Everyone used to tell me what a great man he was, and that I must be so proud. Up until I was about ten years old I only had their word for it, as he was never around that much to prove it to me. They told me about the great sacrifices he was making for me and my mother by having to be away for so long, but when he eventually did come home to stay, he still wouldn’t be around much.
‘Nigel said he wouldn’t go to Ferrari without his best mechanic,’ is one of his favourite quotes. Everyone always nods respectfully at that one. But the thing is, and everyone fails to bring it up, Mansell did go to Ferrari, and my dad came back to Dublin. He set up this garage, Plunket Motors, and then rode the wave of the Celtic Tiger until he now has a football team of mechanics working for him. Since the recession hit, though, about half of them have very little to do all day. I said it to him at home a hundred times. He needs to start getting rid of the extra weight or we’re all going to go down. ‘I’ve never laid off one member of staff in all my years,’ is another one of his favourites, which is all very well, except that I know he’s pumping all his savings into this place just to stay afloat. That’s his retirement money, and my mother’s.
Christ, how many times I’ve dreamt of leaving this place. It was only with my mother’s urging that I even started here in the first place. And it’s still because of her insistence that I’m here today.
‘Keep an eye on him,’ she always says to me. ‘Don’t let him get too far ahead of himself.’
‘I won’t, Mam,’ I promise her. ‘I’ll make sure he does okay.’
Only problem is that keeping an eye on him not getting too ahead of himself has held me back so much.
‘Come on in and sit down, son,’ he starts. ‘We need to talk.’
Son? Talk? Christ. It’s worse than I thought.
An exorbitant painting of a prodigiously mustachioed Nigel Mansell looms above and behind him like some sort of gay Orwellian deity. His whole office is a gallery of photographs of himself with various eminent dignitaries in the world of Formula One. At least eminent two decades ago; shaking hands with a very young Bernie Ecclestone; his arm around a very sober looking Ayrton Senna; drinking a coke with a very French looking Alain Prost. And his most revered, non-Mansell photo, of himself standing beside Enzo Ferrari.
Perhaps I’m not being fair, as there are also a few photos of yours truly. After his retirement from Formula One, he bought me (or us) a go-cart for my eleventh birthday. I’d asked for a computer, but never mind. He proceeded to drive me from one rain soaked weekend event to the next. I tried my hardest, honestly I did, to appease his insatiable appetite for me to be the winner at the end of every race. This conflicted somewhat with my own appetite to simply being alive at the end of every race.
His encouragement was relentless and incessant, as too were my crashes. We had a couple of victories, of which photographic evidence is displayed on his wall. Sure, you have to actually close the office door to see them but they’re there nonetheless. Unfortunately, my isolated victories, in spite of all expert predictions, only helped to prolong the inevitable.
It was blatantly obvious to all, except my father, that I would never be the next Nigel Mansell. I lacked many things to reach this goal. Desire being the most personal, and talent being the most public.
I particularly like the photo of us together back when I was thirteen, and it hadn’t rained all day, and there was a promise of some sun, nor had I crashed, and I almost look happy, and he almost looks proud. I don’t think there are any photos of just the two of us after that day. Certainly not in here anyway. It was at the next race, or the one after, that I had my accident. I was helicoptered to the hospital. The full works.
Not much chance of him surviving, they told my parents at first. Very unlikely he’ll ever walk again, they said after that. He’ll need crutches for the rest of his life, was their next prophecy. He’ll have a permanent limp for the rest of his life. Well, that one they got right.
They told me that the best recuperation exercise was to swim, so I got special permission to join the Olympian hopefuls at five am every morning in their National Aquatic Centre. Five days a week I swam up and down, up and down for two hours straight. Funny thing is, I was approached to join the Paralympics team, but I said no. Thinking back, I regret saying no to them more than even having my crash. Anyway, after eighteen operations and five years of physiotherapy, here I am. The walking dead. My mother almost left my dad over it. Either way, I never raced again.
I still get quite severe pain and my limp gets more prominent whenever the weather turns cold, but it’s been so long now, I can’t imagine not limping. College was never on the cards after that, so I was lucky to get an apprenticeship with my dad in the garage. That’s what everyone told me anyway. Lucky, lucky, lucky.
‘I’m going to take your advice, Danny,’ he says.
I sit down in front of him. This is definitely worse than I thought.
He’s talking, but I’m only catching every third or fourth word that comes out of his mouth. They’re not even words. They’re catch phrases; downsizing… current economic climate... moving forward... cost containment. Wait a second, these are my catch phrases. This is my speech being volleyed back over the table at me. I want to scream ‘STOP’ at him, but it’s a torrent of aces, and I feel defenceless and unprepared for this attack.
