James Kelman - A Disaffection

In certain parts of the world licensed establishments open their doors at the back of four a.m. Four fucking a.m. In the fucking forenoon morning jesus christ and here you have a fellow who is not able to acquire a few jars prior to the nine o’clock showdown with a praetorissimo of the congregationalist protestant teacher class. So what is to be done what is to be done aside that is from suicide. Aside from suicide. Although there again, in terms of bon vivre, P for Patrick seldom recollects having felt so fine as at this exact moment. Talk about fucking high spirits! I’m no kidding ye this boy could do a wee jig, a wee jig. And I dont tell lies, no me, I’m straight-down-the-line

Straight-down-the-line must be a football expression, to do with running down the wing with the ball at one’s feet, prior to crossing it to the far post where the striker is just moving in to Bump, that’s another in the back of the net. One of the problems

One of the problems! There arent any problems. None whatsoever.

So what’s to be done? Nothing. Nothing at all.

That temptation.

There is no temptation. None whatsoever.

None whatsoever. On the contrary:

To yield to occasion is the mark of the wise man. That’s what Cicero says and Cicero doesni tell lies. What age was he when they extinguished his life’s blood?

As soon as he stepped out onto the landing he knew it was cold, that it was back as winter once again. His chin always seemed to be the extremity most outreaching of all his parts, and caught the snell wind firstly. And as he battered his way down the stairs, the absolutely cauld dank dankness of these fucking outlandish efforts known as walls, floors and fucking bastarn ceilings of ice-frosted steam and he began shivering in an incredible, exaggerated fashion so that you had to ask is it genuine? is it the mark of a false consciousness? an indication of what’s the fucking French for bad faith! If it had been Norwegian fine, fine, but French! O dear no. Maybe better if the silly fucker had returned upstairs for a more suitable item of apparel — mauvaise foi — the anorak for christ sake and a woolly scarf and a pair of gloves, the Vick Vapour Rub to dab beneath the nostrils and a couple of nice wee hot whisky toddies, with a large straw.

There was frost on the windows of the doors and all down the panels of the doors, and the windscreen of course fucking encrusted by it. The lock had iced up. He breathed hot breath on it, his hands cupped round his mouth and if successful he would needs move rapidly otherwise it would freeze up even worse when the cold got into it. And the windscreen. He used the side of his hand. Once upon a time he was a total idiot and threw hot water on everything and it was all fine for ten seconds until fuck ye and it was all ice again, and occasionally you saw folk still doing that. Okay, the very next time he did he would yell out and halt it, and be friendly for christ sake to his fellow human beings! That’s all it took, just that note of warning, a friendly way of being in this evilish world wherein deities advance the net. And the glove-compartment too, its hinges rusted and cracking by the sound of it. Everything about this motor was absolutely fucking hopeless.

Yes, the ice-scraper was still inside the compartment! If he had tried for it in the first place the side of his hand wouldni fucking be bloody damn fucking numb. Och well, one cannot have everything. But by jesus it was fucking cold. Or was it all his nerves was it all his nerves and the cold was only compounding matters, was that all. He finished scraping the frost and was on the driver’s seat and becoming comfortable and so on prior to testing the horrible starter and so on, trusting that it would connect with the battery and so on in mechanical manner thereby the engine turning satisfactorily this not being a morning for dilly-dallying and push fucking starts please god.

And the Pythagoreans of course, not believing the fire should be stirred by iron. Exactly right as usual. Funny that so it is, how come these fucking ancient bastards hit the nail on the head plus of course peregrinations on the highways to which they were totally opposed, totally opposed, you can walk anywhere you like except the road, otherwise you’d get knocked down by a cart perhaps, or a chariot. Common sense, always common sense, steering clear of beans and the rest of it.

The motor car was moving. Patrick gripping onto the wheel and perched forwards on the very edge of the seat, the shoulders hunched rigid and making loud shivering noises, having to keep the demisters blowing cold air so the windscreen would stay clear. O it was good to be wearing a tie wearing a tie, athwart the adam’s apple, giving this good sense of combating the elements and warding off the ill-omened bad-health inducers such as the flu.

Thoughts are no good. They are not a help, not an assistance; they do not come to the aid of a person in extremis, a person who suffers that others may indeed walk free — because that’s what a fucking teacher is really I mean eh! she or he fucking spends his or her fucking life trying to fucking show people the ropes and the byways to a successful existence, a successful method of manoeuvering yourself through the twists and turns and nooks and crannies of the sinister universe, that’s what they do. And then they get punched on the gub! Punchus punche on the fucking gubus.

Okay then, no more of it.

And Patrick, when he was parking the motor in the school parking area, saw some kids gazing at him and he winked, turned the key in the lock, strolled across the playground, skirting round the outsize slide some boys were sliding down. He hadnt been keen on slides as a boy, a couple of bad cracks on the rear of the skull because of them, which was where you aye seemed to land whenever you took the tumble, that terrible jarring crack. How does the cranium cope? And yet it does.

Mister Peters. Auld fucking greeting face the janny. The world was become bleak.

Patrick nodded. Morning.

Mm.

Any luck on Saturday? Patrick smiled. Nottingham Forest beat my da for a right few quid! The fixed odds coupon.

Whh. The janitor shook his head and gazed sideways, moving his chin as though his shirt collar was too tight and it was hampering his larynx. Patrick’s own collar was feeling a bit tight as well and he inserted his index finger, tugging the collar out the way. Mister Peters said: I’m seeing your boss about it.

What?

I’m just bloody sick of it.

D’you mean about the upgrading?

Aye. I was talking to a guy from the Housing Department and he was telling me they’ve all got it. So if they’ve all got it how the hell have we no?

It’s bad.

You’re telling me it’s bad, and if anything we’ve got a damn sight more responsibilities than they’ve got. And yet they give it to them and no to us. You tell me how they work it out.

Aye, bad.

It’s bloody out of order. You look for logic and there isni any. Mister Peters’s attention was distracted by a group of girls which was passing by and talking excitedly about something; and from them to a group of boys, one of them was bouncing a ball on the steps up to the doors at the entrance which was entirely against the laws of the school. The janitor’s hand hovered as though to reach for his whistle. He said to Patrick. It’s been on my mind non-stop, spoiled the whole bloody weekend.

Aye.

It’s no that but if you’re gonni stand by your staff then you stand by them, end of story. But that boss of yours …! Mister Peters glanced from right to left, clearing his throat, as if seeking a place to spit.

Patrick grinned. He’s your boss as well as mine!

That’s as maybe son but he doesni treat yous the way he treats us.

Eh … Patrick cocked his head to one side.