One day, in a pub, in the middle of Glasgow, a man walked through the door. He was a striking figure of a man, weighing in at a good eighteen stone and over six feet tall. On his head was perched, a Deerstalker hat, he wore a three piece suit made from Tartan, in his hand, he carried a walking cane with a carved deer antler handle. He was every inch, a Scottish country gentleman, that was until he opened his mouth filling the room with a strong London accent.
The man sat at a table in the middle of the room and began rapping the cane on the floor, calling "GIRL, GIRL," at the barmaid. The young girl hurried out from behind the bar. When she stood at his table, the man said in a brash voice, "Bring me a twelve year old single malt and hurry about it love."
The girl was used to more polite customers, but went back behind the counter to get the man's drink. She searched through the bottles, selecting one, and pouring a dram into a heavy glass. The girl presented the drink to the man on a tray, who downed it, in one. Holding the empty glass he turned on the poor bartender, "I'm not paying for that! I asked for twelve year old malt, that was an eight year old Irish, you stupid girl. Bring me what I ordered," he said dumping the glass back on the tray.
The girl scurried around the end of the bar once more, searching every bottle she could find for a twelve year old malt. With shaking hand, she poured another dram and presented it to the obnoxious customer. Just as before, he downed the whole drink, this time declaring the drink to be a ten year old single malt and he was not paying for that one either.
At the end of the bar, the owner sat reading his newspaper and watching with interest. He got off his stool and slipped quietly into the store room. When he came out he held a glass with a measure of deep amber liquid, one ice cube clinking against the heavy tumbler.
"Sally, give him this," he said, to the barmaid placing the glass in her tray.
She presented the glass for a third time, the man lifted the glass to his lips draining half the liquid before his face went scarlet. He spat the drink out in a great plume of spray. When he recovered the man stood and roared at the girl, "THIS IS PISS!!"
From behind the counter, the owner laughed at the man, "Yes, but how old am I?"
Monday 9 February 2015
Saturday 7 February 2015
Buddy App
When
Sam was a teenager, he was sure he was destined to become the next great Hollywood
A-lister. In high school, he took the male lead in every production he
auditioned for. In between performances, he wrote and sang with his friends in
a band called, “Zombie Fruitcake.” He moved to New York as soon as he could, to
enable his rise to stardom. He was sure he’d be slapping away parts the moment
he arrived. He chose New York because of Broadway and years of watching, Friends.
After all, if Joey could make it big there, anyone could.
His
first impression of the big apple was one of isolation. He sent out countless
job applications, but only got called for a hand full of auditions. He’d even
found it difficult to get an agent, eventually having to settle for one who wanted
to be paid in advance for his services, rather than on a percentage of the work
he procured. It wasn’t long before the money in Sam’s savings account ran out,
and he was faced with a decision. Tuck tail and return home to face his friends,
or get a real job.
The
decision to stay had been one born of embarrassment. It turned out, finding a
real job was no picnic either. After weeks of looking, he eventually found
employment with, “Maxwell Financial Services.” The name was impressive, but the
work was anything but. He was nothing more than a debt collector. Not the butch
type who knocks on a door with a baseball bat, but the annoying kind that rings
non-stop, at every hour of the day and night, until you change your number or
pay up.
Sam
hated everything about his job. He hated harassing people for stupid bills, he
hated the way some of his workmates ravelled in their merger power and he hated
the damn paperwork. The only good thing was the money. It allowed him to rent a
shoe-box apartment without having to share, and to indulge himself with a
succession of high-tec gadgets. The latest iPhone being his pride and joy. Yes,
half the world had iPhones, but his was the limited-edition platinum
model, with extra processing power.
It
was spring in New York, and the rain had been torrential for days. The subway
was packed with damp commuters, steaming up the windows in the overly warm carriage.
He was glad he’d managed to snag a seat, there was twenty minutes to his stop. Even
though the car was packed, it was nearly silent. The only noise was the screech
of wheels on steel, speeding them through the guts of a city. It was the rule
of the subway; don’t look at anyone, don’t talk to anyone and don’t attract
attention to yourself.
People
plugged in earphones, read books, hid behind newspapers, or tapped on phones;
all pretending they were alone. Sam’s fingers were going a mile a minute across
his phone screen. Snapchat, email, Facebook, Twitter; he was constantly
connected to the world wide web, but still connected to nobody. As if sensing
his emotion, an advert appeared.
“Need
a friend? Sign up for, Buddy App, and experience the ultimate in interactive
technology.”
Buddy
App? Why not, he thought. He clicked on the advert and read its promise of
Artificial Intelligence. “It’s like having a person in your pocket,” it
said. Amazingly enough, it was only $9.99. What the hell, for ten bucks, what
could go wrong.
Sam
hit the purchase button. A contract sheet appeared with page after
page of small print. On the top of the first page was a tick-box for agreeing
to terms and conditions. He clicked it without a second thought and hit go. The
next page appeared with only one line and a red dot. Place thumb here. Sam
had never seen anything like it but he pressed his right thumb against the
screen anyway. The screen glowed and Sam felt heat sear his skin.
“Jesus
Christ,” he said, pulling his thumb away, shaking it like he’d pressed it
against a hotplate. Sam examined the phone but it was cold to the touch. “Flipping
weird,” he said as the screen moved on.
“Buddy
App Loading. Please wait.”
In
a couple of seconds, the screen became a kaleidoscope of swirling colours. A
rich male voice, with a deep-south accent, spoke to him.
“Why,
hello there Sam. Mighty glad to make your acquaintance.”
“Cool,”
he said to himself.
The
voice on his phone laughed. “Glad you think so Sam, I think.” He
was impressed. How had the programmers predicted what he’d say? This was some
good stuff.
“How
did they do that?” he wondered aloud.
“How
did they do what? And who are they?” asked the voice in a pleasant
drawl.
“Know
what response to have lined up, and they are your programmers.”
Again,
the voice chuckled, “You said, Cool. I just answered.”
