Roddy Doyle: The Guts

— Did yeh drive?

— I did, yeah. No one told me not to. But I was grand. I got back to work. Bought a sandwich an’ a packet of Tayto –

— Maybe your last.

— Fuck off.

— D’yeh want a pack now?

— No, said Jimmy. — No, yeah. I’d love one. Thanks.

His father groaned as he stood. Jimmy watched him straightening as he walked across to the bar, hitching up his jeans with a finger in the loop where the belt went at the back. He watched him wave across at Bertie’s Jason, watched him pat some guy at the bar’s shoulder — Jimmy didn’t know the guy. He watched his da order a pint and two bags of crisps, watched him head over to the jacks, watched the guy at the bar opening one of the Tayto bags.

He’d go soon. Home. He’d talk to Aoife — he’d tell her. It wouldn’t be too bad.

It would be fuckin’ terrible.

He felt fine, though. He was grand. He watched his da coming back from the jacks. He was slower — was he? Of course he was. The man was seventy-four or something. He watched him pay for his pint and the crisps. He watched him push the open bag at the guy at the bar. He heard them laugh. He saw the barman shove a fresh bag across the counter. He saw his da take it.

He lobbed one of the bags at Jimmy as he sat down and parked his new pint. The arse and the glass landed at the exact same time.

— What’re yeh grinnin’ at? said his da.

— Nothin’.

— Yeah, maybe. Where were we?

— Me bein’ bored, I think, said Jimmy.

— That’s right. Fuck sake. Go on.

— So, like, I bought a sandwich an’ the Tayto —

— It’s all comin’ back.

Jimmy opened the bag he had now and took out a good big one.

— An’ I sat at me desk, he said, — an’ I googled chemotherapy. An’ I clicked on the first link, the Wikipedia one, an’ I read. It was somethin’ like this, listen. Chemotherapy is the treatment of a disease with chemicals by killing micro-organisms or cancerous cells, an’ so on. An’ I just thought, I can’t read this shite.

— I’m with yeh.

— It wasn’t that I couldn’t take it in. I didn’t want to take it in. It was borin’.

— Ignorance is bliss, maybe.

— Maybe that too as well, yeah. But I’ll tell yeh. There was a picture — on the Wikipedia page, like. A woman gettin’ her chemo. She had the scarf, yeh know — the baldness. Sittin’ back in a big chair.

— Was she good lookin’?

— Park tha’ for a minute. She was wearin’ big mittens, on her hands, like, and these wine cooler yokes, padded tubes. On her feet. To reduce the harm to her nails.

— An’ was tha’ borin’?

— No, said Jimmy. — No. Tha’ frightened the shite out o’ me.

— Yeh don’t want to damage your nails.

— Fuck off, Da. It’s not — it’s. If it can damage fingernails, what’ll it do to the rest of me?

— Toenails are even harder.

— I know, said Jimmy. — I could cut meat with mine.

— Me too, said Jimmy Sr. — I broke the fuckin’ nail scissors tryin’ to cut them. How’re the crisps goin’ down, by the way?

— Grand, said Jimmy. — Why?

— Well, said Jimmy Sr. — Wha’ yeh said earlier. You said yeh were afraid to eat annythin’.

— Oh, yeah. Yeah. No. I’m grand.

— I thought crisps might be a no, said Jimmy Sr. — They look like they’d rip the hole off yeh. Just the look o’ them, yeh know.

— Here, said Jimmy. — D’you want the rest of them?

He held out the bag.

— No, you’re grand, said his da.

— I need water, said Jimmy. — The salt.

He stood up and went across to the bar. He’d go home in a few minutes. The barman was looking at the golf on the telly over the door to the toilets. Jimmy waited. He counted the tellys. There were seven of them. All on, sound down. Golf, news, golf, singing, rugby league, ads and golf. The barman looked away.

— When you’re ready.

— Yeah?

He looked foreign, Polish or Latvian or that part of the world. But he wasn’t foreign.

— Could yeh give us a glass of water, please?

The barman sighed and turned away.

That proved it, Jimmy decided. The cunt was a Dub.

The barman came back with a pint glass of water. Jimmy took it.

— Thanks.

Nothing from the barman. The ignorant prick.

He went back to his da.

— I’ll have to go in a minute, he said.

— Yeah, said Jimmy Sr.

— I’ll tell Aoife — tonigh’.

— Won’t be easy.

— No.

— Fuckin’ hell, son.

— I know.

— D’you want me to tell your mother?

— No, said Jimmy. — No. Thanks. I’ll tell her myself. Tomorrow — probably. There’s the kids too — fuck.

— How’ll yeh manage tha’?

— I haven’t a clue, said Jimmy. — There’s probably a book. Or a website. How to tell your kids you have cancer. Fun with cancer dot fuckin’ com.

He smiled.

— I’m gone, he said.

He took the car key from his pocket.

— Seeyeh.

His father stood up too.

— I’ll come with yeh.

— To the house?

— No, said Jimmy Sr. — The car park just. I’ll see yeh to your vehicle.

— I thought you were here for the nigh’.

— No, said Jimmy Sr. — No. I think those days are gone.

— You’re a new man.

— I’m an old fuckin’ man, said Jimmy Sr. — I can’t have a few pints annymore without havin’ to get up to go to the jacks three or four times a night. So I have my pints earlier an’ I call it a day, earlier, if tha’ makes sense. An’, fuck it, I’m happy enough.

— What about the lads?

— The lads, said Jimmy Sr. — The lads are kind of a distant memory. But that’s a different story. Not for tonigh’. Come on. We’ll get you home.

They walked to the exit. Jimmy let his da lead the way. His da waved at someone in a corner — the pub had more corners than New York — but Jimmy couldn’t make out who it was. The place was fuller than it had been. It was still quiet enough but most of the tables were occupied. It felt foreign, in a way. He didn’t know who was who, or what was going on. He didn’t go to places like this any more. Not that he couldn’t catch up. There wouldn’t be much training needed, or upskilling, to get back in the swing. Not the drinking — the reading, the knowing. The guy beside the cigarette machine was definitely waiting for someone. The way he was standing; he half expected to get thrown out. And Jimmy half recognised him. He’d gone to school with his brother — or his father. And the woman sitting on her own with her vodka parked exactly in the centre of her table, like it might be someone else’s.

Jimmy knew her.

— Imelda?

She looked at him.

— Jimmy Rabbitte! For fuck sake!

She laughed and stood and opened her arms and he marched in there between them and felt her hands slide across his back. He was late with his own hands, getting them to move. She kissed his cheek, about half an inch from his lips. Then she stepped back, nearly into the table behind her. She laughed again.

— Let’s see yeh.

She smiled at him.

— You’re lookin’ well, Jimmy.

— So are you, he said.

— Ah well.

She was looking well. She might have been a bit pissed — Jimmy wasn’t sure — and a few kilos heavier, but Imelda Quirk would never not look well.

His da was at the door.

— Yeh righ’? he shouted.

— Just a minute, Jimmy shouted back.

— Yeh goin’ somewhere? said Imelda.

— Yeah, said Jimmy. — Yeah. Home to my wife, to tell her I have cancer . ’Fraid so.

— Typical Jimmy, said Imelda. — Always runnin’.

He didn’t know what to say — he hadn’t a clue.