Right Away Monday, page 25
I dont know where he went wrong girl. I did the best I could.
My son.
Randy Reid, who useta stash his beer in the grass up behind the house so’s they’d be nice and warm and he could better taste the booze off ’em.
—How’s your foot there Clayton?
—How’s your liver Randy?
He went right red then and I felt bad. I nodded towards the half-case under his arm, just so’s he’d understand that I was over our past, that I wasnt makin a dig about his obvious failures as a father.
He held the half-case out to me.
—This stuff? Non-alcoholic. Four years now Clay. Five years, if you lets me off with a little slip-up. I picks up a scatter case of this when I’m feeling the crunch. Piss-water really, nothing only a torment.
The crunch.
—How’s ahhh, how’s your uncle Val? I seen him there on the box last week. Seemed healthy enough…
—You mean your brother? He’s fine. Listen ahhh…I gotta meet someone. Nice seein you both. Anne-Marie.
I put me head down and shoved past as quick as I could.
—When are you gonna come up for a visit b’y? I seen your buddy down to the shop the other day. Brent is it? Your room is still there. Bed made and all.
My room.
—I gotta get now Randy. I’ll give you a call.
I walked on up the street in as straight a line as I could. I could feel their eyes on me. I tried not to limp. He shouted after me:
—Need any money?
I didnt answer, kept walkin, fresh bottle of Jameson tucked under me arm.
Half past nine hey? Or half nine, as the Dubliners would say. Brunch with Lady Isadora. One hour. I’ll be well on me way by then if I dont slow down. She was in to the bar last night with some crowd from that short film she’s workin on. Robert Dawe was there, with that fuckin greasy ponytail. He kept puttin his hand on her belly, tellin her to breathe. He was just doin it to get to me. And she was lettin him, knowin full well it was drivin me mental. What am I some kinda fuckin joke? I finally lost it, asked him if he wanted his face bust open. She left then, gathered up her coat, grabbed Dawe by the hand, tipped her drink over on the bar and took off. Dawe grinnin from ear to ear, hopin everyone could see that she’d picked him over me. I was fuckin livid. The Hatchet was full and I couldnt chase after her. Mike’d have me head. Think she’d have a bit more sense, or compassion, where she tends bar herself. Nothing worse. That was around ten o’clock and I wasnt expecting to hear from her again, but then she called down when I was lockin up the bar around four, right sweet and gentle in that little girl’s voice. She asked me to come up and I almost did. I almost did. I shoulda. Just went up and lay with her. Have a normal morning. Sometimes she likes to go drive out around Scavenger Drive and pick around in the big-box stores. Nice to get up that way, get out into the city. Pick up some nice hot tea and go cruisin. I asked her about Dawe and she laughed. Couldnt remember nothing, only that she came home alone and woke up alone and was wondering why I wasnt there with her. But I’d said no, that I was too tired. And I was. The bar was nuts all night and the thought of her fuckin off somewhere with that slimy shithead wore me down even more. So I said no, that I’d hook up with her for lunch. And she said brunch, just to get that extra little dollop of control, so’s she wouldnt feel like I was the one deciding. But it felt good, turnin her down like that. She didnt deserve her own way. I cashed in me beer tokens and went upstairs and blasted Steve Earle for an hour and turned up the heat and drank a few beer and passed out on the couch.
Woke up too early this morning though, that’s what happened. Eight o’clock and I was just lyin there, wide awake, starin at the ceiling and smokin. Needed to piss something wicked. The bucket by the couch was full. So I hadda get up. I started cleanin up but then I heard Mike’s truck down on the street. So I went down, thinkin I’d have the balls to ask him for me wages.
And here I am.
And I’m lookin around for me balls but they’re eluding me right about now.
