Tony Black: Paying For It

I stuck to the right side of the road. The place seemed to be awash with trendy types. Everyone looked the same — I just don’t get fifty-somethings dressing like beat boys. No matter how trendy it becomes, I won’t be carrying a manbag; I won’t be wearing shoes that curl up like Ali Baba’s slippers; and the day you see me in a hoodie and Kappa cap, I’m on my way to put a gun to my head.

Still, my look played on my mind. After a few brews I cared less, but now I had people to impress. I checked myself in Currys shop window. Sorry, Currys. digital. Sure that dot makes all the difference to the paying public. Mac had done a beast of a job with my barnet, cropped to the wood but with a little weight on top. I looked halfway to respectable.

As I stared, something caught my eye inside the shop. A face I recognised appeared on the wall of television screens. I went inside to catch the verbals, it turned out to be a man I knew well. The Right Honourable Alisdair Cardownie MSP.

He banged on about stemming the tide of illegal immigration. I raised a laugh. Couldn’t help but remember the time he was hardly able to stem the tide of his own nosebleed.

A title flashed up below his name, ‘Minister for Immigration’. So he’d moved on then, landed the top job. A shudder jolted through me. Since our last meeting, I’d taken the opposite direction on the career ladder.

A voice from nowhere, a thick Geordie accent, suddenly landed within earshot, ‘Is it a flatscreen you’re after, sir?’

I turned round to see an acne-covered yoof. A mess of angry red plooks shone on his nose, so much gel slapped on his head he looked like the victim of a water-bombing prank.

‘What?’

‘The Sharp’s our top seller. Is it for your living room?’

He started to fiddle with a little control panel hidden in the side of the telly. ‘It’s a great picture. I can really recommend the Sharp. I’ve got one myself. I bought it when they first came out and no one could believe the picture quality, it’s so, sharp, I suppose. Would you like me to get one from the back?’

‘Whoa now, catch your breath there… Mark.’ I flicked his name tag. ‘Can’t a man look in this shop?’

He smiled. Showed off a row of grey teeth in need of severe grouting and repointing. I saw my accent had him beat.

In this city there’s two types of shop assistant: the demonic home-grown variety and the deeply confused imported ones, like young Mark. You see, the sucking-up gene — a necessity of the salesman’s trade — missed the Scots entirely. We don’t do pleasant. Perhaps that’s why, most of the time, the man with the tag’s a southerner.

The yoof sized me up, went for a catch-all. ‘You won’t find much better than the Sharp in this range, sir. But if you were looking to go to the next level, we have- sir, sir!’

I left him standing.

Shop workers like young Mark just won’t get off your case these days. Despite the fact I was obviously talking Mandarin to a satsuma, he was still gonna try and flog me a telly. A curt turn on the heels is the only language they understand. Was a time when ‘Just browsing’ got shot of them. Now it’s like they’re trained by the Japanese military. A whole generation on a mission. And taking no prisoners. How the likes of my dear old mother deals with them I’ll never know. She has the patience of Job, Christ she needed it with my family, but things like patience and manners are a weakness you can’t afford to show nowadays. Leastwise some butt-munch will walk all over you, and try to sell you a flatscreen telly.

I felt riled.

My temper spiked, to tell the truth. I’d purchases to make, couldn’t expect to be taken seriously looking like Jim from Taxi, but I wasn’t spending any of Col’s hard earned on the high street.

I took my makeover down market, found a charity store, Save the Children. Bought up a pinstripe jacket, black 501s (very black) and a blue shirt with French collar.

I tried the lot on and looked the ticket. Bit like Paul Weller in his Jam days but updated for the twenty-first century.

I caught the old dear behind the counter smiling at me and laughed.

‘What you need’s a nice tie to go with it,’ she said.

She’d a drawer full of them, great florid numbers and a few tartans thrown in.

‘Eh, no thanks. I don’t do ties.’

‘Shame. I like a man in a tie.’

She looked morose, like she might go tearful on me at any minute.

‘My Maurice always used to wear a tie,’ she said, ‘every day of his life, he wore a tie.’

Christ, now I felt bad. ‘Okay, pick me out a tie — a nice one mind. I’m relying on your judgement and good taste to win the day for me.’

She smiled like a hyena and avidly rummaged among the ties. She picked out a horrendous turquoise and lavender swirl-effect number. It looked a real seventies kipper too. Totally bust the look.

‘Perfect,’ I said.

‘You think so?’

‘I love it. You couldn’t have done any better. Those colours are just grand.’

‘I’m glad you like it. It’ll match the pinstripes.’ She held it up to my new jacket.

‘Well, wrap it up then,’ I said.

A shake of the head. ‘Och no, you have to put it on and let me see it with the outfit.’

I felt an involuntary wince creep onto my face. I chased it off with a broad grin. ‘Right-oh.’

She watched me do up the tie and rang up my total on the till. I got change from twenty sheets.

‘Thanks, then. I’ll be seeing you,’ I said, trying to appear truly grateful.

Outside I gave a wave. Turned and nearly knocked a young girl off her feet.

‘Gus!’ she said. She stared at the tie. ‘Nice neckwear. Very… retro.’

Back in the day, when I had a name, I’d occasionally agree to take on keen youngsters looking for work experience. I’d a test, got the idea from Rabbitte, the band manager in The Commitments, asked: ‘Who are your influences?’

Any mention of Pilger, they got shown the door.

Amy, on the other hand, came up with this ripper: ‘Lois Lane!’

I thought she must have imagination or at least ambition. All she did have, however, was a burning desire to find her Superman. In the end she got shown the door. An Ubermensch, I wasn’t. But in those days she was jail bait, and I was very married. The girl before me now had, how can I put it, developed.

I pulled off the tie. Felt fortunate to be standing beside a bin, said, ‘It wasn’t my idea.’

Amy laughed. ‘Hello Gus — you look great.’ She gave me a smile. One of those welcoming, from the heart jobs. It made me melt.

‘Thanks. You’re a great liar.’

The headlight smile came on again. She gave off an air of total calm. I wondered if this was really the same Amy who had once been walked out the office by a security guard after a foot-stamping display of undying love for me before the entire newsroom.

‘I’m on my way to a lecture,’ she said, ‘but it would be nice to, you know, catch up over coffee some time.’

‘You’re a student, then.’

‘Sorta — it’s art school.’

It sounded just the thing for Amy, put her excess energy to use. ‘Art, wow… you look so focused now.’

A laugh. ‘Changed days, eh?’

‘No, I didn’t mean… I wasn’t trying to have a go.’

She reached over, touched my arm. ‘Gus, I know. I’m only messing.’

‘Sorry.’

‘So, coffee then?’

I hesitated, then thought, why not? I had little else in my life. ‘Okay. Great.’

She rummaged in a huge bag and produced what looked to be a complicated phone, said, ‘Can I beam you?’

‘Come again?’

‘Have you got Bluetooth?’

‘God no! I’ve a pen.’