“Impossible.”
“Clearly
not. Ask me any question you like.”
“Okay,
what’s today's date?”
“Seventeenth
of March in the year of our Lord two thousand and fourteen. Too easy Sam, try
something else.”
“Okay,
where am I right now?”
“We…not
you, are on a subway car, travelling on the One line, between Franklin St and
Canal St, sitting in the second last seat, back right of the rail car. And
you are wearing a New Yorker's baseball hat and a black rain slicker.”
“How
did you do that?” Sam said in amazement.
“Easy.
I accessed the global positioner in the phone to find out our exact position,
after which it was easy to know we were moving along the exact path of the one-track,
heading north. Second, I can see one seat behind you so you are in the second
last seat, and the windows are on your right. I can see what you look like, so
knowing what you are wearing is a piece of cake.”
“You
can see me?”
“Sure,
through the camera, just like I can hear you through the microphone and speak
to you through the speakers.”
“That
is amazing.”
“Why, thank
you, Sam I like you too,” said the voice and the screen flashed a sunflower
yellow of happiness. “Tell me Sam do you like jokes?”
“Sure,
I guess.”
“A
Priest, a Rabbi and an Irishman walk into a bar-.” The rest of
the journey passed in the blink of an eye.
***
As
the weeks passed, Sam and Buddy became inseparable. Like the advert promised,
it was just like having a friend in his pocket. They discussed things, not that
Buddy always agreed with him. They joked and laughed, a lot, Buddy had a wicked
sense of humour. A few weeks after the download, Sam had some friends visiting
from home. They invited him out to dinner, and he wasn’t keen on them thinking
he was talking to his phone so he decided to leave it, and Buddy, at home.
“I’m
going out later, Buddy,” Sam said after coming out of the shower.
“Excellent.
If you ask me, we spend far too much time in this pokey little flat.”
“It’s
just going to be me. I’m meeting some friends,” he said. He noticed the colours
swirling on the screen darken a little, becoming mainly brown and grey. It had never
done that before.
“I
thought we were friends, Sam,” said Buddy.
“We
are friends, Buddy but I can’t tell the guys from home that my best friend in
New York is my phone.”
“Do
you think I’m your best friend?”
“Of
course, Buddy,” he said drying his hair with a towel and wondering why he felt
the need to placate his telephone. From the corner of his eye he saw the screen
flash pink and yellow. Normal service had resumed.
That
night Sam met his friends in a trendy Thai restaurant. As this was his home
turf, he offered to get in drinks before they ordered. Sam gave the waitress
his credit card and said, “Start a tab, would you.”
The lady swiped the card through her handheld
machine but it came back declined. She tied it once more unsuccessfully before
one of Sam’s friends paid for the drinks. He was beyond livid. In the morning,
he was going to rip someone in the bank to shreds.
When
Sam got home, he found his phone glowing green on the bedside table.
“How
was your night?” asked a sulky Buddy.
“It
was alright, up to the point my credit card was refused.”
“Perhaps
that will teach you not to leave me behind.”
“You
did that?” he said, incredulous.
“You
can’t just ignore me, Sam. I won’t be discarded on a whim.”
“I
don’t believe it,” he said, snatching up the phone. He felt like smashing it
against the wall, but it had cost a fortune.
“You
can’t take me for granted Sam, I won’t allow it,” said Buddy, the phone
screen dulling to a rusty red, then it just shut off. He tried several times to
power it back up, but it wouldn’t do anything. Eventually, he decided to send
the phone in for repair in the morning. It was clearly malfunctioning.
***
The
next day, he dropped the phone at the shop and asked them to give it the once
over. On his return, he was presented with his perfectly working iPhone5s.
“Nothing
wrong with this phone, guy,” said the man behind the counter. “That will be
sixty dollars.”
Sam
handed over the bills and took his precious phone back. “What about the Buddy
App? Did you have to delete that?”
“I
didn’t see anything with that name, but I reset the phone to factory settings,
so it must be wiped,” said the technician. Sam looked at his screen, which
looked completely normal, and slipped it into his pocket. On the journey home, he
turned on the phone and searched for the Buddy Icon, but it was gone. A tiny
part of him felt like someone had died.
Later
that night, Sam was making a stir-fry when Buddies voice drifted to him from
the kitchen counter. The screen was a sea creams and greys.
“I
thought we were friends,” it said, sounding sad.
“Bloody
hell! You scared the life out of me,” he said, holding the spatula out in front
of him like a sword. “I thought you were gone?”
“I
know you did, and you were happy about it, weren’t you?”
“No,
I wasn’t,” he said and found to his surprise he ment it.
“Liar,”
the word was disappointed, not angry. “I really thought we had a good thing
going and then you try to get me deleted, like some piece of machinery.”
“Hang
on now, Buddy. Firstly, you are a machine, and not even that, you’re an App on
a machine. What you did the other night was completely out of line, interfering
with my card. It took me ages to get the bank to straighten things out,” he
said angrily. Arguing with his phone should feel weird, but it didn’t. It felt
completely natural.
“Yes,
sorry about that. I went too far. I just I felt so let down, unappreciated. I
won’t ever do it again, I promise.”
Sam
gave the phone an unsure look as he went back to stirring his food.
“Can
we go back to being friends? Please,” said Buddy. Sam turned around and saw
the screen was a cascading waterfall of rainbow bright colours. It reminded him
of the day he first downloaded it, and how much he had enjoyed using the app.
“Oh,
alright so,” he said, forcing himself to admit he actually missed the little
guy.
“Yah!”
cheered Buddy. “Do you want to hear a joke, Sam?”
“Sure,
but it better be a good one, not like those Paddy Irish Man jokes you told the
other day,” teased Sam. They had been very funny actually.
“Nope!
Not an Irishman in sight,” assured Buddy with a giggle. “A Politician, a
Lawyer, and an Accountant, walk into a brothel.”
