James Kelman - A Disaffection

A tomato juice?

Yeh, and a half-pint of heavy

(ya fucking coward ye)

As the bartender got the order Patrick yawned and leaned his right elbow on the counter. He yawned once more. He carried his drinks to a side table. The place was almost empty. A middle-aged couple at a table farther along. Two guys about Pat’s age standing at the bar, with the bartender a part of their company. The television set was on, but its volume had been turned completely down.

He unrolled his Evening Times at the football page.

For fuck sake, the two guys and the bartender were looking at him. They were looking at him. Imagine that, for christ sake, what to do, he turned a page; he turned the page and flattened it down on the table. Because he had bought the tomato juice and the half-pint of heavy. They would have thought it an unlikely combination therefore worthy of comment, of pointing it out to one another. Glasgow drinker buys tomato juice, you could picture the headlines. What the fuck else could it be was his fucking fly open or something! Maybe he should just bloody go and ask. Excuse me ya trio of fucking halfwits why the fuck are yous staring at me?

Ignore them. Ignore them.

The sickness!! Aaarrgghh!! The slabbery fucking sawdust!! Errcchh errcchh!! Aaarrgghh!! The fucking bottom sections of the boy’s trousers, they’re fucking minging with this green and tan and yellow ochre substance!

It’s no his fault though. He tried to clean them as best he could in the time he had, which wasnt much, he had a class of weans awaiting, and these weans are all perceiving little bastards, persons who are never to doubt, nor to be doubted.

Hang on a minute. It is certainly true the guy’s wearing sick-stained trousers but this should hardly produce such inferences as: the fellow himself is responsible for it, the manner of it, these bottom sections, their current condition. He could easily have been strolling along the fucking road when up pops a sick dog, a drunken vagabond on all-fours. Anything. Anything’s a possibility in this man’s Glasgow. And he’s leaving. He’s left. He’s gone, this very man, he’s away, never to return. He has left school forever. Now that he is a fully developed male adult he has left the halls of education forever.

RANGERS SIGN EIRE WINGER!

Rangers sign Eire winger. Sammy O’Flaherty, a naturally gifted winger. In fact he was a good player. Pat had seen him on the box a couple of times and he showed a lot of neat touches.

But enough of football.

How come these bastards are looking, that’s what I want to know. Probably shites from Special Branch, parties who disagree with truthtelling. Truthtelling is the one word. Truthtelling is a verb. It is a doing thing or a not doing thing. I truthtell, do you.

Rangers sign Eire winger. Sammy O’Flaherty, a naturally gifted winger, will today sign the dotted line at the home of the famous Glasgow club. A crowd of fans was waiting on the Ibrox doorstep for a glimpse of the new boy.

So drink up and leave.

Come on, time to leave.

Patrick was tired so it was time he left. He was not leaving. How come he was not leaving? Was there something wrong with the dickie? Let us examine the circumstances:

Patrick, how come you’re no leaving?

Because I’m fukt. I’m knackered. I’ve been leading a dog’s life. I’ve been braying like a donkey.

How do you mean?

Pardon?

You were speaking nonsense there. Garble. Something about donkeys — braying like a donkey or something.

O. Sorry. I shouldni do that in case it upsets ye. There are guys looking at me but I dont want to upset ye so I wont show worry, I wont show discomfort, in case you get upset.

Mm.

I mean sorry, dont let my plight interrupt your life. At least they’re no torturing me, it isni Pakistan or Ulster.

Shut up, you’re garbling, people’ll start worrying.

I know fuck sake, exactly.

So hold onto the table.

I’m trying to.

If it’s magic it might rise up and carry ye home. That’s what happens in certain tales from the Orient. Always allowing for the fact that the Arabian Nights arent Oriental. They’re from the Middle East. Yes. Who gives it capital letters. The naming process and Imperialism. Arse is a typical form. Poor old Mirs Houston. Her problem

her problem.

Seriously but, she doesni have a problem. Especially not Patrick Doyle.

Patrick Doyle

is holding onto the table and is now letting go and lifting a glass of tomato juice. What gives them the right. That is what he wants to know. Okay they’ve fucking bought him but no his da. Why not? Of course they have. Bastards. Thales of Miletus. How come he’s so fucking important. My nut. It is aching. It is just a sore head, that’s all, a case of water on the brain. This day has been extremely difficult. It has taken the form of an anti-climax. The weekend had built towards it and now it has come and is past, passed. And Patrick is, and no wonder, absolutely fucking shattered. He should just be collapsing somewhere. Into his bed with a hot water bottle and a strong milky bastarn drink, Ovaltine or somefuckingthing.

He farted.

Not too loudly but loudly enough. Farts and arses. How vulgar. How dashed fucking uncivil of the dem bounder. The two guys looked like they might have heard. They were still chatting with the dem bartender. And now they were gazing across at him, all fucking three of them what was wrong. What could they do? Pat is neither big nor small nor thin nor fat and he would fight back and with luck could snatch a bottle or glass or anyfuckingthing that came to hand. But maybe not. Maybe he would just go hysterical and start screaming and yelling and kicking his feet like a baby who doesnt want to go to bed. And it is full of wind. Which is how come the fart. When you spew the way he did in the classroom the lungs gasp in oxygen and it all gets mixed up with your belly and intestines, thus expel boarders, out it has to come, or tries to come albeit in company one attempts to restrain it; unfortunately, as in the present case, it can catch you unawares. I mean what is he supposed to fucking do? go and apologise because he farted! That would be so typical of this life. You must forgive me, the belly and intestines

Salvador Dali: better to fart in company than die in a corner.

What about vegetarians? Do they fart as much as meat-eaters? With all these anti-Pythagorean bean mixtures! So much for the luscious Houston.

The lack of food. When did Doyle last eat. He hasnt eaten for fucking months! He could purchase a poke of potato crisps, and he could dunk these potato crisps into his tomato juice. Which would appear the perfect way of applying this liquid, of using this liquid, this juice.

There are two guys staring at Patrick, that’s what I want to know. He got up off his seat and he walked to them. He said: Is there something up?

They glanced at each other.

Naw it’s just eh, the way I keep catching your eye and all that, I’m wondering how come I mean if we know each other or some-bloodything.

What ye talking about?

Patrick nodded. He gazed at the two of them.

What’s up?

Nothing’s up with me, said Pat. I thought there might be something up with yous. The way yous were looking at me.

Who was looking at ye? said one of the guys. Ye kidding? He shook his head and he said to the bartender: He thinks we were fucking looking at him!

Hh! The bartender frowned.

Patrick nodded. And he added, Give us a bag of crisps.

What did ye say?

Patrick stared at him: A packet of crisps.

What kind?

Any kind. He laid the exact cost in coins on the counter, looking at the bartender as he reached to the side of the gantry, to where about twelve cardboard boxes were stacked, each one offering a different flavour of potato crisps. Cheese & onion.