James Kelman - A Disaffection

He stands there drying the dishes.

do de do de do

whw whw whw whw whw

di do di do di do

Blues. A Glasgow working man’s blues.

do di do di do

whw whw whw

do di do di do

Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, Bing Crosby and Doris Day. Do di do di do. Where’s my television weekly programme guide, my carpet slippers and hot water bottle!!

It was just the way things were, the way things are. Not having anything to talk about. What was there to talk about? Nothing. Fuck all. Pointless worrying about it either. Fathers and sons and brothers. A load of tollie. Plus education and class warfare, revolution and disease and starvation and torture and murder and rape. There is nothing to crack up about. A polis battered him over the fucking head with a cricket bat the naughty picket; well he must have been bloody misbehaving then that’s what I say. And how’s yourself, are you okay, nice as nice, what about you? Getting on fine? Seeing your way clear? No! O dear, that’s a fucking wee pity. It’s really tough. Tough tough tough. And if there’s any truth in afterlives I’m sure yous’ll fucking

Mr Doyle had his fag balanced on the edge of the worktop to the side of the sink, snatching drags as he went, the quick wee puff, di di di di di di, puff puff puff, a cosy wee smoke and back through to the telly: me and the boy there had this minor fusion while involved with the fucking crockery cleansing.

Perhaps Patrick could wipe his da’s pate with a brillo pad. That would

He loves his da, he really does. It’s just that fucking hopeless reactionariness. How do ye pierce it? It’s a fucking tortoiseshell. You would need a Moby Dick harpoon. Father! Daddy! Dad! How are ye doing! How is your drying hand? Okay? Good, that’s good. And have you wiped your gaffer’s arse recently? Last week? Fine. Aye. Consistency is a desirable category. Here you are.

Patrick dried his hands. He turned from the sink to do it. The towel was damp. Why had he not put on the radio? he could have put on the radio. He walked from the kitchenette to the bathroom although he was nowhere near to tears, just getting into a bit of an emotional state and was wanting a few moments’ peace, in which to calm himself. That was all. And no sooner said than accomplished, the deed, the doing. There was a nice smell in the bathroom and the atmosphere held a warmth, damply so, because of the bath he had had. He stared into the mirror at his fine fizzog. It was true: he did look like a mature twenty-nine-year old chap. With a face like that there was no reason to be as he was. But what about tomorrow! Tomorrow was yet to come! He was fine. Things would yet prove unburdensome.

No they wouldni. He was down and out. He really was down and out. What he needed

What did he need?

Ink exercises! A whole host of them. Why was he not marking ink exercises? a whole host of them. The new rates had just come out and if he got himself down to doing it he would earn good bonuses. And then he could go out and buy a new motor with plenty of in-car entertainment. Christ but the actual work itself would have been okay. He could have purchased himself a couple of flagons of nice red wine, a couple of cans of superlager, a few red biro pens; a blast of music in the background softly. He could have developed new theories on examining the pre-school age-group, just to see if some of them were actually fit to learn because a lot of these wee bastards are so fucking unknowledgeable they shouldni even be allowed in through the primary schoolgates in the first place. Auld Swift had the right idea. Fucking eat them.

He sat down on the throne. His recurring daymare was the idea of seating yourself down on the outer lid by mistake, and crunching the bollocks to a pulp.

In the name of fuck!

And yet, his parents would have been delighted to discover he was meeting a young woman tomorrow. It would really please them. Except of course her being a married woman. That would not please them. It would not upset them, just not please them.

They wanted him settled down. They didnt think he looked after himself properly. As if being involved with a woman would change all that. Maybe it would. There were things he would have to alter if he was so involved. He would have to get a fridge, for example, so that he could store milk and fresh dairy products. Also a hoover vacuum machine for cleaning carpets.

He pulled the plug, gazed at the water flushing the pot. He waited until the cistern refilled. As a boy he used to have to wait for the final click before being able to wash and dry the hands. But now such superstitious nonsense could be shoved to one side.

Time to go for a pint.

But he had yet to finish the dishes. His da would be waiting.

But his da wasnt waiting. His da had finished both the washing and the drying and was now sitting on his armchair and watching the telly. Patrick remained by the door and he called: For another pot of tea anybody?

Now you’re talking! said his da while Mrs Doyle raised her head briefly from the newspaper on her lap, and smiled in reply.

He almost crashed into a bloody lamppost on his way home. A big patch of black ice on the ground just beyond the turn into his own street. It was bitter cold. He had stayed on at his parents’ home until after midnight, just watching television and yapping about old things from the past.

He was awake at 3.45 a.m. looking at the ceiling. It was a very very bad dream. He was unable to close his eyes and drift back into a good slumber. The things were all continuing to happen. He was in the middle of it. A crowd of evil phantoms had sprung to existence in the room. Each space he looked to contained someone and they had lives of their own, these phantoms, and they were evil and wearing a dishevelled type of waistcoat with these sort of ankle-length cloth boots like sixteenth-century peasants, or maybe fur yins they were and not cloth, with straps of twine tied round the top uppers to keep them from falling off.

They were actually there and had big sort of staves or hoes and they just were hovering and when he shifted onto his side and stared into the recess wall with the blankets firmly at his chin there came a couple moving towards him from the rear and he knew exactly where they were and it gave him this sense of weightlessness. He spoke to himself. A method of eradicating it all. He spoke distinctly. I have had this very bad nightmare, a very bad one, but only a nightmare; there is no reality to it unless one of insanity, unless, since it is not only a nightmare but here and now, something that is occurring at this moment, while I am awake, it is not a nightmare but a living experience, reality; and a reality of which I am the central part, a central part. But what is to become of me now? Is this the end of my sanity? maybe now I am to be like this for all the time and what will happen to me? If I maybe cannot move out of my bed for all eternity and the nurses will have to break my door down.

And it was becoming expedient, to turn round the way and look out from the recess wall, now, expedient, to turn, to confront them, because there would be not a thing there, no phantoms, nothing, and it was worthwhile turning just for that very reason and he moved slowly but surely from the hips firstly and the shoulders and head lastly and true to form there was not anything there but the darkness of course and the gloominess, there was a kind of integral gloominess to this room which appeared to be charged from the middle someplace, all related to it, threads, silken and steadfast, threads.

This sensation of feeling behind the eyelids, an ordinary feeling though in some way, as if he had been scratching there. Maybe it was just a sign of tiredness. But he was not exhausted. Occasionally he did have these terrible mornings when he was exhausted, tired and drained, through lack of sleep — although sometimes it couldnt really be called a lack of sleep.