Irvine Welsh - If You Liked School, You'll Love Work

I remember the first time I pulled up outside that big ranch house. I was thinkin that when somebody puts up a house that belongs in cattle country right here in the desert, you know two things right away: first is they got money, the second bein they ain’t lookin for too much in the way of company.

That’s ol Miss Yolanda. But it strikes me that as this looks like being my last story, it might be time to talk a little bit about myself. My name is Raymond Wilson Butler. I’m thirty-eight years old, divorced, and a native of West Texas. Before I met Yolanda I was livin in a one-thousand-bucks-a-month rented apartment near downtown Phoenix with my girlfriend, Pen. What about her? I could go on forever. But all I can think to say right now is that she sings beautiful songs, when she ain’t working in a bookstore in a city mall. My life changed for the better when I met Pen. She was the best damn thing that ever happened to me.

But Yolanda was different. She changed everybody’s life. Every single sonofabitch she came into contact with. I started seeing her through my work; every other day I’d drive out to her place. I guess I should tell you how that went.

To get to Yolanda’s from our apartment, I had to drive west right out of Phoenix. It would never fail to amaze me how the city stopped so suddenly, town-to-desert within the arc of a drunkard’s piss. Then you’d pass one or two subdivisions, mostly completed, some now just bein redeveloped after standin crumblin in the sun: concrete and steel carcasses, for almost twenty years. A lot of people thought land was the primary resource out here and went bust buyin it. Not when you only get around seven inches rainfall a year it ain’t. The buildin only started up again when they finished the canal system, comin down from the Rockies to hook up this region with precious water.

Then, when the last of the subdivisions passed, you had a long haul through desert before you got out to Yolanda’s. Driving out to see her, I always had a goddamn thirst on me. This kind of terrain didn’t help the likes of me much. Cruisin down that interstate they all had a shot of trying to tempt you to stop for a cold one; Miller’s, Bud, Coors, and even some of the drinkable ones. And damn, was it hot.

The particular day I’m thinkin of was my second visit to Yolanda’s, the one after I had secured her agreement as to how she could be of service to me. It was midday and the sun was at its cruelest and even an old Texan boy like myself, living in LA till fairly recently, could sometimes forget how fierce it could be. Out there the bastard baked all the freshness out of the air, leaving it feelin like particles of iron in your lungs. As your throat seared your respiratory system started bangin and you sweated like a solitary truck-stop hooker gaspin goodbye as the last lusty buck in that convoy pulled on his dirty ol jeans.

My first jaunt out to Yolanda’s had reminded me how much I liked to drive that Land Cruiser into the desert. I’d headed off the interstate and onto the back roads before goin right off that grimy ol track, just veerin onto what looked like virgin sand but was really more kinda broken shale; tearin through it like a wet cloth across a dusty table. You couldn’t take your ass outside the car for too long, as I learned on that second visit. I had the inclination to step out for five minutes to the sound of that dirt crushin under my boot and the buzzards squawkin in the distance over some roadkill. That was just about all you could hear in this clear empty country, where the sky met the earth unbroken, every direction you turned. I looked northeast and couldn’t even see an indication of the jagged, ridged mountains that were probably only a few miles away.

Takin in that emptiness and feeling the isolation, you could just about distance everythin. Through this comforting filter of solitude, I’d think about Jill and the terrible mistakes I’d made. Then I’d cheer myself at how I’d been blessed with this second chance with Pen, which I was determined not to blow.

I distrusted Phoenix, in much the same way as I did all them shabby sunbelt cities with their pop-up business districts, soulless suburban tracts, strip malls, used-car dealerships, and bad homes almost but not quite hidden by palm trees. And then you had the people; drying out like old fruit in the sun, brains too fried by heat and routine to remember why they ever did come here in the first place. And that was just the poor. The wealthy folk you only saw under glass; in their malls and motor cars, breathing in the conditioned air that tasted like weak cough medicine. I was used to heat but this place was so dry the trees were bribin the dogs.

On this day though, headin to my first proper session at Yolanda’s, after my introductory approach to obtain her agreement with my business proposal, I’d got lost in my thoughts and wandered outside for a little too long. I didn’t realize how that sun had got to me till I looked back at the distance I’d aimlessly strolled from the vehicle and instantly thought I’d better close it fast. The Land Cruiser looked like a mirage in that shimmerin heat; there was no way to determine how near or far it really was. I was panickin some, till my hand suddenly seemed to make contact with the scorching metal of the chassis. I slipped back into the shit-sweet coolin of the vehicle, to find my head throbbin with blood, forcin me to flop down across the passenger seat and max up that air con. It took me a good few minutes before I felt okay bout haulin myself up onto my butt. When I did, I pulled the newspaper from above the dashboard. The terror alert was green and the burn limit stood at sixteen minutes.

As I recall, that was when my cellphone went off. This registered cause it was my agent in LA, Martha Crossley, who never, ever called me on my cell. Nothin was so urgent or important it couldn’t wait till I got to my landline. — Got some good news, she squealed in that high whine of hers, — you’ve been shortlisted to shoot the Volkswagen commercial!

— That’s fine. But you know that they’re going to give it to the likes of Taylor or Warburton, I told her. I ain’t normally a glass-is-half-empty sort, but I knew that I was makin up the numbers on that list against the big-dicked assholes with the track records and the contacts.

— Hey! Buck up, cowboy, ya gotta be in it to win it! I’ll keep you posted, she enthused, — Ciao!

I put the phone on its cradle and pulled a cold one from the icebox; not beer no more, though that terrible thirst will always be there, just waitin till things get bad. Right now there ain’t no room at Ray’s for that ol slut these days. I wasn’t for fillin my gut with no soda nor cola either; that shit’s drivin us all to a lard-assed hell, clogging arteries and sidewalks both. No, it was cool, clear water going down my hot, raspin throat, always so damn dry, and it felt good. After a while I started up the Cruiser and powered through the shale, back up onto the road.

Like I did so many times, I turned for a second to the passenger seat to imagine Pen sittin alongside me, shades on, sweet perfume fillin the cab, the painted nails on her fingers as she fiddled with that radio dial till exactly the right tune would fill up the Cruiser. It’s in there somewhere and she can always find it. That’s something I never could do on my own, and I guess that’s cause there ain’t no right tunes without that gal. That night I’d go along and hear her play her fine music and sing her pretty songs. But first I had business with ol Miss Yolanda. Glen Halliday business.

Glen Halliday, my obsession, was the all-American anti-hero. The legendary filmmaker spent his last reclusive years out here, and he spent them in the company of that woman. Yolanda was his second wife, the first being Mona Ziegler, an ol gal from his hometown of Collins, Texas. It was that town that was the inspiration of many of his films (and in my view the best of them), particularly The Liars of Ditchwater Creek .