Jesus, quarter to ten. The door opens behind me. I hope it’s her. No. Jim McNaughton. He’s shakin something awful. That fuckin smell too. He shifts his eyes around nervous, like he’s never been in the Hatchet in his life. When in fact he practically lives here. He wasnt in last night though. But Friday night he drank the whole town under the table. He came in at six o’clock, right when I was takin over the bar, and stayed on till four, to the moment I turned off the last light. He drank fourteen pints of Smithwick’s before switchin over to the London Dock. Seven double Docks. I knows because he was on tab and I was keepin count. That’s what he does every night he’s in: when the beer gets too heavy he turns to the liquor. And he stood there too, at the bar, all night. Left once or twice to go for a piss. Never opened his mouth to no one. Only time he perked up was when Monica came in looking for her wages. But she never even stayed for a drink so he sunk right back down again. He’d flatten one pint and then sip the next; flatten one, sip the next. Around two o’clock he switched to the Dock. A layer of sweat on his forehead, but that was about it. When I was closin down he got me to call a cab and actually walked out and got in it on his own. The human body can take some fuckin punishment, especially when you’re tryna kill it, like Jim is.
Mike doesnt look at Jim, so consumed he is with his precious tally sheet. Jim clears his throat and nods at me. Mike still doesnt look up.
—Ahhh…b’ys. N-nice day ahhh…Mike, I ahhh…I must have left me j-jacket the other night. Did it turn up?
Mike looks at me. I shrugs. Mike still dont look at Jim.
—What’s it look like
? —Ahhh…brown, d-dark brown. My ahhh…pills…my prescription is in it.
That must be how he does it, how the booze dont seem to have no effect on him, the pills. A menacing smile finds its way into the corners of Mike’s mouth.
—Just looking at your tab here Jim.
—Yes, yeah. I ahhh…I’ll be paying that on ahhh…on Wednesday.
Jim useta drive the snowplough, but sometime before Christmas he went and got hisself busted for bein fucked up on the job. Thinks no one knows about it, how he tore someone’s front step off with the plough and just kept on goin. Someone put in a complaint and Jim was radioed back to the base. He was out of it, loaded. They were wantin to fire him, but he went through his union, claimin that his condition was just the same as any other handicap, that he should be kept on so long as he’s seekin treatment, that’s it’s a sickness and all. I s’pose he got a point, or at least an argument. The majority of his “treatment” seems to take place at the Hatchet, mind. And of course the union got the last laugh when they relocated him down into the bowels of Robin Hood Bay.
His wife called down a few times the other night. I kept sayin he wasnt there. Third time she called down she goes:
—I know he’s there. What are you protecting a pisshead like him for? Think he’d do the same for you?
And I thought about that for a second before handin the phone across the bar to Jim. He said hello, realized it was her, and ever so gently placed it back in its cradle. That’s where he switched over to the London Dock, come to think on it.
Mike digs around in the lost-and-found cupboard beneath the stereo shelf. He pulls out the jacket. The rattle of Jim’s prescription. A sheepish smile spreads across Jim’s face.
—That’s it! Right on.
Mike Quinn looks at Jim for the first time. He returns Jim’s smile, but it doesnt spread to his eyes. His eyes stay as always: carnivorous, hunting.
—Nice fuckin coat McNaughton, good to know the City is treating some of us alright.
Mike flips it over his shoulders and forces his two arms in. Jim starts shiftin on his feet, tryin his best to play along. Mike tries to zip the jacket but it’s a tight fit over his big belly. He forces it. Jim winces, expecting the stitching to let go. Mike spins around and has a look at himself in the mirror. When he raises his arms to fix the collar, the cuffs slide up to his elbows.
—What do you think Clayton?
I reckon you’re a niggardly, bloated tightwad there Mike.
—Custom fit there Mike, custom fit.
Mike searches me face for signs of sarcasm. I’m too slick for that. He turns to Jim.
—Pricey garment McNaughton. Tell you what, you settles up your tab and I’ll see to it that you get it back.
—But, but, but…My ahhh, my p-p-pills…
Mike squeezes his hand into the left hip pocket of Jim’s coat. He digs. There’s not enough room in the pocket for him to close his hand around the pill bottle so he rolls it out with the tip of his fingers. He holds the bottle up to the light and squints to read the fine print.
—James C. McNaughton. Take two tablets three times daily as needed for stress. McNaughton, you’re not stressed are you?
