Right Away Monday, page 24
—Gentlemen please, if youse’ll kindly repeat h’after me: I’s-da-b’y-dat-builds-de-boat-and-I’s-da-b’y-dat-sails-’er!
They make a snarled h’attempt at it, but I knows I’ve said it so fast they cant possibly know where to begin. I slows it down some and lets ’em repeat little bits h’at a time, like youngsters h’in school learning a prayer:
—I’s the b’y…
—I’m the boy…
—No, no. Not boy. Which one is sayin that? It’s b’y. B’y, ’ear me? And it’s I’s, not I’m. Youse’re not listening. I’s the b’y…
—I’s the b’y…
—That’s it! I’s the b’y that builds the boat…
—I’s the boy…I’m the…I’s the b’y that builds the boat…
And they carries h’on like that till they can basically get through the ’ole thing, lovin it when I corrects ’em, when I yells and makes ’em feel like the stupid lards they really is. And I knows m’self that’s not what the h’actual recitation is supposed to be, but I cant think of a h’alternative, and to be truthful I’m kinda disappointed in m’self. Plump Jerry h’asks me if it’s a song.
—No Jerry. No…
Once they gets that much h’outta the way they’s h’obviously h’eager to move h’onto the shots. But of course I ’ave something h’else in mind before that dont I? I takes the rubber boot and places it beneath the draft tap and fill the boot ’alfway. I sets the ’alf full boot down in front of Men’s Fitness. ’E tries to laugh it off but I shoots him a look that should say if youse dont drink from it I’ll pour it down your fucken throat.
’E lifts the boot in both ’ands and looks down into it.
—I’ve never heard of this part before.
—It’s traditional.
—But I dont drink all of it?
—Much h’as you can.
I start smackin my palm h’off the bar h’in front of ’im and shoutin down the ’atch, down the ’atch, down the ’atch, till the rest h’of the group join in. Men’s Fitness lifts the boot to ’is lips and a bit of draft sloshes h’over the rim and down h’onto ’is pricey white dress shirt. ’E tips the beer h’into ’is mouth and I give the ’eel of the boot a slight tap, sendin a wave of beer down over ’is neck and chest. ’E chokes on something, slams the boot down on the bar and spits h’into the corner. There’s flecks of something, dried mud or dogshit caked into the treads of the sole and some of them ’ave landed on the cuff of ’is coat. The h’others cheer and pat him on the back and make ’im feel like an ’ero. ’E keeps gaggin and pickin h’at something that’s h’after catching h’in the back of ’is throat. That’s h’all I needed, was for just one of ’em to take the plunge, now they’ll h’all follow suit. Before Men’s Fitness can recuperate, I slides the boot to the next in line, the nerdy guy, and generally there’s a repeat of this fiasco right across the board, me coaxin them h’on with my chantin and bangin my fists h’on the bar and then makin sure they h’each gets a good swallow out of it.
Till the fucken boot is h’empty.
Now for the shots.
—Alright gentlemen, if youse will, your glasses ’igh now…
They all ’old their glasses h’out, some of ’em still retchin and staggering and pickin at the backs h’of their throats and tryna gag shit up. Tex ’eaves and I jumps back, thinkin he’s gonna spew right across the bar. But he ’olds it back. ’E’d never live it down.
—H’up ’igh gentlemen, and repeat h’after me: Long may yer little pricks shrivel.
A slight ’esitation from the group afore they repeats it back to me:
—Long…may your…little prick swivel…
—No shrivel. Long may your little pricks shrivel.
—LONG MAY YOUR LITTLE PRICKS SHRIVEL!
—Well done gentlemen, drink up.
H’all five h’Americans bang back the shots h’in one go. I h’almost gets sick watchin ’em. H’at first they h’all tries and come h’off like it’s not near’s strong h’as they were h’expectin, they tries not to twitch or gasp or cough, tries to be the big ’ardy h’American men they fancies themselves to be. It takes a few seconds for their taste buds and guts to react. Retch and ’eave and choke and wheeze and scrrrrramble for breath. Men’s Fitness bolts for the front door and buckles h’over in the snowbank h’outside the window.
And I wastes no more time.
—H’alright folks, that’s it. Bar is closing. Kindly collect your belongings and be on your way. That’s it folks, bar is closing!
