James Kelman - A Disaffection

Or just go down to the pub for a quiet pint on his own, put the initials on the board for a game of pool. Patrick quite enjoyed a game of pool, as long as it didnt last too long because it got hell of a fucking boring seeing that fucking ball go zigzagging about the table all night.

Coffee.

It was pointless spending so much time and effort over Alison. Either he went the whole hog and asked her out or else he fucking let go altogether. She wasnt his last chance. He only acted as if she was.

But that last time he went to a disco was pathetic. He wandered into this place along Sauchiehall Street and it was all kids from the fifth year. O look, there’s auld Doyle in to spoil the fun. A slight exaggeration. But most of them did look around the eighteen-years-of-age mark. The only place to go was a pub. But when he went to pubs he drank and he was sick of bloody dranking because you end up doing things that are most odd indeed and also your brains become deceased.

What about a woman of the streets? Was that something to consider? No.

He could renew his membership for the hostels and go tramping across the highlands once more. That was quite a happy time. That was the thing that made uni a less than hopeless place to be. But what about outdoor clubs, maybe there were outdoor clubs, for adult males and adult females. Where you just went for walks and to be meeting each other. And now that spring approached walks up Goat Fell or The Cobbler or Ben Lomond, just to get back in action again. He and Eric used to do a bit of climbing. It was good. Why not start doing that. Why not indeed, but not just fucking now, 8 o’clock on a Friday fucking night.

What he could do was play the pipes. No! He didnt want to play the pipes! Not just now. Not just now.

He had marked the time out for it already. 9.40. Twenty minutes to ten p.m.

There were also clubs where people went. They existed for single parties, divorced folk and widowed folk but not necessarily older folk. And the beauty of it was that those who went to such clubs went to meet others in a similar situation to themselves which meant the initial hurdle had been jumped, and the woman would be there to give the man every encouragement. She would be well aware of the difficulties men can have in establishing that first contact, that fucking leap you always had to make to begin things. Christ, sometimes it could really fuck you the way that worked. But with the woman there to help you along. It was definitely something to consider seriously. He was sick of wanking. It just made him aware of his age all the time. He did not wish to dwell continually on the passing years. Here he was turning thirty years of age. Thirty years of age is regarded as a landmark, a watershed, a stage of departure. At that age Jesus Christ entered the teaching profession and Joseph K worked out his guilt. So here you have Patrick. But to be honest about it the idea of age doesnt worry him greatly. His brother is thirty-three. His sister-in-law is thirty-one. Desmond is fucking ninety-nine! No he’s not he’s forty or forty-one or something, poor bastard. And the da’s fifty-seven and the maw fifty-six.

And then there’s Goya!

And Hölderlin, poor auld fucking Hölderlin.

But why wait until twenty minutes to ten to play the pipes? Why not whenever he likes? Why not right bloody now? At this exact moment. Because he was not wanting to do it on a full stomach, his lips covered in grease and his belly full of fish and buttered rolls and chips and oceans of tea. He put two hours as the period of proper gestation. The fish would have drowned by then, and the chips would have merged into his very parts, his very being; it would all have become part of his very flesh, forcing its way into his very character, his very psychology and personal traits being heightened by this solid mass of fish and fried potato. And his very breath.

Not to be charged of fried food when the blowing took place, this was the object. He was after a form of purity in the act itself. A clear wind and a freshened breath — unclouded by the fats of dead animals.

He would have to stop thinking like this. This business of the body. Was he becoming fetishistic? That could be Alison’s fault. Before you knew it he would be signing on as a religious convert. It was really unhealthy. This again was bound in with why he wanted out. But did he want out? Really? Did he really want out? It was a jump. It really was. A fucking jump and a half. And one a person had to be sure about christ you really had to be sure about something like that and Patrick was not yet absolutely there on the brink of it, not yet — the pathway perhaps but not the actual brink. Not really. Not at this juncture. He had things to live for.

Things to live for.

These many things.

Alison could of course save him by simply having left the arts centre. She could simply have made her excuses and marched out, head held high and not giving a fuck about the scandalmongers, she just had to see Patrick and didnt care who knew it. Even Desmond.

Could Desmond be described as a scandalmonger? Probably no. The cynical little smile if somebody drew his attention to an article of gossip but he wouldni mind when all was said and done. He would maybe even appreciate it. Maybe he was a guy who wished folk well — even fellow males. Maybe he just had trouble showing his true nature. Poor bastard. It is even possible he wanted to be friends with Patrick. When had Patrick ever asked the bloke if he fancied a pint? Never. Not once. And yet Desmond had twice invited Patrick. So it was definitely his turn. So why didnt he? Because he couldnt fucking be bothered, it was too boring; there was an incompatibility between them. They could never be bosom buddies. And that was a fact. And part of growing up is the ability to admit facts. A fact is a fact. A fact is indeed a fact. A fact, this is what a fact is, a fact. Facts have to be admitted. So let us admit them.

But the truth is it was even doubtful if Desmond was truly interested in Alison. Maybe she would just add to his problems, another woman. Yet it was guys like him usually ended up with the women. Funny that. What could it be about cynical bastards? Was that it their fucking cynicism! Surely not. That would be bad. Maybe he could ask and find out. He could ask Gavin, maybe even Joe Cairns who was also married yet scarcely to be described as cynical, whereas Gavin might well be. Joe Cairns! the tall and silent type but when he lets drop that one word or phrase everybody is supposed to faint with fucking gratitude, just so the pearl of wisdom can be heard the more clearly. A good footballer; that cannot be denied. So what! Nothing except Pat is fond of football, both playing and watching; his preference are the Juniors and he might in fact go and see a game tomorrow afternoon if he fucking feels like it. Joe is probably just silent because he is resigned to his lot, he has settled for secondbest but without confessing it. But is a confession necessary? Maybe a confession leads to suicide. Maybe guys like Joe Cairns are only alive by virtue of their absolute refusal to give in and confess. Why the fuck should he confess. In the whole school he is one of the few persons with an actual belief in his/herself as teacher, and this a silent belief, an assumed thing, not to be spoken of, a faith. And maybe there was a total absence of smugness in this silence. It could simply be a form of good well-wishing. One who has seen the light, hoping that others may too, but not via their direct intervention, i.e. one who leads by example and not by fucking command, by dictum, e.g. the fucking teacher who is a bad influence, who is going about in this unhealthy manner, these unhealthy relationships being entered into between himself and all the pupils, the great magician and all his disciples. Time to play the pipes, time to play the pipes. And Patrick was up onto his feet then bending, crouching, down onto his hunkers, his hands vertically to the bars of the fire, staring in at them, the bars, their orangeness now bordering on whiteness, occasionally crackling at the ends as though about to explode. These dangers of electricity. An inherent danger. Danger inhering in the article, the magnet, being caught between the poles, being caught between the poles. It would be nice to be left that way forever.