James Kelman - A Disaffection

the display shoes in the large doorway contained lefts only to thwart the would-be shoe thief. He smiled at those queuing here in case they thought he was trying to skip in past them.

The shoes were cheap efforts. You could ascertain this just by peering at them and bearing witness to the nature of the plastic uppers, also the narrow foot entrance which means your feet just at the ankles would end up constricted and rubbing against the rims, thus sore feet, the big watery blisters and so on, hacked and raw-red skin. No good. No good at all. He pursed his lips, indicating his dissatisfaction with the quality to the rest of the queue but they appeared not to be bothering about his opinions. They had their own opinions. Okay. He frowned but gazed to the floor. How come they were all going to buy such shite. Because they were skint. Because they had no fucking dough. People would buy anything if it was cheap. It would be great to have something to sell. If he had something to sell he could take it out and sell it. He returned to the opposite side of the road but continued on past the motor to a nearby newsagent; the truth of the matter, that he needed to buy something; it didni matter what, just something that could be anything, preferably an item of luxury but, an article sweated over by all the weans of Thailand for the wage of a lollipop, some article whose function they would only be vaguely aware of

da da, da da, da da

da da, da da, da da

da da, da da, da da, da da

you’re in the army now

you’re in the army now

you’re in the army now

you’ll never get rich digging a ditch

you’re in the army now

Cockadoodledoo. Christ was denied three times. This was the sort of stupid conundrum the famous Mirs Houston had left him with. What had she meant by it, calling him that, saying that to him, Judas Iscariot. It was actually Peter who did the denials. Just as well he was a nonbeliever. He smiled, then chuckled. A woman was awaiting his every pleasure behind the counter. She wore a dark brown overall and checkered blouse and in her smile at him, that perfunctory smile which in this case was no such thing but a thing of warmth and great beauty, which in all such cases

I dont want to buy the Guardian because it’s a load of rightwing shite and there’s nothing else.

Yes there is, there’s a whole rack of radical stuff you can go and dig out if ye really want to look except you canni do your looking in here because we dont sell any of it.

I wouldnt want to anyway.

Why not?

Because I find I cannot read such stuff on a regular basis, that I become too quickly scunnered, feelings of nausea in the belly and so forth.

Aw.

Aye eh they dont fucking seem to fit into my everyday existence. I dont know how to explain it. I blame my parents and society, how they bare their arse to The Powers That Be.

The woman nodded. The crest of the newsagent chain on her left breast, her own name in a wee brooch down by her throat.

I blame my parents and society.

The woman nodded.

I’ll take a bag of sweeties. I’ll take these ones there with the marzipancoatedchocolatus-a-um. And do ye have any Andrews Liver Salts?

No. You’ll have to go to the chemist shop along the road.

O well, I’ll just have to drive it to save time.

That’s entirely up to yourself but see if it was me, what I’d do I’d just hoof it and kid on it wasnt mine, that it didni fucking belong to me, that no-longer-good vehicle, that I didnt know it from Adam, these fucking doors rusting to fuck with the grating bastarn hinges, to be honest about it, I dont understand how

You’re right, thanks.

Yet it has to be said there exists something about it, about this motor car, a certain indefatigability, the way the bonnet slopes so chirpily upwards from the rusted wings, the manner in which the lack of adequate mudguarding

No, just leave it. Dump it! Grab the tax disc and run for your life — except it’s fucking out-of-date anyway and if ye dont buy a new yin that big polis’ll come back and get ye done for breaking the law.

Funny how come so many officers-of-the-law crop up these days. Patrick appears to be surrounded by them. Everywhere he looks. Even if they are all jovial big chaps, it doesnt matter. And how come they’re all seven-foot-high I mean I dont want to get paranoiac about it christ though there again the big yin that gave the warning on the tax disc was okay, he was cheery and seemed good-natured for christ sake you could see it in his eyes, the way he was giving Master Doyle the telling-off. It was never a true telling-off, more of a jocular comment, the sort that occurs between good neighbourishly acquaintances. Ergo: not all polismen are bad chaps; not all poliswomen are bad chappesses. Only those who work for the government in such and such a way and do not perform in this that and the other fashion, know what I mean, tap the nose and say nothing, there’s too many clicks on my telephone these days.

Patrick has nothing to worry about. Honest. He’s a fucking okay bloke. The Magisterial forces are not out to nab him. Patrick Doyle your honour. MA (HONS). I got my ‘honours’. My (Honours)! My!!!honours!!! I became a registered civilian on behalf of forces that corrupt. I am the messenger. I have to convey the tidings. I am the means to their end. I perform in public. I am the fellow with the likeable personality who is to influence the weans of the lower orders so that they willni do anything that might upset the people with wealth, power and privilege.

So dont fuck off.

Okay?

Yes.

Aye.

Back you come.

Fine, hullo. I am pleased to meet ye. I truly am. I am a likeable personality. If you are not an unlikeable personality why then, we may converse. Hullo back. I am your alter ego. Alter alteris masculine. When your personality splits I am the back end. I am the ugly bit, the counterforce. In order to release me as a pleasantly docile manifestation you have to resort to instruments of wind — pipes can suffice. What they do they release me, and I am another likeable personality. Thus we have us two and the ugly one. Then as well as you get this other yin, me; I creep in, I creep in while yous all sit about gabbing in that friendly getting-to-know-ye type of way; I creep in and edge closer and closer till I’m so much a part of the company you didnt notice my absence earlier, that a gap had existed, that it has now been filled.

But that motor car! God! Imagine being abandoned at the side of the road! Imagine it, early to mid March, a time of year when wintry chills can flood the eternal watervapourish canopy. I mean to say and all that your man here, P for Patrick Doyle, a good protestant atheist, a good glaswegian protestant of the nonbelieving class, not only a virtual atheist but a literal one, a total and literal one since a wee boy of some twelve summers. Imagine it but, getting abandoned at a pavement towards the latter part of a dismal winter, enlivened only by the absence of Xmatic Pantomimes. I am the Piper Doyle. I pipe. Up piped Doyle to enliven the proceedings. That story of Kafka’s about the nice wee woman who is a vain mouse and who pipes a song of astonishing, of astonishing

Astonishing what for fuck sake I’ve fucking forgotten.

I hate all these arsish fucking banalities I mean they’re so fucking stupit, daft; I prefer to march ever onwards getting bumped by folk rushing to the SALE!! BIG REDUCTIONS!!

That wee lassie Audrey. She’s a wee beauty. She is such a beautiful wee lassie it makes ye want to greet for the rest of your life.

So P. Doyle enters a pub.

P. Doyle enters a pub. Well well well. He strolls to the bar. The smell of wines and spirits and diverse beers, also carbolic soap and incense. The bartender. Your new found resolution Mister Doyle. Could I have a tomato juice please?