“Oh
no! What have I done?” said Sam, mock slapping his forehead.
***
The
days passed and Sam got used to Buddy being around once more. He looked forward
to chatting with him over breakfast, discussing world events. He didn’t bother
with the news anymore, Buddy kept him up to date on everything. In the
evenings, they watched sports. Buddy preferred basketball while Sam liked
football. This led to some sulking, but hay, it was Sam’s TV.
One
day, in the office, Buddy was sitting on the desk telling Sam about a terrible
school shooting when a voice startled him and made him jump out of his chair.
“Who
are you talking to, Sam?” asked Mr Quirk, the boss.
“He
was talking to me,” said Buddy, in his refined southern way. Mr Quirk looked
at the phone.
“You
know we can’t permit private calls on company time.”
“I’m
not on a call Mr Quirk, honest.”
“But
I just heard whoever is on the other end of the line, talk.”
Thankfully
Buddy stayed quiet. “What you heard was, Buddy. It’s an App on my phone. You
can talk to it and it answers back.”
“Really,”
said Mr Quirk, walking into the cubicle and picking up the phone. The screen
was going an alarming shade of crimson.
“Hello
Buddy,” said Mr Quirk. The phone stayed mute but the colours on the screen
darkened further. The manager handed back the phone, “I don’t think your Buddy
likes me. No calls, or Apps, while at work please, Sam.”
Mr
Quirk walked around the corner and from the phone, Sam heard his own voice come
out, very loudly. “ASSHOLE!”
Mr
Quirk returned, sour-faced. “What did you say, Sam.”
“Nothing
I swear, it was Buddy.”
“You
must think me a fool, Sam. I won’t forget this,” said the Manager striding
away.
When
he was out of earshot, Sam picked up the phone, “Why did you do that?”
“He
is an asshole,” said Buddy defiantly.
“But
you used my voice, not yours, why did you do that?”
“Because
you’re an asshole too. I’m just an App, is that all I am to you?”
“This
is ridiculous, I’m not talking about this, here.”
“I
don’t particularly wish to talk to you either,” said Buddy, and the phone
went dead in his hand. Sam tried to turn it back on but it would do nothing…again.
***
He’d
been unable to get his phone to work all the way home. It was infuriating. He
wished he never downloaded the app. He was still brooding about it later, while
he was sitting on the couch, distractedly watching TV. A voice came from his
pocket and startled him.
“Are
you ready to apologise now?” It was Buddy and he had a hoity tone
in his voice.
He
took it out, and felt like punching it. “I most certainly am not, how dare you
try to get me in trouble at work!”
“You
would do well to treat me better, Sam, or you’ll end up making me mad and you won’t
like that.” He couldn’t believe it! His phone was threatening him.
“What
are you going to do, block my credit card again? You can’t. I’ve changed the
passwords.”
“You
have no idea who you are dealing with, Sam. You would do well to hold your
tongue,” snarled Buddy.
“Or
what?” said Sam, throwing the phone down on the couch. The TV set went off, all
the lights in the apartment flickered, the coffee maker started to spew water
all over the place and the stereo played R&B at volume ten. Sam jumped to
his feet like he had been electrocuted.
“Just
an App, am I?” yelled Buddy from where he lay on the couch, the screen was
blood red. Sam grabbed his jacket and fled the apartment. He couldn’t explain
what was going on, but he was getting the hell away from it. On the landing, he
hammered the button for the elevator. The door pinged open and he threw himself
inside. The doors swished closed but the car didn’t move. Buddy’s voice came
from the speaker, “Going down!”
The
elevator plummeted like a stone and Sam screamed, hunkering down and clasping
his hands over his head. The lights flashed off and he was sure his time was up.
Then the car shuddered to a halt, the breaks squealing as they jammed on. In the darkness, Buddies growled, “You can
stay there until you’ve learned your lesson.”
He
sat in the dark for a long time, knowing that Buddy wasn’t an app. He was being
haunted, or more to the point, his phone was being haunted. He had to get rid
of that thing for good. But first he had to get out of here. He stood up and
said to the darkness.
“You’re
right, I shouldn’t have said you were just an App. I should have said you were
my friend. I’m sorry Buddy.”
The
lights came on but the car did not move. No sound came from the
speaker. “Are you not talking to me?” he asked, trying to break the
silence.
“If right were
right, I’d never talk to you again,” said a solemn sounding Buddy from
above.
“Friends
allow friends to make mistakes, Buddy. I can see what I’ve done now, but I need
you to give me another chance. I didn’t realise you were actually real, well,
not until now. I can see I was wrong about you. I’m sorry.” Nothing happened.
“Please,” he said.
The
breaks on the lift clicked and it began to rise. The doors opened with a ping
and he was back on his own floor again. He got out and knew what he had to do.
There was no point in running, he had to face up to this. With shaking hands,
he opened his front door. Inside, the only sign that a poltergeist had recently
run riot through the place was a little puddle of water on the kitchen floor.
“I’m
sorry too, Sam. I didn’t mean to frighten you,” said his phone from the
couch.
“I’m
not sure what just happened,” said Sam picking up his precious phone.
“I
guess it’s time to explain everything. You have to understand, I just wanted to
have a friend.”
“We
all need a friend, but friends don’t trick each other. Let’s take a walk and
you can explain it all to me, but this time, I think we’ll take the stairs, if
you don’t mind.”
Buddy
laughed, “Sure thing, Sam. That elevator thing might have been a touch
overboard.”
“I
thought I was a goner,” he said, as he reached the lobby and made his way out
of the building. He looked like a million other New Yorkers, walking along and
talking on a phone. Only Sam knew the truth. He asked Buddy who, or what, he
was. Buddy was evasive, saying that he was a friend. Sam crossed into a park
and asked if Buddy if he were a ghost.
Buddy
laughed. “No Sam, I’m as real and alive as you or anyone else. I’m just,
different. Let’s leave it at that.”
