James Kelman - A Disaffection

Good, tell me, replied Gavin.

I think I know what you mean Paddy.

Pat nodded.

Ye dont think ye get long holidays because when you’re off from the school you’re still doing other things connected with it, making up timetables and all that.

Patrick nodded.

I still say it’s the weans that suffer, muttered Arthur.

Patrick cleared his throat; he glanced at Gavin then sat forwards, hands on his knees, gazing at the carpet. He turned and lifted his whisky, sipped at it. He also had a bottle of homebrew lying now which Arthur had opened for him. It was too much. He was going to screw the head as far as this all was concerned. And the last thing was to get into fights, especially with guys that were twice your size. Arthur could just fucking sit on him and be able to carry on rolling one of his fags while Pat would be floundering beneath him trying to wriggle free. Although most of the weight he was carrying consisted of lard, lard. Gavin was speaking. Nicola’s name had cropped up and he was saying he had forgotten to go and pay an outstanding electricity bill. He called to Pat: She’ll no be too pleased brother!

Pat gazed at the carpet another couple of moments before raising his head. What did ye say?

Nicola, she’ll no be too pleased with me.

Cause of all the bevy?

Naw I dont mean that it’s because I had the electricity to pay this morning, and I never made it into town.

Aw aye … Patrick added: I’m no wanting to drink that much anyway cause of the driving and all that.

The driving and all that! Gavin grinned briefly, then he frowned: You’re no driving.

Naw I suppose I better no.

Drunk driving’s fucking mental, muttered Arthur.

A very bad habit, said Pat.

A very bad habit? It’s fucking death, Gavin said, I thought you had chucked that.

I have.

Well you fucking better.

I’ve been hitting the tomato juice. I have a couple of pints and then I stop. In fact I might fucking stop it all the gether, never mind the driving. It is a fucking rut. The bevy; it makes ye do things that are so totally absurd you feel as if fuck like you’re enclosed in a wad of plastic sheeting. That’s the only thing to describe it, plastic sheeting. Patrick chuckled.

Sounds more like dope, replied Arthur.

What I mean is if you’re really guttered and looking out at the world but without being actually crawling on all fours.

That is more like dope! Arthur smiled.

Davie said, That’s what we were talking about before you came in.

Gavin laughed and he drank a quick mouthful of homebrew … Christ I mind fine the first time I smoked a joint … I was just a boy at the time, about seventeen.

You never telt me, said Patrick.

What would I tell you for?

I’m your fucking brother.

Gavin-laughed again.

Tell us the yarn, said Davie.

Naw it was just … Gavin grinned: I mind I was walking down the street and it was like I had discovered myself there, I just came to my senses. It was the big tree on Argyle Street. And this big fire was raging up a close. And the fire-brigade was there. Two or three of them. Lights flashing and all the noise. Big crowds of folk. And the polis as well, everywhere ye looked, polis. So then, for some fucking stupid reason, I started going up and asking them all sorts of questions, daft yins; how much of a wage they got, what like was the O.T.; that kind of stuff.

To the polis? asked Pat.

Aye. They were fucking looking at me too, they didni know if I was taking the piss or what. Do ye like shift work; what age is it you retire.

The others laughed. Arthur said, You’re lucky you never got huckled!

They didni know what to do with me! Gavin chuckled. They were fucking baffled!

It’s a wonder they never smelled it off your clothes, said Davie.

Christ aye, I never thought of that!

Whereabouts was the actual close where the fire started?

And Gavin went on to explain. It was a good type of straightforward question Davie had asked: one which Patrick would aye be incapable of making. Why? Because it was fucking boring. Was that particular close near to the such-and-such pub or was it along a bit farther. Naw, it was nearer to that wee post office. Aw aye, and what was the name of that wee post office again. It was the so-and-so. Aw the so-and-so! God sake, I had a mate used to work there. O did ye! That’s fucking really interesting. His wife’s feyther was a pal of my greatgrandpa’s auld man. Was he! Aye christ, they used to play football the gether whenever they werent drawing their fucking supplementary benefit or dying of hypothermia. Yet these questions were so germane to the issue. There were no other questions to be asked. All these other questions and queries derived from another world altogether. Vulcan. Which is the derivation of 2 4; 2 2. In fact his questions were abysmal. Bloody abysmal. They werent actual questions at all. They were statements. These statements had been given a going over, until they began to resemble genuine questions of everyday inquiry, such as: How much of a fucking wage do ye earn? Are you getting exploited badly or just ordinarily so? Is your rate for the job fixed by person or persons unknown? Is your union as corrupt as mine? Did your leaders sell ye out that last time as usual? If so at what fucking point in the manoeuvre, before or after being bribed and were they offered promotion and a permanent seat in the front stalls at Scottish fucking Opera with the managing director of the regional planning department for financial dealings, prior to being offered the possibility of a fulltime paid-up job as a labour consultant for the rulers of this wonderful land of the free. In fact, I’ve hated being a teacher. No kidding ye. It fucking stinks. It stinks. A genuine stench, of corruption, everywhere, rotten decomposing flesh being nibbled by a few fat vultures, everywhere you look a genuine stench. Just name a place and ye can be sure of one thing and this one thing is that it fucking stinks. Patrick shook his head.

Immediately Gavin said: What d’you mean?

I mean it fucking stinks, it’s rotten, from the outside in and the inside fucking out. Every last fucking thing about it, it stinks. And what goes on in the classroom, it’s a load of dross. This is how I’m fucking chucking it. And all these wee weans christ they think ye know everything, every last thing in the fucking universe — especially about how to change for the good. I’ll tell ye something else, bastards, people think lies are true and even when they know they’re no true they’ll say fuck all because the shitey fucking arse who’s telling the lie holds the position of power. It’s a load of keech Gavin and I’m fucking sick of it. That’s how I’m chucking it.

Gavin nodded. Right then.

Okay?

Aye — fuck all to do with me.

Pardon?

Gavin shrugged.

What d’you mean it’s fuck all to do with you!

What I mean is it’s up to you what ye fucking do brother.

If that’s true then how come ye dont allow me the fucking freedom to just pack it in?

After a moment Gavin replied, Because it doesni fucking matter what I say, you’ll just go and fucking do what ye like anyway!

Aye but it’s your blessing I’m after, you never give me your blessing!

What do ye think I’m the fucking Pope!

Naw but you dont. You never fucking give me your blessing! Pat glanced at Arthur and Davie who were both laughing at the Pope comment, and he said to them: Honest, no kidding ye; see trying to please him that’s sitting in that fucking chair there! You’d be as well fucking … I dont know.

Gavin jerked his thumb at Pat, saying to the others: He doesni really hate being a teacher at all. If you fucking believe that you’ll believe anything. He fucking loves the bloody job! He loves it! It’s all he ever fucking talks about! Fucking teaching! It does your nut in listening to the cunt! It’s fucking murder! What’s he fucking talked about since he came here! Teaching. That’s all. Nothing else. He doesni talk about nothing else except it.