s h’all I saw. And then ’e grabbed me, tight and rough round the collar of my jacket. Then ’is ’and gropin h’inside my shirt, the h’other on the back of my ’ead, pullin my lips towards ’is. And of course I pushed ’im h’away.
—C’mon Monica girl. It’s only me…
And my knee, full force between ’is legs like that, the sickening grunt from somewhere deep h’inside that numb ’ead of his. Val, dropping to ’is knees, the tears in ’is eyes. Me flying h’out the front door, my ’eart racin, feelin’ like I’d just snorted h’every last line of coke on the h’Avalon.
—“Sonny’s Dream” I said. That’s Newfie isnt it?
—Look, I ’ave no fucken h’idea buddy. But I’ll say this: youse h’asked for Newfoundland music, h’although that’s not the word youse used, and I played some. Will I turn it h’off?
A shift in their sad little group then, a confused current goes through ’em, like they’s h’unsure of my tone or they’s h’uncomfortable with me ’aving a real ’uman reaction when I’m supposed to be their h’unfalteringly good-natured, salt-of-the-h’earth Newfoundland ’ost. They h’all turn towards Men’s Fitness and reproves ’im with their h’eyes. ’E drops ’is own h’eyes to the floor in shame, not really h’understandin what ’e’s done to warrant such scorn. Plump Jerry seems ’appy that the group ’as come together in a shared distaste h’over someone h’other than ’imself.
One look at me now, you would not recognize
This tarnished old relic the lowest of bidders can buy
I’ve grown a little gun shy.
Plump Jerry catches the words of that verse and dips his ’ead in consent. I gets back in character h’again and the mood of the room swings back round. I gives Men’s Fitness a wink, just to throw ’im h’off a bit more than ’e already is.