I flick the lights on full blast and shuts down the stereo. They’s h’all temporarily blinded by the toxic, leaden booze and the bright new silence. I moves around the bar and starts shovin ’em towards the porch. Plump Jerry says:
—Hold on there missy, hold on, let me get my coat…
I grabs an ’andful of ’ats and scarves and coats and gloves and tosses the ’ole pile h’into Jerry’s h’arms, spins him round and bullies ’im h’out the door be’ind the h’others. I locks the door h’as soon h’as it shuts. Tex starts poundin on the door, maybe h’only now h’aware that ’e’s been ’umiliated and wanting…what? From me? What? H’apology?
I picks up the baseball bat that Mike keeps h’in the corner h’of the porch. I whips h’open the door. I ’olds the bat h’up in Tex’s face.
—I said the fuck-ing bar h’is closed! Should I call the police? H’ever spend the night in a Newfoundland jail? Youse’ll never be the same h’again.
H’all the bravado falls from Tex’s face. The phone starts to ring. Before I slams the door in their faces for good, I shouts:
—Youse the man Jerry. Youse the fucken man!
I pulls h’all the blinds shut. Turn the lights down low h’again. Turn that Pogues song on h’again. I drops The Very Best of Valentine Reid h’onto the floor and grind it beneath my foot, then I sets it back h’into the case and slides it h’into the drawer. That phone keeps h’on ringin.
I pours what’s left in the Screech bottle h’into the sink and write it down h’as spillage. I gags a little on the fumes. Ring, ring. H’if Mike h’asks me about it I’m sure I’ll find something to say. I counts out the money Plump Jerry paid up for the Screech h’In. I makes some change in the register and counts out fifty bucks in a h’envelope for Mike. That should ’old the old miser h’off for h’another week.
I’ve counted thirty rings in my ’ead. If Mike’d h’only bite the bullet and get that message manager. I reaches h’under the counter, h’unplugs the cord from the jack. Now for that double Dock. Three h’ice cubes. Let it sit for a while, bend the temperature, dilute it just so, the way I like it. I writes it down on Jim’s tab.
I take a sip and lets the ’ot liquor soak back h’over my tongue till it trickles down the back of my throat. I sets my glass down and goes h’about clearin up the shot glasses, tuck the rubber boot in h’under the sink.
Jesus, rough night Mike. Rough fucken night.
23. The Crunch
An inch of ash on the tip of me smoke. Nearest ashtray is across the bar. Other side of the cash. Trick with this is not to think too heavy about it. Just aim and flick. Be surprised how often you can pull it off too.
Aim.
Flick.
Shit. Dont even come close. Hits the bar, a dull, muted explosion. Right where Mike Quinn just sprayed and washed. He’s on the rags this morning and nothing’s surer. The ash melts into the gleamin surface of the bar, its healthy silver texture soakin up the Spray Nine.
One vicious swoop of Mike’s cloth removes the new blemish, the first for a day that promises too many, I s’pose. He slides the ashtray across the bar to me, a quick, dismissive flick of the wrist like he’s tossin a Frisbee to an old mutt. It clinks and tinkles then winds down obnoxiously before settlin a little outta me reach. I places it at the most convenient angle, a little to the right of me smokin hand, so I wont hafta move too much to tap me ash the next time. Got the fuckin life dont I?
Mike twists the stopper off another beer and places it in front of me. What else is new? I been all blocked up lately with the codeine. Brent’s little extraction trick is provin a tad habitual. So I’m switched over to Dominion Ale for a while. Me old man’s choice poison. Or it was once, if I’m to be fair about it. Dominion Ale: like swallowing a pipe cleaner, flushes you right out. Brent drinks it too, when he’s not really drinkin, so there’s always a couple around the apartment. He should be back the weekend. Fucked off to his folks’ place for the week, up the Shore. Said everything was gettin “a bit too much,” that he needs to clear his head and his lungs out. Cant say I dont blame ’im. Now he says too that he’s lookin into applying for the same program I was on last year, the one that took me over to Dublin. That starts up again in the fall. I said I’d help him out, write him a reference or whatnot. But I warned him not to get his hopes too high. And it’s not like I’ll be around to hold his hand come September. Cause if Izzy dont get ’er shit together soon I’ll be gone even quicker than that.