Jim scuffs his toe on a trampled glob of dried gum on the floor. He stares down at the glob and nods slowly like a child who’s been sent to the principal’s office and asked whether or not his behaviour is ever gonna change. He reaches for his cigarettes, his hands shakin so bad he can barely hang on to the smoke. I reaches out with me lighter, just to save him the hassle. He sucks deep on the smoke. Mike opens the bottle and taps two pills into his palm. Holds them out to Jim.
—Well here b’y. Go for it, look. You shoulda said something.
Jim takes the pills. He looks around for something to wash ’em down with. His eyes settles on my beer. I slides it over to him, but Mike intercepts.
—No no. Here, look Jim. Have one on me.
He takes down a shot glass and fills it to the brim with London Dock. Jim looks at the shot. Looks at me. A fresh bead of sweat trickles down his forehead, runs down the bridge of his nose and hangs there on the tip.
Mike’s eyes. Always on the hunt.
—Go on Jim.
—I cant…ahhh…not supposed to ahhh…just trying to…
—Very well then.
Mike snatches up the shot and walks over to the sink with it. Jim lunges at the bar.
—Wait now. Wait now. Here. Here let me…
Mike hands Jim the shot. Jim pours it down his throat. Hundredproof. Strongest liquor in the bar. He dont even flinch.
—Thanks Mike, thanks. Appreciate it…
—No problemo, Jim buddy. Any time. So listen now, you knows where the coat is. And if you’re feeling sssssstressed later on, you know you can come back. Alright? And when you clear up that tab, she’s all yours. Alright?
—Alright. Thanks Mike. Thanks. Y-y-you’re a good man. G-good man.
Jim waves and nods, waves and nods, buckin his head like a horse tryna clear his sinuses, as he stumbles clumsily backwards through the front door.
Mike wrestles his way outta Jim’s jacket and hangs it on the knob of the cupboard near the phone. He hunches over his money then, starts recounting the twenties.
—One two three four—one. One two three four—two. Two three four—three. Your tab’s getting up there Clayton. Rent shifts are coming up too.
—I know b’y. I know.
—I s’pose you want your pay though? Do you?
—I was hoping…
—So when are you on again?
—Tuesday night.
He counts out three twenties on the bar in front of me.
Just like that.
—Stay in tonight now Clayton. Watch a movie with the missus or something.
Yes master.
The phone rings. Mike’s arm shoots out for it like a snake on one of them nature shows that finally makes its move on some senseless, unsuspecting mouse.
He grunts his hello and hands it to me.
Isadora. Wondering where I’m at, says I’m late. I says it’s early yet for brunch. She says no, she said breakfast and that she’s already after orderin for me. It rises up in me to argue, but I knows it’s no sense. Besides, I’m starved.
I gathers up me smokes and flattens the last of me beer. A slight cramp in me gut, things loosening up down there.
—Well thanks Mike. I gotta get now. Meetin Iz for breakfast.
—Is that Rob Dawe’s little one you’re sneaking around with now?
I laughs for him then. Uproarious. Because that’s what he needs.
His big stuffed jigglin belly.
I straightens me pants cuff down over me boots and tucks in me shirt. Feelin a bit tipsy, as they says. Prob’ly have a bit of a slur to me words by the time I meets Isadora. Dont know how ole Randy pulled it off for so long.
A nice cuppa tea now. Wonder what she ordered? Better not be none of that whole grain vegetarian slop she’s into. Bacon and eggs and sausages and fried tomato and fuckin white toast is what I wants. Nice Irish fry-up.
Mike sighs and pops open Jim’s pills. Taps two into the palm of his hand. Tosses ’em in his mouth, ducks his head under the tap and takes a long drink. He stands up again, hauls a hairy forearm across his face.
He holds out the bottle to me.
—Want a couple?
I holds out me open palm. Mike taps half a dozen pills into it.
—Say when.
Six more.
—When.
He looks into the bottle and shakes it around to see how many are left.
—Poor old Jim. Have to leave him something I suppose.
