Ken Bruen - Rilke on Black

Dex and I moved to a table. He was loud grinding crisps, said, “Mmm... yum yum. Want some?”

“Can’t you eat quieter?”

He gave a huge smile. Bits of crisp showed in his teeth.

“No can do. It’s like sex, gotta be loud and dirty. But you’re probably right to abstain.”

I stopped sorting the money, said, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Did you ever contemplate a diet? The old spare tyre’s now suitable for a four-wheel drive... just skip a few dinners eh... say a big no to them burgers.”

“Dex, you mentioned contemplation... yeah? Try contemplating this, how you’ll manoeuvre a size fourteen shoe from yer arse. Here’s your money.”

He threw up his hands in mock horror, said, “No way effendi. I was honoured to be asked to share your toil. Let’s not sully a noble enterprise with schetzkels. A bit of a drink on it for me is ample. Your company is my true wages.”

“Well OK... but if you’re sure.”

“Aw fuckit, I’ll take it.”

And he did.

Then countered and said, “I think you’re a little light here fella. Skimmed a wee tad too much from your fellow toiler.”

“Fuck you.”

He sat back, flicked a peanut in the air, threw back his head and

plonk,

right in his bloody mouth.

I’d prayed he’d miss. His reply as he straightened: “Now Nick-o, I’d dearly love to see you try.”

Which endeavour he meant, we didn’t specify.

I didn’t ask Lisa about her mother. I had to button it down. I came close when out of nowhere she said, “If I had a baby, I’d call her Maria-Elena.”

“Why?”

“After my mother.”

“Didn’t you say your mother...”

“What Nick... what about my mother?”

“I could have sworn you said she was a... an Emma.”

“I never said that, you think I don’t know my own mother’s name. What is this?”

“Nothing... nothing at all.”

And I hoped we’d leave it thus. But no. She asked, “The very worst thing a man can say to a woman, do you know what it is?”

I gave it some thought, then, “I’ve met someone else... and younger.”

“Very good Nick, there’s hope there. The worst thing is ‘I understand how your ex felt.’”

“But I don’t know your ex...”

“Woody Allen said he cheated on his metaphysics exam. He looked into the soul of the person next to him.”

“Jeez, Lisa, is any of this connected? What’s the point?”

“Poor dumb Nicky has to have it spelt out.”

And she went, not quietly but hammerin’ the door behind her. I shouted, “I’ll miss you hon.”

I resolved that come what may, no matter how I got round it, I was going to insert Woody Allen in my repartee. Nothing heavy, no big launch, just slip the sucker on in there, as if I’d only thought of it.

Annie Hall had been on TV recently and I’d identified with one particular line. Thus armed, I headed for a drink and some intellectual challenge.

As I closed my front door, Dex emerged from his house. He did what could only be called a pirouette and said, “Watcha think?”

“About metaphysics is it?”

“Eh? No, how do I look. I used our money from today. Barely made it ’cos of a certain shylock’s shortchanging but quelle difference.”

He pointed to his left ear. A single gold earring.

“You want the truth?”

“Naturellement.”

“You look like an arsehole... no, an arsehole with an earring.”

“Hey Nicky, is that nice... now come on.”

“What can I tell you Dex. Only today I read it... Life SUCKS.”

I walked towards the Oval. Just pick any pub. I did, on the Stockwell side. This is where they mug Rottweilers. The place was having an identity crisis, twixt regular villains, motley yuppies and sundry. I guess I fit the third. A clean floor and dirty barman, but friendly.

I ordered a pint of Guinness and he gave it to me fast. So he wasn’t Irish. No respect for the black.

Two stools down was a young punk girl. She had the leather, chains, mohawk hair and gave me the fuck-everything look. I nodded.

Next thing, she moved behind me saying, “Can I sit next to you mistah?”

“Sure... yeah... OK”

She had a riot of make-up but beneath, barely sixteen. She said, “Do you ever wonder where all the stars went?”

“Wot, like Elvis?”

“No, real stars... my mum says the sky used to be full of ’em.”

“She had a point, yer mum.”

“Me fella’s fooked off with Tracy.”

“Tracy?”

“Yeah, she’s like me best mate.”

“Not any more I daresay.”

“Not any more wot?”

“Oh just a touch of irony.”

“Touch o’ wot?”

I took a long swallow of the pint. Not bad. I wished she’d go away but here she was again.

“Wot are you mistah... fifty?”

“Not quite.”

“Go on then, you look older than my dad, he’s legged it ’n’ all.”

I wanted to say, “Surely it can’t be yer personality the whole male population’s fleeing from.”

She nudged me.

“Wanna ride me mistah?”

“Wot?”

“You can... yer not so old...”

I got off my stool and gave her a direct look, said, “I’m due back on Planet Earth as Woody Allen told Chris Walken.”

I could hear her even alter I got outside, “Woody who?”

I’d say she’s still there, the drone from hell in Stockwell.

Jeez.

I’m dropping Woody.

I was soaking in the bath. At the stage where you think, “If I could only hold this moment I’d never ask for out again.”

The phone went. It had that insistent whine that promises “Better answer me.”

No Dex when you need him.

Muttering, “This better be damn fucking good,” I dripped to answer it, said, “This better be good.”

It was Lisa but I could barely hear her from deafening music in the background. She kept repeating “... what? What?”

So I lost it, roared, “Turn down the fuckin’ racket!”

She did then.

“No need to scream Nick, that’s why we have phones.”

“What was that awful music?”

“Awful!... he used to be with Bob Marley’s band.”

“Bob couldn’t take it either, huh?”

“Don’t be Redneck Nick, we can’t all appreciate the nuances of Country music.”

“ We could try,” I said. “All of us. Why are you calling me.”

“To say I loved you.”

“You’re kidding, like the bloody Stevie Wonder song... I don’t believe this.”

“Nickolas, it’s a spontaneous action to warm your heart.”

“But not my bath I guess.”

She sighed, said, “Elmore Leonard, you’d like him Nick, he wrote of Country music that if you play it backwards,

  ‘You get your girl and truck back

  You’re not drunk anymore

  and your hound dog’s alive again.’”

“Cute,” I said. She’d hung up.

I turned on the radio. What my old mum used to call the wireless. Kris Kristofferson was doing, “Sunday Morning Coming Down”.

Is there a lonelier song, not that anyone could accuse him of singing. “And nothing short of dying/Quiet as lonesome as the sound.”

I hummed along.

An ache nigh convulsed me. I knew it was bullshit and was missing something I’d never experienced.

It was like crying over a woman you’d never met. But crazy doesn’t mean any less painful. I figured some dope would ease it... and did a few lines of coke. Let them good times roll, fuck-yeah.

I flicked the radio off and looked through Lisa’s records.

Bo Diddley? Yeah... my man.

The phone went. Dex.

“Amigo, I think it’s time to wake up, smell some coffee. Know where I’m heading?”

“What happened to hello?”