James Kelman - A Disaffection

And take enough cash as well. That was important. For the full range of possibilities. He had a motor car and little or no obligations to any man, woman, wean or pet. Nothing. He could go wherever he wished. His desire was his command, whatever he wanted, he could set to and simply get it accomplished.

It was good. It was good and it was cheery. There wasnt really very much he wanted out of life, not really. But it, or maybe just the knowledge, the knowledge just, of being able to go and do whatever he thought it best to do, at that particular time, without having to worry too much about what other folk thought, not really. Although there again, it has to be said

But fuck off. What in this life was there to be proud of? I mean some fucking good thinkers would affirm truly that just managing to be alive by thirty was worthwhile. Look at Wittgenstein’s brothers.

He pulled all the plugs out the electrical points before leaving. He didnt know when he would be back. But he usually pulled them out anyway because of the possibility of electrical fire. Which would be one of the drawbacks to the acquisition of this fridge his maw was threatening to dump on him. Refrigerator plugs had to be kept on at all times otherwise you got flooded by defrosted ice. He would, however, be able to buy fresh food and keep it fresh, including milk, cheese and poultry meats and pig, cow and sheep meats. But the idea was silly. Plus also that deeply held away far away sense of solidarity, wanting to show some sort of solidarity, with those who had fuck all to eat and were probably dying of starvation right at this very moment. Even the thought of doing it, storing vast quantities of food for the sole consumption of one single man. There was something not good about it, something not good about it at all.

At the foot of the staircase he continued on into the rear instead of going out the front. He walked a few paces, gazing at the peeling paintwork on the walls and ceiling. He found it special hereabouts. It had to do with the dullness of light, the position of the rear exit in relation to the front, how the shadows were eternally fixed, even at night. When the only kind of lighting was electrical the exact same shadows — or rather, the lines of those exact same shadows — remained, but had these other shadow-lines superimposed so that different layers of shadows were in existence. It was a good and a clear area of space, even allowing for the peeled paint. Then the constant wet of course; even during the summer months the condensation was horrendous and just out from the rear close was the greatest of stinks it has ever been Patrick’s something or other to witness. It emanated from a drain which was the top hatch of a dark dungeon of a sewer, and this sewer, its exploration.

The motor was still where he had left it. Nobody had stolen it. The bonnet and wings and doors as unscratched as usual, the hubcaps all intact.

So then:

it was only half eleven.

Too early really.

The possibility of the motor failing to start, of having a bad accident on route, of a breakdown somewhere difficult, the polis picking him up. He checked the oil level, the level in the battery, looked at his tyres. These things to do with regular car driving that are boring. The mechanical aspects of any regular operation are boring. That includes conversation, having to chat to people from nothing, these things too are boring, no matter the embellishments.

What did you do this morning, inquires Alison.

O eh I went out eh and eh bought the papers and a bit of grub, checked the oil with the dipstick and had a shite and then I shaved and brushed the teeth to perfection in case of having bad breath because sometimes I think I have it and I dont think it’s eh very good, bad breath, because it puts people off.

And only the introduction of the bad breath makes it at all interesting as a result of the ambiguity presented: has he an ulcerous set of gums, decaying teeth, dirty plastic ones, a cancerous set of tonsils or bad fucking adenoids or so on, throat cancer. Although, if he could be bothered, if he really did want to make an attempt, he could simply tell the truth, and it would become interesting:

In fact Alison, my dear Mirs Houston, checking the oil isni too straightforward because I have to insert the heid beneath the upraised bonnet and there’s always for some fucking reason a lot of oil dripping out of someplace and if you arent fucking careful it lands on your napper. Sometimes I comb the fucking hair and it all comes out greasy black and manky. Plus the soiled patches on the pillow I mean see if you were to be in the same bed as me you would very soon — and so on. Plus of course if you neglect to raise the thing up properly, the bonnet, it falls down and decapitates ye.

Sunday morning peace, the quiet roads. Eventually, when he does get a new motor, he will be insisting on in-car entertainment. To be driving along the road listening to music or a discussion. It was the sort of thing Pat would enjoy. The sort of thing that takes the mind out the body, that allows the physical functioning, the bits in between, the nonambiguities, they take over and can relax the mind and the soul. The soul? Since when has talk of ‘soul’ become such an intimate part of his states of affairs? Soul. It must stem from a lazy approach to this morning, and also of course this morning in itself viz. Sunday, the day for Greatbritish Christians to get the soul surfacing.

Okay now, fine, when he meets Alison he has a variety of possibilities perhaps the most important of which is not to enter The Commodore Cafe. He should sit and wait for her in the car and when she turns up he should simply whisk her in and off they drive to somewhere else. That is Number 1: and once Number 1 is underway other possibilities will present themselves. And the bloody damn sky was clear of cloud, the sun melting last night’s frost. Maybe set off out Arrochar way and on over the Rest-and-be-thankful. Although cold outside the sun would heat the inside of the motor and would make things very pleasant indeed. They could mosey on down to Inverary for a nice cup of genteel tea and stroll out onto the pier, dynamite the resident aristocracy and then home for dinner. Boswell and Johnson once

Alison was already there. It was ten to twelve. She was standing in from the corner of the junction, next door to the cafe, which seemed to be shut, the outside door closed. Alison there, she was looking good; she had on eh clothes. She had spotted him in the car but made no sign. She stared in the direction of the schoolgates which were locked and bolted.

He slowed, winding the window down, and he waved to her and drove on into a U-turn, and parked for her. She walked round to the driver’s door. The owner’s inside, she said, he must be opening soon. Do you want to wait?

Eh

We could go somewhere else I suppose.

Aye. He smiled and looked away.

Do you think we should?

Eh, I think eh aye maybe it would be best.

She nodded.

Fancy it?

Yeh, she said and returned round to the passenger’s side. He leaned to open the door for her. When she was adjusting the seatbelt across her shoulders she spoke; she asked, Have you had a nice weekened then?

Eh okay I suppose, the usual … He smiled, letting the handbrake off and manoeuvering the car out into the centre of the road. What about yourself?

Alison sighed. Her perfume was strong and she was looking like she had a lot of make-up on at the eyes, maybe as if it was a mistake. That was funny, unexpected. And her cheek, there was something about her cheek, how it glistened. It’s just I’ve got my parents coming this afternoon, she said, and then she shivered in a kind of spasm.

Okay? asked Patrick.

Yeh.

He grinned. I was up seeing mine last night. Boring boring boring. Are all parents boring!