I picks up the bottle of Dominion and takes a drop, waits to see if Mike writes it down. Me tab is gettin up there again. He knows it too. Brunch with Isadora in an hour or so. I wouldnt mind pickin up the bill for a change, see how she likes that. But I cant bring meself to ask Mike for me pay. And sure if he takes me tab outta me pay first, sure I’ll have nothing till Tuesday night.
That’s me shift these days: Friday, Saturday and Tuesday nights. Friday is always good tips. Saturday is usually half-decent, but it wasnt last night. The shits. Tuesday is the pool tournament crowd, usually good for at least fifty bucks in tips and tokens.
I takes another slug. The bottle seems to have more weight than it should. Could be the hour. Or Mike’s presence. Maybe a combination of the two.
I got no time for an ex-drinker, at least not when I’m wantin a straightener. Their drinkin tales are always that much more outstanding, more twisted, fascinating, life threatening. Superior. So much more advanced and insane than what yours are now. Because they’ve grown. They’ve faced that part of themselves that each and every one of us is capable of facing. Yeah. They’ve met the demon head-on and conquered. Because why drink, if not to keep the devils down deep, keep the monsters under the bed, rather than in the goddamn bed staring you straight in the face?
Well maybe some of us does it cause we fuckin likes it.
Maybe it’s a simple matter of thirst and taste.
—Nine fifteen Sunday morning, Clayton. You’re late.
I finds meself grinnin, hatin meself for it, always embarrassed that Mike is not gonna get the laugh he so craves. As if it was his job to comment. It’s all goin into his pocket sure. And from there into the machines across the street at the Hayloft. Dont see me makin digs at customers when I’m behind the bar. Nope. Keep your mouth shut, smile, blast the drinkin tunes, remember names and, most important, remember drinks. That’s where the tips are. Nothing a customer enjoys more than the status of not havin to order. Walk in, look dark, nod at the bartender, and your favourite drink magically appears on the bar. Bang. No questions, no comments, no critique of your social habits.
The phone rings. The old-fashioned bell rips through the stale air like a fire alarm from me school days. Christ, that was low, now that I thinks on it: little youngsters sittin quietly in their harmless, trivial little bubbles when some cunty-balled bitch of a nun gets it in ’er head to blast a wave of panic into the room. Good heavens, nothing going on, nobody’s fucked me proper since the forties, why dont I frighten the shit out of three hundred youngsters?
Mike lets the phone ring three times before pickin it up, just enough to murder any goodwill towards the world that might still be lingering in the corners of me brain. On this fine, first-rate lovely downtown morning.
I knows it’s Isadora. She always tracks me down, right when I’m on the cusp of gettin up to something I shouldnt be at. I s’pose I aint that hard to find though. I dont stray far. I reaches me hand out for the phone when I hears Mike say hello. Then he goes:
—No…NO! Look, I said dont fucking call here any more. Got it?
Slams the phone down. I raises me eyebrows in mock curiosity. But if it wasnt Izzy then I dont really give a fuck. I dont wanna hear from no one else. Ever again.
Mike takes the bait, shakes his head in disgust:
—Jehovah’s Witness…
This could be good. An opportunity to break the ice, get on his good side. Get me pay and go back to bed for an hour. Get me head in shape before I meets the missus. Get, get, get. I says:
—I had a couple of them Jehovah’s fuckers come to me place on Mullock one time. Two young fellas. Barely twenty years old. Paid their own way from California to go spread the word!
Mike stuffs a filthy towel into a pint glass and grunts.
—Sick.
—Sick? Dont be talkin. I was so fuckin hungover right? I wasnt thinkin when I opened up the door. Ah know Jesus Chrahst exists in mah life. Ah see Him in the smahle ohn a little girl’s face when she’s jumping rope in the street. Ah see Him…I dont know, shit like that. I cracked open a beer and sparked up an old roach that was there on the counter. The b’ys just looked at each other, packed up their briefcase and walked out, like I was askin ’em to share a needle or something. Sick fuckers.
Mike dips his hand into the register and removes the twenties. Starts countin.
—I dont know Clayton. Maybe you shoulda heard ’em out. Mighta done you some good. Might not be hanging off the bars so much.
