James Kelman: A Disaffection

Alison was attracting his attention from the closemouth. She maybe thought he was going to fucking fall asleep and stay there all night. He grinned and waved back at her, flashed the headlights a couple of times: and she vanished. Not even a puff of smoke. He continued to stare at the closemouth.

When he parked the car in his own street he was aware of the pipes as a new problem in his life — even in such minor events as exiting from the car e.g. did one for instance take them in one’s arms before rising from the seat? or get out first and then fucking drag them after you? or else prop them against the side of the car while you’re still sitting down! It was almost like having a pet. Oddly enough the sister-in-law tried to dump a six-week-old puppy onto him quite recently, but he had declined. It would have been no good with him being out all day at the teaching. The wee beast would not have been happy. Plus holidays. Other difficulties too. And if he had wanted to stay out all night what then.

The pipes could be looked upon as a surrogate pet. Even better! a surrogate child! Or wife for god sake! In fact, these very pipes represented the whole wide world. With these pipes in tow anything was possible. Nay! Probable!

Pat was laughing aloud while walking up the stairs. And there certainly was a lot of irony involved in it. But what could not be ignored was the existence of happiness: he felt genuinely happy. This was the point at issue. He had not felt genuinely happy for years.

Could that be true. Years? Aye, it was true, years.

Inside the lobby he propped the pipes against the wall beneath the coathooks but changed his mind and took them ben the parlour; if he left them in the lobby the temperature might affect them, being far too cold and draughty and then if he left them in the kitchen it would be too hot sometimes and too damp othertimes; either one of which might not be good for them. But this front room he used rarely, so the temperature though not warm was not cold and, more importantly, would remain constant.

In the kitchen he switched on the electric fire, crouching down to heat his hands at the two bars, with the jacket about his shoulders, keeping it there till he got warm — that was one of the problems of being alone, always coming into nothing, coming home to this coldness, a permanent dearth of warmth, of the warmth brought into being via the presence of another party, a fucking person in other words. He prepared a pot of tea, sat down on his chair, hands in his trouser pockets and his shoulders hunched. He was beginning to feel very tired indeed. That coupled with the cold he was probably better off going to bed. Fuck the tea. He unplugged the kettle and undressed, switched off the fire, having to visit the lavatory out in the lobby, before climbing swiftly into bed and under the blankets, huddling into as small an object as possible. And if he had drunk a big mugful of tea he would have had to get back up during the night. There again but, if he was better organised in regard to his pishing habits he would never have found the pipes! For a moment he considered rising to have a go on them but it would not have been right; it would have been wrong; it would have been the wrong thing entirely. If he was going to blow on them at all he wanted to do so in earnest and that meant being in the proper condition, the correct frame of mind and the correct frame of body. Give up the drink for a start! He would get fit. And that was another point: he doubted, quite fucking seriously, if ever he had felt truly healthy for years. Ages! How come he was not married to someone like Alison for instance? She was actually physically beautiful and without any doubt was obtainable — attainable. Or had been when she first arrived last summer. Maybe even now, if he was to really try, just depending on how he went about it; if he asked her out, just to see what transpired. It really was time. He had to do something. He really had to do something because it was driving him crazy, it was fucking driving him crazy. He could ask her out, just to see what transpired. Take her for a meal and a drink maybe, nothing startling, just a quiet kind of unobtrusive carry on. Something not to put her off. Not to be too forcible otherwise, otherwise it really would put her off. Simply to get her on her ownsome while the two of them were alone and by themselves, and without any of that fucking school mob watching what you were doing, wanting to know your business, the way they were aye wanting to keep tabs on everything you did, every last thing you got involved in or did not get fucking involved in! Like the stupid bloody pantomime. And the pipes of course. They would be gossiping about them as well. Desmond and Mrs Bryson and all the rest. Hubbubs in the bloody staffroom. Complete silence when he enters and then fucking hubbubs once he goes fucking back out again. O aye, did you see them! Even the way he acquired them did you notice! No kidding ye he just fucking lifted them from behind the fucking arts centre! How fucking bloody damn appropriate right enough!

At school the next couple of days he was in better spirit throughout with all the different classes. It was good and it was cheery. During the past while he had been becoming close to overwhelmed by the darkest of feelings over the influence he could have with pupils. Each and every single relationship he had with each and every pupil seemed totally unhealthy, each and every one of them, girls and boys, they were all the same.

The Teacher!!

The Great Man!!

How they regarded him as the perfect being. This great man of the universe. Statesman, philanthropist and diplomat. The final arbiter. He whose pronouncements on all subjects — including of course physics, politics and mathematical logic, the arts and philosophy; in short the entire history of the world — were to be listened to and paid the utmost attention. Their parents and/or guardians did not come into it. In comparison to his their values and opinions were absolutely worthless, absolutely worthless. Fucking obscene really, when you pondered the issue. Occasionally he could bore them stupid about it in the staffroom. Very occasionally. In fact, not very often. Far better remaining silent in the midst of such crassness, in the midst of such utter cant and hypocrisy, in the midst of such

christ! quite often he had to jump up and walk out of the bloody place! Even during conversations he was a part of. And he knew fine well this made him seem a queer sort of oddball of a character; maybe even queer in the sense of gayness, of his being homosexual, because he was not married and never had been married and the way things were going never would be married.

He hadnt even really lived with anybody. Nor had he ever been engaged or anything like that, although once it could be said he had come near. That was at uni. But they hadnt slept together! At the time he was so naive he considered that a strongpoint. Sheila Monaghan was her name and she was now teaching in a school somewhere in Aberdeen. If she had honestly liked him they would have slept together. There was no doubt about that. She used to let him feel her breasts and take her bra off but nothing more than that. Plus there was that occasion she let her hand rest on his bollocks and it drove him daft although she seemed to be unmoved unless of course it was a pretence. It wasnt easy to know what was what with Sheila. But fair enough, as far as he knew she never ever slept with anybody else either. And he did, eventually, whenever he could get the chance which was not often and usually standing up in the shadowy bits in the admin section of the students’ union. Also on four separate occasions at parties when space was made by pushing the coats and jackets to one side. Quite funny carry ons. The type of thing that never happened nowadays. That had never happened at all except at uni and twice while at the teachers’ trainers. It was all very fucking pathetic. A situation full of pathos. To hell with it! He just wanted something different. To not be a teacher perhaps!