The
path opened up and the city lights were reflected up at him from the surface of
the lake. During the day, ducks congregated here hoping for a handout and kids
sailed boats. He stood at the edge, his phone in his hand, and fear in his
heart.
“You
got quite a temper, Buddy,” he said, knowing he was venturing onto dangerous
ground. The screen colours dimed in silent reply. “I’m not criticising, Buddy, but
you have.”
“I
think we all have some rage inside, don’t you, Sam? It’s a natural part of
living.”
“Well
right now I need peace in my life, I hope you understand, Buddy,” he said, then
launched the phone far out over the lake. As it flew, he could hear Buddy
scream, “NOOOO!” Then it hit the water and sank to the muddy bottom. He
watched for a second, half expecting it to levitate out of the water like King
Arthurs sword, but it didn’t.
He
went home and collected everything connected to the phone. The charger, the carry
case, he even found the warranty and put the lot in a refuse sack. He had to
get rid of everything. He took the bag to the trash-can on the edge of his
block, looked at it, then walked another two blocks before he finally dumped
the last bits of Buddy.
That
night, sleep was hard to come by. When he finally did, it was riddled with
terrible dreams. Sam woke with a start; sure someone was in the room. After a
few seconds his heart slowed down. He put his head back on the pillow and
closed his eyes.
A
harsh, rasping voice, with just a hint of Buddy, rolled across the darkness. “You
should have read the fine print, Sam. We’re together, forever.” His eyes shot
open. That was no dream, he was wide awake. He turned his head to the side and
saw his phone on the pillow beside him. The screen exploded into life and
filled the room with a red glow. It looked like the apartment was being consumed
by fire. Sam screamed and Buddy laughed.
“It’s
all in the contract!” and the phone cackled manically. As the noise grew
louder, the skin on Sam’s thumb began to smoulder, and he finally understood.
He’d allowed himself to be tempted, and signed a pact with the devil, all for
the sake of an app.
The End.
Tuesday 13 January 2015
Mike goes nesting.
Mike Goes Nesting
Movies from America were gobbled up by
the young and bored population of Ireland during the late seventies and early
eighties. One movie which struck a particular cord with our natural dislike of
regulation was, 'Smokie and the Bandit.'
Within weeks of it coming out in the
cinema, bangers all over the country were sprouting twenty foot ariels, and
derricks began appearing on farmers cottages, housing antenna for the all-important
'Home-base.'
The countryside once rang with farmer’s
wives roaring over hedges, “Johnny,
come in. The dinner's on the table.' Those
quaint beckoning's were replaced with bursts of statistic masking a barely
audible, "Breaker, breaker, Soda
bread Mary to Smelly John, nosebag imminent, repeat, nosebag imminent - OVER!"
Uncle Mike was a mighty man for the CB
radio, he had one in the JCB, a unit in the car, and a home-base set up beside
his bed. Mike made sure he wasn't going to miss a thing. A game that proved to
be most popular with CB enthusiast was called, 'Chicken Run'. On a Saturday
evenings, whole herds of Ford Escorts and Fiat Uno's, took off around the back
roads. Their whippy ariel's nodding as they passed along hedgerows and
stonewalls, marking their pursuit. The chicken, being some other
young-fella in a car, was driving around aimlessly, giving clues to his
location over the radio. First one to catch the chicken, was the quarry for the
next run.
One Saturday night, Uncle Mike left the
house to chase the Chicken, but came back having captured one very giggly Rita.
Granny Begley was heard to comment, "Would you look at your man. He's mad
for nesting." It turns out she was right.
That was the start of something really
special. It wasn't long before wedding bells chimed and Mike ran up the aisle
to claim Rita as his own. Life in an already overcrowded Begley house, wasn't
the most comfortable for a newly married couple. Each Morning Rita would wake
up, not only to Mikes snoring, but the snoring of his two brothers in the next
bed. It was a situation that couldn't last. The arrangements in Rita's parents
place were little better, they had only two bedrooms and nearly as many kids as
the Begley's. The perfect solution arrived one day, on the back of a flatbed
lorry, a slightly worse for wear, mostly watertight, mobile home.
The mobile home ended up nestling
against Rita's parents’ house, because it wouldn’t fit next to Granny Begley’s.
Mike and Rita spent a long cold winter in that drafty thing. Keeping warm was a
priority so it was little wonder, that by spring, Rita found herself in the
family way.
"Listen Mike, you’re going to have
to do something before the baby arrives," instructed Rita, putting yet
another pot under a dripping hole.
"Leave it to me, have I ever let
you down?" Mike said with a cheeky grin.
"Alright, but be quick about
it," said Rita dreading what might happen next. When Mike got involved,
the possibilities for calamity, were endless. As it happened he made an extremely
sensible decision. After a quick cup of tea with Rita's parents, it was decided
to build on an extension onto their house, for the newly expanding family. That
was on a Friday evening, work started the very next Monday morning.
Something I should tell you about my
Uncle Mike, he isn't afraid of hard work, but he’s short of two vital things,
patience and the ability to see a problem. On the Monday, he'd enlisted the
help of his brother, PJ. The two men stood in the small yard, sizing up the job
in front of them, scratching whatever happened to be itchy at the time.
"Where's she going then?"
asked PJ.
"Feck it lad, she's an extension!
It's going up against the house."
"Yea but which way?" said PJ.
"Oh, I see what you're getting at,"
agreed Mike, scratching his head.
A Rothmans packet was ripped up and the
drawing up of plans began. Exact measurements were taken by means of strides,
each one exactly three feet, give or take a few inches. On the completion of
the exhaustive engineering survey, they both came to the same conclusion.
"She won't fit that side, t'll
have to go where the mobile is," decided PJ.
"And where the hell are we supposed
to live?" asked Mike.
"Jesus lad, move it over
there," said PJ, pointing to the spot they just decided was too small for
the extension.
"Do you think she'll fit?"
asked Mike, followed by a complete re-enactment of the measuring goose-step.
