Thursday, April 12, 2018

Parking cars and pumping gas

Parking cars and pumping gas

The Passat pulled in on the other side of the pumps just as I rode in. I dismounted, stretched myself and opened the filler cap on the Harley, shoving the nozzle into the tank as I waited for the pump display to reset.

She was cute, and smartly dressed too. She had files and shit in the back of the car, like she was a lawyer or maybe a saleswoman that sells expensive crap to other expensive people. A layer or two above my social status anyhow.

I looked towards the office, irritated that the clerk was slow about zeroing the pumps. Still, the scenery was good; the lady made the nicest view I’d seen all day. I allowed myself to daydream a little, no harm in that.

The pump started humming and I began to fill the tank, one eye on the display and one on the lady in her grey suit. I was surprised when she spoke; mostly, chicks like that don’t waste any time on a middle-aged biker.

‘Hi’ she said. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m good, I said, ‘for an old guy.’
She half turned away but continued to talk.
‘What kind of a day are you having?’
‘Not good’ I said, ‘got a speeding ticket just a few minutes ago, I never saw him.’
‘Fantastic!’ she said, which seemed unfair. ‘Did you have lunch?’
That surprised me, but I never look a gift horse in the mouth.
‘Nope’ I said, ‘but if you’re buying…..’
She turned back towards the pump and slotted the nozzle back in its place, flashing me a smile, or maybe more of a grimace. That’s when I noticed the phone cable, and the earpiece.

‘I’ll have to call you back’ she said, ‘there’s some guy here keeps butting into our conversation.’

Wednesday, October 25, 2017

The next big thing

It was quiet in the pub, the Mullaney brothers at one table and a couple of guys from the bank in Carrick at another, and Jimmy Byrne at the bar, nursing a pint. I wiped non-existent spills from the counter top and tuned in and out of the conversations, as you do. Joe Mullaney was holding forth at the corner table, a bit loud maybe. I might have to stop serving him soon, but I’ll see what develops. I need every sale, these days. The recession might be over in the city, but the boom times haven’t returned around here. I wished he’d be a bit quieter though, we could do with less of his mouthing.

‘I made a fucking fortune on them’ he said, ‘bought them at five grand apiece and they’re worth four times that much now. I’m telling you, dogs are the way to go, lads.’

One of the bank boys wasn’t going to let it go, bragging rights were at stake.
‘I bought dogs too, Labradors. Got ten of them off the receivers down the midlands the year of the crash, twenty cent on the euro, I’d have my money back on them now if I just let two of them go, but I’m holding out for a bit more. I reckon if you buy Labradors you’ll always make money.’
Joe was defensive. ‘Fuck them Labradors, fuckin Jack Russells are always the best bet, even in bad times. They mightn’t be as classy, but they’ll sell quick if you have to cash in a few. Aye, the Jack Russell is your best investment, great for a pension or if you’re looking for safe returns.’

The other bank guy was getting a bit drunk too, he wasn’t to be outdone.
‘I always bought Poodles, or Bichon Frise, myself. Always liked the foreign stuff.’
The older Mullaney brother, the one who used to work in England, seemed to come alive at the mention of the exotics.
‘Spare me that foreign shite, too many people got burnt on foreign dogs during the last boom, they were stuck with Bernese Mountain dogs and stuff like that, they couldn’t get rid of them when the crash came. I agree with the brother, the Jack Russell is way better. You might pay a bit more, but your money is safe.’

The first banker called for two more drinks; those lads won’t demean themselves by coming up to the counter. I poured the wine and delivered it to their table, collecting a few empties while I was out on the floor. He paid me and carried on with the debate.
‘Anyway, whatever breed you like, dogs are the best investment out there, and always will be. Other gimmicks might come and go, but your canine is the one we’ll always lend on.’

I slid a fresh pint along to Jimmy Byrne and he swallowed the last of the one he had been minding. I wiped the bar and I saw that glint in his eye. I spoke quietly to him.
‘Let it go, Jimmy, don’t start anything, now.’
Sometimes I think I might as well be talking to that toilet door over there, for all the heed anyone takes of me. Jimmy took a long swallow of the fresh pint and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘Ye’re all wrong. Dogs is history.’
There was a rumble of dissent from the tables. The banker with the penchant for poodles spoke out.
‘Don’t mind us, we’re only investment professionals. And what, pray, do you consider to be the next big thing, so to speak?’
Jimmy didn’t turn around, he addressed his remarks to the mirror behind the bar.
‘Chairs?’ The banker couldn’t conceal the sneer in his tone. Chairs, well that’s novel, anyway.’
‘Aye, chairs. They were never as cheap, and you can get them for less than it costs to make them, so it stands to reason, like. Chairs are the future, lads, remember when you look back and kick yourself for missing the boom, remember where you heard it first. Chairs, put your money in chairs.’
He sat back and let the argument rage for a while. After a bit Joe Mullaney looked up an addressed his remarks towards the stool at the counter.
‘So, are you saying you bought chairs?’
‘Aye, I did, surely. Five hundred of them, and I’ll buy more too.’
Joe was incredulous.
‘Five hundred chairs, and what are you going to do with them while you’re waiting for the price to rise, or fall off a fuckin cliff, more likely?
Jimmy gave a wink in my direction. I wiggled a finger to warn him not to start a row in my pub; I didn’t like that look in his eye. He spoke to the mirror again.

