Roddy Doyle - The Guts

EVERYTHING —

Marvin pronounced the Gs. He was still a Bulgarian, aping the black man’s English.

— EVERYTHING GO’NE TO BE ALRIGHT THIS MORNING —

Jimmy could feel the bass in his chest, pushing him back. It was rougher than Muddy Waters, and way better. The crowd was spelling MAN with Marvin and there wasn’t a dyslectic in the house.

— M —

— A —

— N —

Marvin didn’t move from the mic. He stood at a slight angle. The bass roamed the stage. He never looked at the audience.

They fell back into the noise and feedback, let the cheers and roars roll across them. Then, again, the song took form — a chord, a beat.

Everyone knew it.

— I WANT HER ARMS —

I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —

The tent was moving.

— I WANT HER LEGS —

I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —

Were there a thousand in the tent? Two thousand? More? And a lot more outside. They were all going to hell, singing as they went.

— I PROWL THE STREETS —

I’M GOING TO HELL —

I LICK HER FEET —

A woman on top of her boyfriend’s shoulders offered up her own feet.

— I WANT HER NOW —

I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —

WON’T SAVE MY SOUL —

I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —

DON’T HAVE A SOUL —

I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —

It couldn’t get louder — the crowd was the band.

DON’T WANT MY SOUL —

I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —

I’LL GET MY HOLE —

I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —

Jimmy left. He wanted to get around to the front of the tent. He wanted to move. His son was singing a song that Jimmy had written. He didn’t know how he felt. Robbed and elated.

He texted Noeleen. Theyre irish .

He’d waited all his life for something like this.

He sent her another one. Hes my son .

He needed the walk, to detach himself. He wasn’t onstage. Marvin was.

He was out of the backstage area now, walking back over to the Cosby.

He got the phone out. Theyre playing our song. Love you. X . He sent it to young Jimmy.

He was outside now, in the crowd, one of the audience. His son was in there, being screamed at, and Jimmy had nothing to do with it. He could grin. He was the very proud father. That was all.

— Your working day over, Jim? said Les.

— Yeah, said Jimmy. — That’s me.

— Best gigs of the weekend, I think.

— Thanks, Les.

— Seriously.

— Thanks.

— You always liked your music.

— Yeah.

— I think that’s great.

— Thanks.

He was numb, a bit. Happily numb. Aoife was off wandering with the kids. She was leaving him alone. He was here now, with these men, because of her. They were back under their tree, sitting around Outspan’s purple chair.

— How are we for readies? he asked Outspan.

— Laughin’, said Outspan.

— How are yeh for gas?

— Loads left.

— Grand.

He’d texted Marvin. You don’t have to pretend. X . Young Jimmy had texted him back. Great gig . Ned had texted as well. Thanks, a chara .

— What about you, Les? said Jimmy.

— What about me?

— What do you do?

Les looked amused.

— I’m a plumber, he said. — I thought you knew.

— I did, said Jimmy.

But he didn’t — he sort of did. He remembered it now. Les had always been a plumber. Did they have plumbers in the British Army? He could have texted his da. Was Les in the British Army? But he was sick of texting.

— I just wondered if you still were, said Jimmy.

— Yep, said Les.

— Jesus, men, said Des. — It feels like a long day already.

— Think of it as two days, said Les.

Jimmy liked that.

— That’s a good idea, he said.

— And the second one’s just starting, said Les.

— I like your style, Les.

— I want to see Dexys Midnight Runners, said Outspan.

— Good idea.

They were up and running again. This time Jimmy got to carry Outspan.

It was a good show, but a bit weird. Kevin Rowland and another chap, a singer, strode around the stage. There was a good-looking woman too, about half Rowland’s age. It was like a musical for oul’ lads.

— What did yeh think of tha’? Jimmy asked Outspan.

— Shite.

— I’m with yeh, said Jimmy. — How’re yeh feelin’?

— There’s a few more gigs in me, said Outspan. — What’s next?

They were back across to the Crawdaddy, via the jacks, for the last ten minutes of Patti Smith.

— What did yeh think o’ tha’?

— Brilliant.

— Fuckin’ brilliant.

— Fuckin’ amazin’.

— Would yeh give her one?

— Oh yeah.

— Food, gents?

— Bring it fuckin’ on.

Jimmy was back in the night before; that was how he felt. Almost. But he was still rattled. His phone was hopping in his pocket. He was sick of the thing. He could hardly look at the screen.

But he did. Aoife was heading home after the Cure. Did he need the toilet paper? No, he answered. Had she seen young Jimmy? He was with Marvin. Having time of their lives .

Jimmy loved that. He could feel himself flattening out, really relaxing now.

See u 2moro. Love u. X

There was one from Noeleen. Great story . And another. He’s amazing . Jimmy sent one back. I wrote the song . Then he turned off the phone.

Des had said something to him.

— Sorry, Des. What?

— Well, said Des. — I was thinking. After seeing the Halfbreds and your lad. Even Patti —

— Brilliant.

— Amazin’, said Outspan.

— So I was thinking, said Des. — There’s no reason why we couldn’t —. Put a band together.

— The Irregulars?

— I could use the name, said Des. — If it made sense. We could look for a singer. Our age.

— Right.

— So, said Des. — Would you be up for it?

— Manage yis?

— Play, said Des. — Be in the band.

— Doin’ wha’?

— Your trumpet, said Des.

— For fuck sake, said Outspan.

Jimmy had forgotten about the trumpet. He hadn’t touched it in weeks.

— Okay, he said.

— Great, said Des.

I’m in a band .

— We’ll pretend we’re Romanian.

Les stood up.

— One more beer, then the Cure.

I’m in a fuckin’ band .

Outspan was back on the oxygen.

— Are you okay?

He nodded.

— We can leave, said Jimmy. — We’ve seen plenty.

Outspan shook his head.

The Cure were playing in the main arena. It was getting dark, and cold. They carried the chair to the back of the crowd, then worked their way nearer the stage.

— Closer, said Outspan.

They kept going. The crowd was tighter.

The Cure were on and playing ‘The Lovecats’. Maybe it was just the weekend, but Jimmy had begun to notice how much he liked old songs that he’d always thought were shite. Decades of solid opinion were turning to mush.

They weren’t going to get any nearer and the chair was starting to slide off his shoulders. They’d have to put Outspan down.

— Ready, Les?

— Yep.

They made sure their arms were deep under the chair. Jimmy held Les’s sleeves as they lowered it. Jimmy couldn’t help it — it was like a coffin.

Ah Jesus .

Something happened. The weight wasn’t there and the side of the chair scraped his face. It was out of their grip, and gone, over heads. The kids in front of them had grabbed the chair and sent it off. Outspan was hanging on and, propelled along by hundreds of outstretched hands, he was heading for the stage.

— For fuck sake!

They went after him — they tried to. But it was pointless.