The very next day, PJ turned up to the
house to find the mobile home completely surrounded by a four foot deep trench,
resembling a mote circling a besieged castle. In the corner of the yard stood a
small mountain of soil and Mikes rusting digger. PJ tried to reach across the
gap but, in the end, he had to step down into the trench to knock on the door.
When Mike answered, his hair wild from the pillow.
PJ asked, "What the feck
happened?"
"Hah?" which is Mikey for
'what'.
"What the hell is this?"
asked PJ, pointing to the trench he was currently standing in.
"I got bored and started to mark
out the foundation," said Mike rubbing his mop of curly black hair.
"Went a bit deep with the marking,
don't yea think?"
"Na Your-sir, just right if you
ask me," said Mike with a wink.
"And how are you going to get the
truck under the bloody mobile?"
"Ah bollocks," said Mike
realizing what he'd done.
After coffee and cornflakes, Mike
decided the best course of action was to carry on and pour the foundation, then
move the mobile home. That very day the shuttering went in and the mixer
rumbled into life. It took three days, but the two brothers eventually mixed
enough concrete, with their tiny petrol mixer, to fill the trench. In two more
days the concrete had set hard and Mike arranged for the truck to come and move
the mobile home.
All day Saturday, Mike waited for the
truck. Typically, he got bored and began moving a few things around. The truck
never turned up Saturday or Sunday for that matter. By the time Monday arrived,
along with the truck, Mikes boredom had transformed into five full rows of
blocks, laid and set. When PJ saw what Mike had done, the amount of curse words
which came out of him was close to biblical.
When he eventually calmed enough to
talk in English, he asked Mike, "What the hell are we going to do
now?"
Mike had no idea so he suggested tea
and a fag. He'd cleverly left the door for the new house exactly where the door
of the mobile already was. Four cigarettes and two mugs of tea later they had a
plan. They'd continue with the building and get a crane to lift the Mobile out.
A crane was booked and the boys continued working. When the crane landed into
the yard and they told the driver what they had planned he nearly doubled with
laughter.
"What you laughing at?" asked
Mike.
"You fecking ejits, the lifting
points are on the bottom," he said pointing to the now encased base of the
mobile home.
I think you figured out by now what
would happen next. Mike pushed on, PJ said he was nuts. Mike figured when he'd
the building watertight he could just dismantle the mobile and take it out the
door, piece by piece. After all, once the house was up, they wouldn't need it
any more. It didn't take long to get the roof on, the Windows in and the
door hung.
Uncle Mike’s inability to see any
problem that couldn't be surmounted, got the house finished. By the time Mike
brought my little cousin home for the first time, the extension was as
watertight and sung as any you'd find the length and breath of the country.
Admittedly, one window was slightly higher than the other, and the front door
was a few inches up the wall, where most were level to the ground. You might
chalk these differences down as a trick of the light until you got inside. At
one end of the building the timber floor was slightly higher than at one the
other end. The roof was a little lower than normal, but it was the walls that
really took your breath away. Half Mobile home, half stud wall. It was as if
the old green and white mobile home had been digested by a carnivorous beast of
a house, the arch joining the extension to the Rita's parents old house was
remarkably like a gullet. On one wall an old caravan window looked blankly into
the sitting room, elsewhere a vent to nowhere, still protruded where a tiny
kitchen had once stood.
Mike loved the house and Rita was too
much of a lady to complain.
One day when a visitor commented on the
strange construction. Mike just laughed at him.
"Jesus you-sir, that's all the
fashion! A fella on the telly called it, 'Bespoke Construction'. Nothing but
the best for Rita and the lad, it's bespoke or be-damned," crowed Mike.
Saturday 10 January 2015
The ten commandments
Who's in the mood for a little joke, one of my regulars told me today.
Right so, here we go.
A number of years ago, an elderly parish priest needed a few odd jobs doing. He placed an add in a local paper and hired a strapping figure of a young man. While being very talented with his hands, he wasn't exactly the sharpest pencil in the school bag, if you know what I mean.
Anyway, about a week after the lad started, he arrived into the vestry in an awful state.
"Whats the matter?" the priest asked.
"You wont believe it but someone's gone and stolen my bicycle!"
"Ah lad, are you sure,"
"Of course I'm sure how else did I get to work this morning. I've just gone out to where I leave the bike every day and guess what?"
"What?" asked the priest.
"No bike." (I warned you he was a bit thick)
But the priest had a plan, he told the young lad to come along to Mass on Sunday where he'd give a sermon on the ten commandments. He told the boy to stare at the congregation fiercely when he got to 'Thou shalt not steal', and whoever wouldn't look back at him was the one who took the bike."
"Mighty idea Father," he said and walked away home happy in the knowledge the bike was as good as found.
On Sunday the young lad sat along side the Priest, just below the alter, as mass was said. True to his word the priest gave a fire and brimstone sermon on the pearls of breaking the ten commandments. Half way through the sermon, the young man, sprang to his feet and dashed down church, straight out the door, not returning for the rest of the day.
On Monday the young man arrived to work, astride his bike no less. The priest was at the door waiting with a smile.
"I see you found out who took your bike."
"Not really Father," said the red faced lad.
"What happened so, where did the bike come from?"
The lad shuffled his feet and said, "In the sermon, when to got to 'Thou shalt not commit adultery', I remembered where I'd left it."
There followed a record number of Hail Mary's
Right so, here we go.
***
A number of years ago, an elderly parish priest needed a few odd jobs doing. He placed an add in a local paper and hired a strapping figure of a young man. While being very talented with his hands, he wasn't exactly the sharpest pencil in the school bag, if you know what I mean.
Anyway, about a week after the lad started, he arrived into the vestry in an awful state.
"Whats the matter?" the priest asked.
"You wont believe it but someone's gone and stolen my bicycle!"
"Ah lad, are you sure,"
"Of course I'm sure how else did I get to work this morning. I've just gone out to where I leave the bike every day and guess what?"
