James Kelman - Dirt Road

Except when he woke it was the real nightmare, this guy staring at him; some madman. A bloody madman. Just a fucking scary scary madman staring at him on the side of the bench farthest away just sitting there, less than two feet away oh Jesus Christ scary scary scary, he was scary, he was scary scary, just like a real real scary guy. That is the truth. Murdo kept looking at him. The one thing maybe was holding his gaze. Not looking away. But straight into his eyes just looking. Because then what could he do? Nothing, not with Murdo looking straight straight at him,

and while he did he was pulling the belt out through the accordeon-case handle and the rucksack straps, then coiling it into a rucksack compartment, and rising to his feet still looking at the guy, and now off the bench he backed away, gripping the accordeon-case and rucksack in either hand, and he set off walking in a kind of curve so like if the guy tried anything Murdo would see him. Beyond the foodstall he crossed over the street, round a corner and crossed another one and round another one but then was on a main street and he kept along this.

Murdo didnt feel like a coward. So what if he was? Guys had knives. Some of them did, hidden in the blankets like if they were homeless and sleeping rough, they were ready to fight. So if somebody went to get them they would leap out with the knife and stick it right into them. Ye couldnay blame them either. Things happened. In Glasgow ye had them begging on the street, they sat on the pavement even if it was raining; ye saw their trousers soaked. Some from foreign countries. They didnt have any money. Nothing. How even did they get to Scotland? It was incredible. A lassie he knew put a £5 note into one of their paper cups. Murdo didnt see it himself, a guy told him. They were up in Glasgow and were just like walking down the street and she saw a beggar and she went and put in a £5 note. A beggar. A fiver. That was lassies. No guy ever would give a fiver. It was just like incredible.

It was safe now. He still had his money. He counted it. The guy couldnt have robbed him. But if the dollar notes had slipped out his pocket? While he was hunched up dozing?

Imagine they had! What would he have done? He would have had to go back. He would have had to. So if the guy was still there? Okay. It didnt matter because it was the money so he would have had to go. What choice? None. To get his money, if that was it, he would have gone, he would have had to.

Anyway, it didnt matter.

A sandwich and a carton of hot tea! If he could find a 24/7 store. Maybe a garage; garages had shops. One foodvan he passed was advertising OPEN ALL NIGHT but it was closed. An all-night foodvan that closed during the night.

Although it was morning. Nearly. The quality of light. That smell of dampness. A fresh morning. How near was the sea?

Tonight was the gig. Amazing to think. Because he was here. Dad would be sleeping or else awake worrying. But that was that.

More people around; early workers, morning strollers, a couple with dogs. Maybe somebody the same as him, nowhere to go and just walking about. Homeless people. Murdo was one.

Then an amazing foodsmell, a wee café-style restaurant open for business bloody hell it was just oh man what a smell, just this beautiful foodsmell like aroma through a wee kind of alleyway and music coming from inside, a lone voice singing; a French guy and a French song; just him and the guitar jeesoh, bloody beautiful. What was he doing! Everything and nothing. Murdo stopped about thirty yards from the café entrance, listening. Food in the song too — le plat de fricassée. Just beautiful that nice nice guitar. What was he doing! Hardly any damn thing at all! How do ye get that? How do ye just make it like that? How is it people can do that? They just like do it, they do the song, they sit and they have the guitar like they just

What an amazing-mazing thing! Murdo didnt want it to end, he strode on fast before it did. Because too he needed to play, he really did. Things press on ye. Tonight was tonight. One of the flyers showed Queen Monzee-ay featured as a guest at an afternoon Cajun session, traditional style, but no information on the evening gig. That was okay. The venue was a regular Zydeco and Blues Club and he had the street address. Things went on there all the time and he would find it. It was only the playing, he needed to play. Time was going and he needed to play.

Okay there was no actual place but if it was dry he could play anywhere. So anywhere becomes a place.

The wee grass square. What was wrong with the wee grass square? If the maniac was there so what if it was daylight. People were out and about. What could he do? Nothing. Not in daylight, not in front of witnesses. And like the cops too, if they were there, they would just shoot him.

Murdo felt fine. Not much sleep but okay. Imagine Dad. What happened what happened are ye okay are ye okay! Yes Dad. Why didnt ye phone why didnt ye phone! A bloody grass square ye spent the night! Did anything bad happen? No Dad just this scary maniac.

But he wasnt a scary maniac. He was scary but not a maniac; a scary guy. A lot of guys are scary. They can be. Ye just have to tell them, Fuck off, away and scare somebody else.

*

He found a store. It sold sandwiches and hot donuts. No hot tea but hot coffee and a bottle of water for later. A turkey salad sandwich for the best value. Turkey wasnt tasty but it filled ye up, and that was what ye wanted. People looked in bins. Imagine looking in bins. Oh there’s an old crust.

Murdo would have eaten the sandwich while walking but the accordeon-case made it tricky.

Ahead was a bus-stop. He put down the accordeon-case then took off the rucksack and placed it next to it, and sighed, and floated somewhere off, off

then opened the sandwich packet and scoffed everything. The coffee was scalding! He laid the carton on the pavement.

He stood at this bus-stop for a while. No buses came. He was glad of that. What if one had come? Maybe he could have got on it, gone to the terminus and back. Worth it for the comfy seat. Maybe he could play them a tune. Good to get the fingers moving. The driver would be like Oh good, that’ll cheer people up. First thing in the morning everybody is all sad, going to school, going to work. Slavery. Oh here’s a nice waltz and ye dance along. Loudspeakers at street corners.

Murdo eventually gathered up the stuff and headed along the road. Ye could play while ye walked, strolling players, who’ll come a-waltzing with me, waltzing Matilda. A waltz can be sad.

But how come? If ye are dancing. Could ye dance and be sad? Maybe ye could. But if ye have a girlfriend and are dancing with her, how could it be sad! Although if it was yer last time together, if she was seeing somebody else and it was yer last time, yer last waltz. Or if it was yer girlfriend dancing with you but like thinking about somebody else.

But it didnt matter. You were playing the tune. So you would be happy. Even if it was a sad tune, so what? Okay bawl yer eyes out but I’m happy, I’m just the musician.

None of it mattered except you got it right. Queen Monzee-ay was thinking drums and bass but did she need it? Maybe not, it was up to her. Maybe it didnt matter. Their guitarist was the best according to Sarah. Usually he rehearsed with them but couldnt last Sunday. He was away someplace with his own band; he played in two different ones. So probably he was good.

For Queen Monzee-ay the bonus was Murdo’s accordeon. He wasnt being big-headed. She said it herself and it was true. Two accordeons made it exciting. She was powerful, so so powerful, and the whole thing, like jeesoh he just needed to play, needed to get his fingers moving he was rusty rusty, so so rusty, just rusty. His fingers were like carrots.