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

— You’re being too hard on yourself, honey; finish the Halliday book first, then go back to Big Noise , she implored me as we ate our club sandwiches. — Your head’s all over the place. Take the advice you always give me: one thing at a time, huh?

— I guess so, I smiled, — at least if I knock out another chapter on that this afternoon, I’ll feel that the day won’t be wasted. Maybe I’ll land that big-buck car commercial shoot, I laughed, givin up on the shit I was eatin and pushin my paper plate aside, — then at least I’d have some money and I’d have to work to the discipline of a damned schedule. Then again, hogs might just fly over the state of Texas.

Pen winked at me and made some kinda clickin noise. — You’ll get it, baby. I got a feelin about this one.

— Like you had that feelin about that Majestic Reptiles video I didn’t get?

— You were number two, honey, she grinned. — You’re gettin closer all the time.

— As close as I’m gonna get, you mean. I’m always shortlisted; the dirty ol bridesmaid who’s been round the block once too often to ever get the goddamn gig.

She stood up, and brushed some crumbs from her jeans. — Well, I gotta leave my sweet little bridesmaid and get back to work, and she bent over and kissed me, then as she went, pulled out the back of my collar and tupped down the ice she’d left in her drink.

— What the f—I yelled, then laughed as it melted down my spine and the crack of my ass.

— You know I’m a bitch, she smiled, blowing me a kiss as she scampered across the mall, her heels clickin on the polished granite floor, — but I love you!

I got up and walked out to the parkin lot, my back and ass bone dry in the bakin heat by the time I got inside the Land Cruiser. I went home and did what I suspected would be the only writing I ever could: a straight hack job on my Glen Halliday book, transcribed from the tapes I’d made talking to Yolanda.

The next day I was back out to the Halliday Ranch, or the Marston Ranch as I should have probably started callin it. It seemed ol Glen was only an occasional tenant, sleepin off his hangovers: hangin his head in between shoots and hustlin for cash. I started to imagine his life with Yolanda as more like my later life with Jill; all slammed doors and long silences, punctuated by drunken, yellin rows with a sad ‘where did we go wrong’ lament in postscript.

Yolanda greeted me with another pitcher of her homemade lemonade, and as I stepped into the cool house it sure did feel good to get some respite from the furnace outside. I immediately noticed that she seemed unsteady on her feet. Her eyes were red and she’d discarded the swimsuit for a red tank top and white pants. Although it was nice and cool here, there were beads of sweat on her face and her breathin seemed mighty labored. — This is Sparky, she explained, pointin at a stuffed cat on her window ledge. I hadn’t seen this one before. I had gotten used to old Esmeralda, but this was a mangy, mean-looking sonofabitch. — I brought him up to see you.

— Nice, I said, looking at that pouncin cat. It was as stiff as Esmeralda, but it didn’t seem nearly as placid. Then I spied a small stuffed dog, some sort of terrier, standing guard outside a restroom.—That’s Paul, she told me, — after Paul McCartney of the Beatles.

Paul looked a feisty lil ol sonofabitch. The glimmer in his glass eye and his full set of exposed teeth made me feel happy that his little butt was stuffed. — Humphrey do these?

— No, I did these ones by myself, she told me, moving across to her cocktail cabinet where she mixed herself a gin and tonic. — I wasn’t formally trained of course, but very few practicing taxidermists are. I picked lots up through helping Humphrey. Then, when I married Dennis, I kept it up, she wheezed, as she lowered herself into a chair and bade me to do the same. I did, and placed my tape recorder on the small table by her side. — He was a big hunter, an NRA man, and he got me stuffing and mounting his prey. I did a bunch for him, but I got rid of them all after he left. She pursed her lips. — I found it disagreeable to have wild creatures killed for sport. I preferred to work on the ones I loved, as a tribute, so I’d remember them for all time.

She explained to me that the two cats and the small stuffed dog were old pets of hers. Ditto the two lovebirds in a bamboo cage she pointed out to me, hangin over the entrance to the kitchen. — I couldn’t let them go, you see. I loved them so much, she said, the recall makin her a little distressed. — I was embarrassed to show you them. Do you think I’m a crazy woman, Raymond Wilson Butler?

Funny, but it didn’t really bother me none. — No, not at all. I can see why you do it. Some people have their pets buried or cremated. You’ve got their remains there, to remind you of them.

She seemed not to hear me. — I still talk to them, Raymond, she contended, still lookin right on at me, — and I swear that there are times when I can even hear them talking to me. Does that sound strange?

— Not at all, ma’am, I told her. — I reckon that sometimes we just gotta take comfort where we can, I smiled, stretchin over and laying my hand lightly on the soft, white flesh of her arm. I could tell she was more than a little drunk, and sure enough that bottle of gin by the cocktail cabinet looked far from full.

I guess some folks might have found it a little weird, but the woman was just lonely. Way I see it was she had the money and the skill and it was a hobby that gave her pleasure; something that she had shared with Humphrey, the real love of her life, and it probably made her feel a little closer to him. Yolanda struck me as just another eccentric flutterin harmlessly in the twilight, doing what helped make her feel good. This state was full of em, ol boys and girls, brains sizzled in the heat, slowly crumblin into more desert dust.

Miss Arizona.

I thought about Dennis. If Nice Guy Humphrey was husband number one and Dirty Larry number three that must have made him number two. — What happened to Dennis?

— Oh, that was one that I did end myself. She shook her head and looked almost accusingly at me. — Right after he broke my jaw.

For some reason I sort of assumed that ol Dennis was another drunk, and one of the worst kind. — So Dennis was violent in drink?

— No, the weird thing was that he seldom, if ever, took a drink. Didn’t need it to be a complete bastard. With that goofy smile and his churchgoing, sober ways, you’d’ve thought that butter wouldn’t have melted in his asshole, she slurred, the liquor now visibly taking effect on her.

I shot a tight smile back at her.

Something flared in her eyes. — Put me off sobriety for good, she spat bitterly, movin to the glass and fillin it up. — Ironically, I met him through Humphrey, she smiled, instantly becomin more whimsical at the recall. — Dennis Andersen was one of his best clients. He seemed a perfect gentleman, and I guess to the outside world, that’s exactly what he was. Then I found out he’d had two previous wives, one in Albuquerque, one right here in Phoenix, that he’d left looking like busted fruit with nothing more than a pile of hospital bills.

Unfortunately, this recollection sparked off another diatribe. The problem with this was that Yolanda was now more inebriated than I’d seen her before. She was growin mighty shrill while talking about Dennis, wailing like a tomcat in heat and highly resistant to my attempts to steer the conversation back to Glen Halliday. I started to wonder just how well they knew each other. Guess I was thinkin again about Jill and me: lovers for years, strangers at the end. And how when the love goes the stranger is the only damn thing you can ever recall.