Cocksucker. Ex-drinkers like Mike are worse than them Jehovah’s Witness crowd. For havin seen the light. Always a brighter light too. Cause that’s the thing with alcoholics. It’s that bottomless fuckin luminosity they all wants to share, enhance our days with. When we all knows the darkness is never that far from the surface and that the ones who’ve had to go and get off the booze are just the exception anyhow. Couldnt fuckin handle it, if the truth be known. But they walks around with this self-righteousness they gets from the notion that some big step has been taken, that something profound and shadowy has been owned up to. Shakin their heads and smirkin at everyone else’s good time. Always hangin around with someplace better to go. A wink when they’re passin out the door that seems to shout You too will have to own up someday.
Well, I am. Ownin up. Right here and now. Quarter past nine? That’s fuck-all. Ole Randy’d have a two-four in ’im by this time. One time. Never say either, not by lookin at ’im. Smell it off ’im, sure. But he’d walk a straighter line with that much in ’im than I could now. And I’m only on me second. Or is it me third? What odds? I’m ownin up. To the fact that it’s me own choice what way I wants to go about me own life. I can give it up if I wants to. I can drink meself into the fuckin ground if I wants. No one’s business but me own. I’m doin alright, I’ll be fine. Just bidin me time, is all.
I saw Randy last week. The Old Man. All straightened out now. Crispy blue Levi’s. Clean-shaven. Tough and shiny leather boots that sounded pretty good on the sidewalk. ’Bout time he fixed his fuckin tooth too. He was comin outta that specialty shop up on the west end of Water Street, the one that sells all the dark breads and sweaty, sour cheeses. Isadora shops there every now and then.
I was comin outta the liquor store when I saw him, lobbin me way up towards George Street. There’s a bar on the corner that I likes sometimes. Christian’s it’s called. I almost made it too. Before Randy intercepted me. Him and his whore. Fuck, that sounds bitter. She’s not so bad I s’pose. I hardly knows her anyhow. Anne-Marie. They met in AA, ’bout a year after me mother’s accident. She moved into the house up the Shore shortly after I moved out. But Randy was on and off with her for years while I was growin up, so she was always around. We just never had much to say to each other. She’s been good for him, if I’m to be fair.
They were holdin hands, comin outta that shop, like two fuckin freaks. She had a see-through bag with bread and some kinda dip or spread and a sack of that free-trade coffee, that dark shit that’s hardly fit to drink. Movin up in the world I s’pose is she? Randy had a half-dozen beer tucked under his arm. Surprise, surprise.
He looked happy enough to see me though. Quite the shock for us both. I hadnt laid eyes on him in nearly two years. He tracked down me number when I was in Dublin, left me a message, but I never called him back. Message went something like:
—Hi. Just sayin hi. Thinkin about ya, hopin you’re alright, not bein too hard on yourself.
Too hard on yourself. Like I was out there in the world beatin meself up over…what? I aint the one who spent years puttin holes in walls and gettin laughed outta the clubs up the Shore and tossed outta the neighbours’ houses on Christmas and smashin up cars and losin me licence every other month. I’m the one who cleaned up all the blood and vomit and lugged him into bed and put him on his side so’s he wouldnt choke.
Years.
Yeah, he looked happy enough to see me. And some sick part of me wanted to stay and chat. I couldnt look at her though. He stuck out his hand. His eyes all lit up. Smilin. Happy families reunite.
—Clayton! Jesus, Mary and Joseph! How are ya?
I took his hand and shook it. A good, firm grip he got. He looked me up and down. I was after tossin on a pair of old wind-pants and steel-toe workboots. Old wool sweater I found in the apartment. It was freezin and I was snifflin like some druggie. Bit of a flu comin on. I knows I looked the state. Not like I had nothing to dress up for though.
I felt her lookin at me, back at Randy, waitin to be acknowledged. Randy finally took the hint off her.
—Clayton, you remembers my ahhh…you knows Anne-Marie, sure. Anne-Marie, my son.
My son. How convenient. Yes I fuckin knows Anne-Marie. Think I’m stunned? You’re only with her fifteen years. That’s what rises up in me, that’s the way I wants to be talkin to him, but I dont. I just nods at Anne-Marie. She was a big drinker too. From Kilbride. I cant believe she’s after stickin with him this long. I hope he got his skin out of it though, seein me there on the street in the state I was in. I hope he got a pity fuck out of ’er. I always hopes that for people. Because I hope people always hopes it for me.