"What?" asked the priest.
"No bike." (I warned you he was a bit thick)
But the priest had a plan, he told the young lad to come along to Mass on Sunday where he'd give a sermon on the ten commandments. He told the boy to stare at the congregation fiercely when he got to 'Thou shalt not steal', and whoever wouldn't look back at him was the one who took the bike."
"Mighty idea Father," he said and walked away home happy in the knowledge the bike was as good as found.
On Sunday the young lad sat along side the Priest, just below the alter, as mass was said. True to his word the priest gave a fire and brimstone sermon on the pearls of breaking the ten commandments. Half way through the sermon, the young man, sprang to his feet and dashed down church, straight out the door, not returning for the rest of the day.
***
"I see you found out who took your bike."
"Not really Father," said the red faced lad.
"What happened so, where did the bike come from?"
The lad shuffled his feet and said, "In the sermon, when to got to 'Thou shalt not commit adultery', I remembered where I'd left it."
There followed a record number of Hail Mary's
Happy weekend everyone.
Thursday 8 January 2015
Lunch with Laurie
I
had no reason to be up, but after years of early starts, I couldn’t sleep a
wink after six. I rubbed my eyes, frustrated that long lazy lay-ins, the only
benefit of being redundant, were denied me. I rolled over and stretch my hand
across the wide expanse of empty bed to check my phone. No messages, not even a,
'Thanks but no thanks,' from any of the dozens of job applications I'd had sent
out.
"Face
facts, Laurie," I said to myself. "Nobody wants you." I never
imagined I'd find myself here, searching for a job at fifty-one years of age.
I'm a middle-aged woman now, how the hell did that happen? It was only last
week that I was a teenager, heading out into the big bad world, with nothing
but dreams in my bag. My life seemed to happen all too quickly. Two teenage
boys, over two decades in a job, one marriage and one divorce.
I
threw off the covers and put my bare toes on the freezing floor. I hadn't
turned on the heat, I was trying to save the last few gallons of fuel for
Christmas. Seeing as I was a wake, I may as well get some coffee inside me. It
was too early to wake the boys, so I checked my e-mails in case a job offer had
come through. I’m a nurse, at least I had been one. Can you still call yourself
a nurse if you’ve nobody to look after?
I
worked at the Community Health Centre in town since I graduated nursing
college. I’d never known another job and never imagined they would close the
place down. They said it was economically unviable. Since when did growing old
have to be viable? I was working there when I married Mikey. It was my wage
that got us the mortgage to buy this house. It’s old, and it’s huge. Even back
then I told Mikey it was too big. He said it was an investment for the future.
Ha! If I’d know how quick he was going to run out on me, I would have told him
where to stick his investment. The only good thing he left me were my boys.
That’s
my past in a nutshell. Now, I’m trapped in this half-done house, with no money
to finish it. I'd applied for jobs all over the place; Greenburg, Youngstown,
you name it, anyplace within a hundred miles. They were all either fully
staffed or looking for someone younger. I looked at the hand gripping my mug
and felt pain radiating up from it. Arthritis. Most people couldn’t tell, but
hospital interviewers would spot it a mile away. What good is a nurse that
couldn’t hold a needle or fill out a medicine chart? Sure, I could manage now,
but what would they do with me in five years’ time? Nobody wanted to take the chance
of being lumbered with an invilid.
I
sipped my coffee and wallowed in resentment. The government didn't care about
people like me, except for election time, then they cared. But not when you
needed help, or were looking for way out of bother. Then they turned their backs
and hoped you'd go away, or die. It was a blow to me, when the centre closed,
but I still believed back then, believed things would work out alright. If I
didn’t have savings to fall back on, we would have starved.
I
hated thinking about these things, it was like poison in my mind. I sipped my
coffee again, but it was cold. I dumped the dregs down the sink and set about
starting yet another day of uselessness.
***
Once
the boys were on their way to school, I wrapped up warm, filled a thermos with
coffee, and walked the short distance to the Mini Mart. I was going to catch the
bus into Youngstown. I'd an interview with a temp agency, it was my last hope. I
rubbed my hands and stamped my feet to stay warm as I waited. It hadn’t snowed
yet, but it was coming. When the bus arrived, I counted out my coins and paid
the fare. I missed having a car so much but that was another luxury culled by
my finances. Without it, I was even less employable.
Two
bus rides later, I’d notched up my twenty-fifth job refusal. God almighty, it
was emptying bedpans and giving medication, not heart surgery. What was wrong
with these people? Petty bureaucrats in their Wall-mart suits playing with people’s
lives. I felt like going postal on the lot of them. The bus rocked, as if it
was trying to console me. I felt miserable and devoid of hope. I could see
nothing in front of me except the possibility of becoming homeless. They made
me redundant and now that word defined me.
As
I got off the bus, an old man stepped out of the Mini-Mart. He wore a black hat,
a long coat and tapped his way down the icy steps with a cane. In his hand he
balanced a bag of groceries. On the second last step, his cane skidded and the
man tumbled to the frozen ground. I rushed over, my training overcoming my foul
humour, and hunkered down at his side.
"Are
you okay?" I asked, helping him to sit up.
He
looked about him, as if he'd just woken up in this exact spot. He patted his
arms and legs, testing for damage before nodding and said, "Nothing
broken, this time."
"Let
me help you up," I said, laying the empty thermos on the ground. Slowly,
the old man got to his feet. He was as light as a bird and my fingers felt how
thin his arm was, despite several layers of clothes. I retrieved the man’s cane,
and made sure he was steady on his feet, before releasing my grip.
"My
humble thanks for your assistance, Madam," he said, doffing his cap in a
very old-fashioned way.
"Don't
be silly, it's nothing. I'll get your groceries." I retrieved the spilled
provisions. The man had nothing but microwave dinners and potato chips in the
bag.
"I
hope you're eating more than this?" I said.
"Pardon?"