‘What’ll I do with them? Well, nothing at all. I think I’ll just wait for the price to rise. In the meantime, well, I think I’ll just sit on them.’

Wednesday, March 1, 2017

Looking at heaven through a paper telescope

The first thing I learned in school was that teachers don’t like it when you tell them they have it wrong, but that’s another story. I remember stuff, you see.

I remember a blue-sky day that summer and a cow swaying her way along the road, then lifting her tail to waggle a zig-zag stream of green scutter on the melty tar. My father slammed on the brakes to avoid the enemy fire.

‘They should have brake lights, so we know to keep back.’
Mammy laughed and the cow suddenly turned right into a farmyard. I could hear the hiss-slap of the milking machine through the open window of the old Morris Minor.
‘And indicators’, she said. ‘Cows should have indicators.’
I tried to imagine tock-tock blinkety lights on a cow as I stared from my spot in the middle of the back seat. I said that maybe it would work better if they had those yellow sticks like the ones on our car that jump out when my father clicks the thing to show that he is turning up our lane. He shoved my mother that way he does when he’s being funny.
‘It’s the bulls that have the indicators, did you never notice?’
She went red, for some reason.
‘Shush’ she said, ‘little ears.’
She was always saying that, but I looked at the back of his head and his ears were the same. They were a bit big, maybe, if anything. I remember he said once that it was so his hat wouldn’t fall over his eyes and he’d go blind. That would be bad, surely; he might crash.

I remember the day with the cow, and the cake on my birthday with the five candles and then all the talk about my brother coming, but I didn’t have a brother. When I asked where he was she called Daddy ‘little ears’ again.
I remember all the men coming to the house and Mammy going away. They said my brother was there too but I didn’t see him; he must have gone away with her. I thought it was all the men that made her go.
After that I remember going to the big place with the coloured windows and my father crying and saying that the missed her terribly, but Father Kelly with the white dress said that she is here with us, so you wouldn’t know who to believe.

I went to school then and it was great, lots of play stuff and loads of boys for football. We had to make something out of the sheets of coloured paper and glue so I made a big, long telescope to see heaven so I could wave to Mammy. The teacher looked at it and asked me what it was so I told him.
‘Master Joyce’, he said, ‘I’m afraid that’s about as useful as lights on a cow.’

I think that sometimes teachers don’t know as much as people think they know.

Wednesday, July 8, 2015

Serene suburban Sundays, Spring Street.

Seven Spring Street, Serena Smith slumbers serenely, snores slightly. Simon stirs,
snuffles, still sleeps.

Next-door, naughty nightied Norma Norris nuzzles naked Norman; nudge-nudge!

Serena stirs, stretches; Simon still sleeps, shifts slightly.
Serena slipper-steps sideways silently, soaks, showers, sings sadly, softly; Sunday
sunshine shines strongly.

Brown-brick bungalowed Bertie Brannigan breakfasts, belligerent, blue-faced. “Bloody
bins banging, beagles barking; blasted brats! Bugger!”

Simon Smith stirs, stretches, shits, showers, shaves, slips-on shorts, slacks, socks,
shoes, soccer-shirt, slams screen, strolls somewhere. Serena sighs.

Serena’s siblings smile sadly, shrug sympathetically, simultaneously; Sarah says
Simon’s selfishly shitty.

Jennifer Jones jogs jauntily, jugs jiggling.
Sleazy Simon Smith stares steadily, smirks salaciously.

Churchbells chime, churchgoing children cycle, chattering cheerfully.
Roundy Reverend Robinson rests, rubs rope, resumes rapid ringing.

Sally Sanderson slips-on simple sexy silk skirt; she’s seeing Simon secretly. She shines
shoes, slaps suncream, sends Sally-Sue Sunday-schoolwards. Simon slips-in side-gate
silently, scratching slightly suspicious sore.