24. Maybe You Shouldnt Speak Right Now
Dont even fuckin ask me about this audition I went to. Me and Isadora were down at the Ship and some horn-rimmed little yuppie mainland casting director fuck came up to us and gave me her card. Said she liked the look of me. And I s’pose I’ll admit, I liked the sound of that. She knew Iz, where she’d been in to audition earlier that day. Iz said hi, and missus gave her this real put-on, lofty smile while she walked away. Iz started chewin her nails and warned me not to get me hopes up.
The bar was all abuzz. Everybody was apparently guaranteed to get a role.
—Eighty speaking roles.
That’s all you could hear, and how there wasnt even eighty actors livin in Town. One frosted-blond fruitcake was prancin around the bar signin his name on matchbooks and cigarette packages, tellin people it’d be worth something someday. Word was out that he was up for the lead role. The casting missus cracked up laughin at everything he said and did. Sickening. I wanted to bust his face open, but Isadora wasnt payin no mind to ’im, so I let it go.
Isadora said her own audition went over the best kind, but that she didnt really care if she got the part or not. I could tell she didnt mean it though, that she was prob’ly only buildin up her defence for the possibility of rejection.
She wouldnt have a drink. Three days she was off it. I even went up and got her one and laid it on the table in front of her, chilled glass and all. She shoved it aside and sat there at the table, watchin me guzzle away. Wasnt near as much fun drinkin with her then.
We had a racket.
She leaned across the table and said, right low so’s I could barely hear her, that she didnt know if she could stick it out with me if I wasnt prepared to admit that my own drinking was “a hindrance to the relationship.” Relationship. What a fuckin dirty, underhanded word. But I s’pose that’s what I went lookin for. I shouted back that I could quit if I wanted to. She turned right red and looked around the bar and laughed, so I poured me beer on the floor. We squared off for a bit, arms crossed, not talkin. That casting director came back to the table then. She gave me a bit of a script and I tucked it into me pocket without lookin at it. Word went around the bar like a fuckin woods fire. People nodded at me and someone I knew vaguely from a poster on a pole bought me a pint. I flattened it in two tips of the glass.
On the walk back to Isadora’s, she said she couldnt see how we’d last if she was tryin to make such a “drastic move” with her life while I stood around with me belly full of beer and gawked at her. She said what she needed most right then and there was support. I said:
—Look girl, I’m bloody well supporting you. But dont try and tell me there’s something wrong with havin a fuckin beer.
—Every day?
—What’s wrong with it? In Dublin sure…
—When will you get it into your head that you’re not in Dublin, you’re not in the IRA, you’re not fucking Irish! I ignored that.
—Look girl, I aint sayin I wants to be loaded all the time, but just to have the scattered beer.
—But how’s that being supportive? I’m struggling with, with, with the absence of the only escape I’ve ever had, while you completely indulge in anything you can get your hands on.
—Escape? What’re you talkin about?
—I’m talking about me and you Clayton. If you stay on drinking, even one or two a day, while I’m tryin to go sober…
—It’s not fair for you to ask me to do that Iz. You cant be serious?
—It’s just, you’re completely unreliable when you drink. I need support Clayton.
—Listen to yourself, it’s only been three days. Wouldnt know but you’re never gonna have another drop. You’ll be plastered by the weekend!
We were passing by Donna’s old place and I felt like jumpin in through her bedroom window and shovin the poppers under her nose and fuckin the hole off her for hours. Sometimes, I just dont know, especially when me and Iz are in the sack, I just dont know what I was thinkin to leave such a first-rate fuckfest behind like I did. Donna was some nice and slutty. And what more do we need, really, but someone who wants to get fucked every which way, any time atall, and then go out drinkin? Everything’s gotta be so fuckin precious with Isadora. All this kissing and gentleness till she’s good and ready. Never anything up against the wall. Now, I aint sayin I have anything against eye contact or intimate moments or any of that shit. But I do think that, sometimes, fucking should be just for the sake of fucking. It shouldnt always hafta be this grand romantic occasion that’s meant to take your relationship to another level. Fuck that, that’s a drain. I’d rather wack off.