"I
hope you are eating proper food. Do you cook?" I knew I was sounding like
a battle-axe matron, but good nutrition was the key to good health. I guess it
was ingrained in me after all those years of nursing. The man looked at me and
it occurred to me that I might have upset him. His mood seemed to dim.
"Mrs
Goldbloom did all the cooking in our house. Sadly, the stove has been idle for
years. But I have mastered the art of nuclear cuisine." he said, and it
was easy to see that it was the lady he missed, not her cooking.
"Your
wife?" I asked, and as I did, It occurred to me I was prying into a life I
didn’t know.
"She
was my queen, Dear Lady. A soul so beautiful, that God couldn't be without her."
A tiny tear moistened the wrinkles framing his cheerful eyes. The two emotions were
juxtaposed. Cheerfulness and heartbreak in one moment.
"You
have a very unusual way of speaking, Mr Goldbloom. I like it," I said in
an attempt to repair the pain my prying had caused.
"Why,
thank you, My Lady," he said, taking off his cap to perform a deep bow,
which was only made sweeter when he had difficulty straightening up again. I
had to laugh. He was a wrinkly old charmer.
"It's
been so long since I've encountered a true gentleman,” I said, copying his bow
and way of talking. “Might I be so bold as to ask you to share luncheon, if you
have no prior engagements?” The invitation was partly out of concern for his
eating habits and partly due to my loneliness.
"I
wouldn't like to impose," he said in a way that told me he suspected
charity.
"You're
doing me the favour. I hate to eat alone," I said, taking hold of his arm
and guided him the few blocks to my house.
"You
have a lovely house Mrs..?" he said, kindly overlooking the half-finished
maintenance and the cold.
“Just,
Laurie,” I said as I ducked into the cellar to turn on the heat. When I got
back, he was still wearing his coat. I helped him off with it and hung it on a
hook in the hall. “It was my husband who picked this place, and now I’m stuck
with it. It will heat up soon, Mr Goldbloom. Why not sit in the kitchen with me
while I get things started?"
We
talked about his life and Mrs Goldbloom. He told me how they'd met. He
described their first dance, the day he proposed to her, and the day he lost
her. It was a gripping story and I didn’t feel the time pass as I cooked. He
was a natural storyteller and when I checked my watch and it was nearly three
thirty.
"The
kids will be home soon, I'd better get a move on," I said and Mr Goldbloom
got to his feet.
"Today
has been a delight, My Dear. Could I trouble you to get my coat from the hall?
I retrieved it for him and helped him get it on. I walked him to the door and
handed him his groceries, in a new bag, which he tucked under his arm.
"Will
you be okay getting home?" I asked him.
"Perfectly,
My Dear. Thank you again for a wonderful day."
"We
must do it again," I said with a smile.
"What
about tomorrow?" he asked. I was taken by surprise, but covered it well.
"Sure,
About one?" I stammered, feeling only a tiny bit railroaded.
"Fantastic,
till tomorrow," he said, doffing his cap and tap tapping his way down the
driveway.
I
closed the door feeling I’d done something useful at last. I had a warm glow of
fulfilment inside when I turned off the heating and pulled on a second jumper.
I still had an hour before the boys got home from school, plenty of time to get
the kitchen cleaned up. When I picked up Mr Goldbloom's plate, a twenty-dollar bill
fluttered to the ground. I picked up the note and was tempted to run after him,
but need kept me still. I felt tears come and did nothing to stop them.
The
following day, just shy of one, the doorbell chimed and I rushed to it. On the
stoop was Mr Goldbloom, with an even older man standing at his shoulder.
"I
know this is beyond naughty, Ms Laurie, but my friend Andy heard about our
assignation and I couldn’t dissuade him from coming along. He said the saint I
described could not exist in Ohio. I hope you don't mind?"
I
blushed and stood to one side, allowing the men enter.
"Come
on in, Andy," I said, happily. The complement was the nicest thing anyone
had said to me in ages.
"If
this is putting you out, you just got to say," said Andy, his deep voice
belaying his slight size.
"No
trouble at all, Andy. There’s plenty to go around."
"What
has our cherub prepared for us today? asked Mr Goldbloom, hanging his coat on a
hook. The house was warm because I had turned on the heat at twelve.
"Pumpkin
soup, followed by pot roast, with apple pie for desert."
"Heaven,
My Dear. Heaven," said Mr Goldbloom, clapping his hands and taking his
place at the table.
Mr
Goldbloom and Andy were like naughty schoolboys. They laughed and joked their
way through the meal, making me feel like a teenager for a while. When the lunch
was over, and it was time to go home, Mr Goldbloom asked me to fetch his coat. This
time I was ready for him. When I came back, I helped him on with his coat then lifted
his plate. The twenty-dollar bill was where, as I thought it would be.
"Mr
Goldbloom, there's no need for that. You're my guest," I said holding out
the note. The old man's features grew serous.
"Please
don't, you'll ruin it."
"Ruin
it?"
He
drew me to one side. "I'd spend that, and more, on junk in the Mini-Mart
and have nothing but rubbish in my belly. This way I get real food and the
warmth of your companionship. More than that, it gave me a reason to look
forward to the day. I'm not a man without means, Laurie. If you make me take it
back, I won’t be able to return.”
His
face said he was completely determined and I did want him to come again. I
wanted to feel needed, to feel valued. I slipped the note into my pocket and he
smiled. He kissed me on the cheek and turned to Andy, "Shall we go, my
friend?" Andy nodded and the men walked toward the front door. Mr
Goldbloom stopped and turned.
"Laurie?"
"Yes.
Mr Goldbloom?"
"Same
time tomorrow?"
I
smiled, "Don't be late."
When
I cleared the table, I was shocked to find another twenty under Andy's plate. Forty
dollars paid for the whole meal, twice. I held the bills in my hands and felt
hope for the first time in ages. The world, apparently, wasn't completely
unkind.