Mandy Morris makes mojitos, mixing Morgan, muddler-mashing mint. Mmmmm!

Serena suspects Sally sometimes; she sniffles, smiles sadly. Still, Saturday she’ll shag
Sandra’s sexy Spanish schoolteacher Silvio. Sod Simon!

Bong, bong, bloody bells! Belligerent Bertie Brannigan breaks, bashes bin-banging boys,
brutally batters Brenda. Brenda’s badly bruised, bewildered.

Down Dingly-dell, David Dawson destroys daisies, dandelions, digs double drills;
dreaming damsons, dill, dates, dewberries.

Alfie Anderson’s allotment’s amazing; all artichokes, avacados, asparagus and
aubergines. Awesome!

Patrick Parkinson peruses papers; “piffle, poppycock! Petrina, pour port, please!”
Petrina Parkinson pours perfectly; Patrick’s pretty pleased, pats Petrina’s puppies’ pelts
Mandy mutters, makes more Morgan-mix mojitos.

Passing patrolling policeman plods, peers; presses pager.
Bullhorn blares, Brenda’s bleeding, bawling; Bertie blusters.
Angled against Alfie Anderson’s Austin Allegro, Andy asks again, angrily.
“Sandra, still staying? Sure?”
Sandra sulks, sobs.
Andy ambles away awkwardly.

Serena’s step-daughter Sandra stumbles, stilletoed, short-skirted, slams screen. She’ll

stay, surely; suburban Spring Street simply suits Sandra Smith, strangely

Monday, May 18, 2015

Update "Hey Jude"

Hey, Jude!

Whassup, Jude?
Simon figures I’m flush but I’m singin dumb'. I got it, thirty big ones hidden about my person; he don't need to know that.
'So', he says, 'Jaycee’s dead. You nailed him good.'
'He had it comin.'
'So, whassup, Jude?'
'C'mon Jude, ya needed us to finger him for the hit. Ya owe us, man.'
I figure, splits equals less for me; I'm sittin' pretty with the dough hid in my pants. Ok, they was all in on it, but I takes the rap, potentially. This hit has my dabs all over it; I gotta be compensated.
'Rocky' Pete's actin' tough, but rumour says he's gonna set up his own show; he's already talking to the Italians. Screw Pete.
Screw hairy John and his three hippy mates, ditto. I hear they got a book deal; they don't need a split of my freakin' dosh. I ain't got their education, just my wits.
Andy's actin friendly. 'Cmon, Jude, we had a deal, man. Pay up!'
'No joy’, I says. 'He didn't come across.'
Big Phil's getting angry.
'You tryin' to cut us out, hah?.'
'No way,' I says. 'When I gets it, you'll get it. But not a straight split. I takes the rap if this goes bad; nobody can pin nothin' on you guys.'
Pete puts a hand on Phil's arm.
'I got no problem with him getting extra. But he ain't cutting us out.'
I figures there's no future for me around here no more. I gets up from the table.
'Excuse me, I’m goin’ to the bathroom.'
I'm out the side door and down the street real quick, runnin' like a centurion. I ain't goin' back, never.

With this much dough I can get away, get lost, start my own business or somethin', or my name ain't Judas Iscariot.

Wednesday, April 29, 2015

Give a sucker an even break

‘Suck, bitch!’
Reluctantly I take it in my mouth, ignoring the too-familiar smell and taste, and begin to suck. The stones on the pavement hurt my knees; he stands, looking down at me, glancing around, watching for police.

Suck, suck, suck.
The faster I do this, the sooner it’s over.

Suck, suck, suck.
This was not in my ambition when I came to this country; I had dreamed of nice work, in a fashion shop maybe; not this, not this illegal and immoral business on this dark wet city street.

Suck, suck, suck.
My parents would be so ashamed if they saw me now. This wasn’t what they had in mind for their daughter; nobody would want their child to do this work. I try not to think of what I am doing; I just think of the money I am making.

Suck, suck, suck.
Back home I was educated; my teacher told me I could be anything I wanted to be, so I came here. Look at me now, I hate myself.

Suck, suck, suck, suck, suck, suck.
I lose concentration and suddenly my mouth is full; I retch and spit, trying to get rid of the awful taste. He laughs.

‘Keep your mind on your work, bitch.’
I quickly stick the end into the container. It spurts out like it’s never going to stop, a fountain! He grunts in satisfaction when he sees how much comes out.

Tonight I have done really well; I’m making lots of money for sure. Maybe it is better than begging, but I still don’t like it.

He pries the fuel cap from the next car, feeds in the siphon; he is king of the fuel thieves. I get back on my knees; take the tube in my mouth.

Suck suck, suck suck.