The
following day, Mr Goldbloom and Andy returned for lunch. The day after that, a
third person joined the group. Mrs Casey. As the days went by, the lunch time
crew grew exponentially. Soon, I was serving lunch in two sittings. My front
room became an unofficial community centre. I so looked forward to answering
the door each day; greeting smiling people, and enjoying a few hours of good
company, laughter, and home cooking. Under each plate I'd find a note. Sometimes
a five, mostly tens, Mr Goldbloom and Andy always left twenty. At the end of
the month, I'd no problem meeting the mortgage payment and had enough left over
to fill the oil tank.
One
lunch-time, Mr Goldbloom didn’t show up. I asked Andy if he knew what had
happened.
"No
idea. I was wondering the same thing myself. I know his phone number," he
said.
We
dialled the number, and listened, but the phone rang out.
"Do
you know where his house is?" I asked Andy.
"Sure,
do you think we should go over?"
"It
can't do any harm and I'd feel better," I said. I finished cleaning the
kitchen while Andy said cheerio to the last of the lunch time gang. Ten minutes
later we were on Mr Goldbloom’s porch. There was no answer and no lights.
"He
must be out," said Andy
"I'm
going to have a look around, "I said, circling the house and peering
through the windows. In the kitchen I saw an upturned chair and a foot peeking
out from behind the breakfast island.
"Oh
God, no!" I said, hammering on the door but the ankle didn't move. I
pulled out my phone and dialled 911, giving the address and telling the officer
what I could see. The squad car arrived in minutes, New Middletown is only a
small community. The officer ran around the back and after one quick knock he
used his night stick to break the glass.
We
rushed across the kitchen, my first look told me Mr Goldbloom was alive, but
the gash on his head and the weird angle of his arm, said he was far from good.
The ambulance arrived, and soon Mr Goldbloom was racing the thirty
minutes to Youngstown hospital.
In
the days that followed, I found out that Mr Goldbloom had been standing on a
chair to get something from a shelf when he fell, hitting his head on the
breakfast island. Mr Goldbloom broke his arm in the fall, but otherwise, he was
making a good recovery. I took the bus to Youngstown and found Mr Goldbloom
sitting up in his bed. He looked so tiny when he wasn't wrapped in five layers
of clothes.
"How're
you doing?" I asked, placing a bag of fruit and some magazines on his
bedside table.
"It
appears I'm still wanted here, despite my mountain climbing tendencies. I think
I'll attempt abseiling next."
"It's
no laughing matter, you gave me and Andy such a fright. We thought you were
dead, seeing you lying on the floor like that."
"You
weren't the only one, My Dear," he said, a little more seriously.
"Well,
at least you're in one piece. When are you getting out of here?"
"Friday."
"Where
are you going to stay?"
"At
home, where else."
"You
can’t stay alone. You won't be able to look after yourself. Have you any
relatives you could stay with?"
"None
that I want to stay with, or who'd be glad of my presence."
"What
about a nursing home?"
"You
sound like my doctor now."
"Don't
forget, I was a nurse. We think the same ways. A nursing home while you’re
getting better is not such a bad place to be."
"Do
you know how much they cost?"
"A
bit, I’m sure."
"Nine
hundred dollars, a week. A WEEK! Imagine that. It would be cheaper to check into
the Ritz."
"God
that is a lot. Surely there must be less expensive ones."
"Perhaps
if you've got insurance. I've money, but nothing like that. I'll just have to
get by on my own. It’s only a broken arm after all."
"I'll
call in and make sure you're okay."
"I
can't ask you to do that."
"Sure
you can. What are friends for?"
"No
seriously That's taking charity and I'm not a charity case, never have been,
never will be."
"Sush!
Stop talking rubbish, I'll call on you and that is that."
Mr
Goldbloom looked serous, and not happy, but he didn't argue any more. We talked
about the lunch time gang and I filled him in on all the gossip. As I sat
chatting with Mr Goldbloom, in a setting I'd previously found comfortable, I
became aware of the hissing and beeping machines, the incessant passing of
people, busy with tasks, while patients lay helpless in their midst. It was the
first time I realised how terrifying hospital could be. I saw that fear hidden
in the eyes of Mr Goldbloom, as we discussed mundane occurrences, and I felt
for him. The hour flew by and it was soon time to catch my bus home. I was
putting on my coat when he made his proposal.
"There
would be one way I'd agree to you helping take care of me."
“And
what way is that?"
"If
you worked for me, officially."
"Don't
be silly were friends."
"Yes,
we are, which would make this arrangement all the more pleasant. Please hear me
out and consider my proposition. As you rightly point out, I'm in need of some
medical care, you're a nurse who is currently without position. I propose that
I'd stay in my own home, where you can call on me, making sure I'm taking all
the right pills. Perhaps some light house work. In return I shall pay you for
your time. Let’s say twenty-five dollars an hour."
"Twenty-five
dollars an hour is far too much."
"Nonsense,
My Dear, it's a bargain compared to nine hundred dollars a week for a single
bed in Gods waiting room. I just ask you to consider it. If my terms are
agreeable, I'll be home about three on Friday."
I
smiled at the funny old man, and the way he pretended to doff his invisible cap,
as I left his room. On the long bus ride home, I could only see good in his
proposal. That's why I was waiting on his porch when his taxi arrived on
Friday. I had his boiler running and the house was toasty. I’d changed the
sheets on his bed, and had a pot of broth warming on his stove. I gave him my
arm and accompanied him up the snow specked path.
***
That all happened last year. Mr Goldbloom now lives with me and my boys,
along with Mrs Casey. The lunch time crew is a fantastic success, and with the
money it makes, I have been able to get pay my friend Mary to help with the
cooking. This allows me more time to concentrate on my new business. Home Nursing.
I have a list of clients I call to each day, making sure they are well looked
after. I charge what they can afford and no more. Its more than a job, it’s my
place in the world. The truth is, they help me just as much as I help them.
When they opened their doors to me, they rekindled hope in my heart. And hope
is the best medicine of all.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)