‘You... you... you’re...’ is all that I can manage. He pauses briefly, somewhat confused by my interruption, as if I’ve made him lose his place, and then remembering, merely uses it as an opportunity to catch his breath before continuing on with his lugubrious lecture. It’s obvious he’s been practising this rant in his head, and that nothing will stop him from staying the course. I feel trapped, tied to the chair. I look away from him and above his head. Even Nigel Mansell’s rambunctious eyebrows and moustache seem more glowering than normal, as if he’s taken on a parental role, and both he and my father have been discussing this matter for some time. I lower my eyes, and I look at my dad. He isn’t even looking at me.
‘You’re... firing me?’ I ask.
‘What?’
He’s confused again by this unscheduled interruption. Obviously, he hadn’t factored in any forced gaps in his monologue.
‘No, no, no,’ he protests. ‘It’s not like that.’
‘You’re not firing me?’
He sighs. A sigh from deep, deep down. ‘Look, Danny. The way I see it...’ and he’s off again.
The way he sees it?
‘What about money?’ I ask.
‘Money?’ He smiles. Finally a question that he’s already thought of an answer to. ‘I’ll sort you out for a few bob, don’t worry about that. You’re not going to starve. You don’t pay anything for living with your mother and me anyway. I’ll make sure you get enough of an allowance...’
‘An allowance?’ I ask. ‘You mean like pocket money?’
‘You don’t need that much,’ he informs me. ‘You’ve very few expenses in your life.’
Was that supposed to be an accusation?
I stand up out of the chair, and turn away. He seems unaware that I’m leaving because he’s still talking. I hear the words, ‘your car,’ and turn back to face him.
‘My car? What about my car?’
‘I’m merely saying that there’s simply no need for you to have such an extravagant car. The running costs alone must be astronomical.’
‘I bought that car myself.’
‘That may be so, but...’
‘But what?’
‘Well, it sets a bad example for the rest of the staff, Danny. Don’t you think?’
‘But I’m not a member of staff anymore. Am I?’
‘Now, Danny. There’s no need to be like that. Times have changed for all of us. You’d easily get about ten grand for it.’
‘Sell it? Sell my car?’
‘Ah, Jesus Christ, Danny. Would you ever grow up? I’m in an awkward position here. If I’m to start letting fellas go, do you not see that
I’ve to let you go first? Does that not make sense to you?’
I just stand there, looking down at him. He looks older than I’ve ever seen him. Ashen faced and even a little vulnerable.
‘I’m taking your advice, Danny,’ he says, as if I’m supposed to be flattered.
‘Advice that I’ve been giving you for over a year.’
‘Yes, and you were right,’ he says, ‘I’m going to start letting fellas go.’
‘I didn’t mean for you to start with me,’ I tell him. ‘How about starting with Dave and Joe, who’ve both been sitting up in the canteen scratching their arses for the last two hours?’
He thinks about this. ‘No. Once they all see you’ve gone, it’ll be a lot easier after that.’
‘Easier for who?’ I ask. ‘You?’
‘It’ll only be temporary, Danny.’
‘And then what? After most of the lads are gone, I come back to work with the remaining few. That’ll go down well.’
‘Well then, you might find something else in the meantime,’ he suggests.
‘And what work exactly is a thirty-three-year-old cripple with no qualifications going to find during a recession.’
‘That’s hardly my fault, is it?’
‘What? That I’ve no qualifications or that I’m a cripple?’
He looks away from me. ‘Perhaps it’s time to start fending for yourself then. Move in with that American girl of yours. God knows, we’ve done more than enough for you over the years. And you’ve very little to show for it, I might add.’
‘I’ve plenty to show for listening to you, Dad. I’ve a leg full of metal, and now I’ve no fucking job. Thanks,’ I almost spit at him. ‘Thanks a lot.’
‘Now you listen to me...’ he says and stands up, but I’ve already got the door open, and I’m not stopping this time.
A few of the mechanics turn around and look at me. I can see a smirk on one or two of their faces, but I head for the changing room. I can’t hear my dad coming after me, and can’t decide if this makes me happy or sad.
I change out of my overalls, and I’m out into the sunlight. I won’t be coming back, but there’s absolutely nothing for me to collect or pack. After over ten years in this place, that says a lot about my job here. I can’t help but feel a sense of freedom.
My metallic blue BMW is shining in its usual spot, waiting patiently for me like a faithful dog. I beep the alarm off, and open the door. The heat from inside attacks me so I open up all the windows. I’ll drive to the pub to meet the lads tonight. I’ll only have one drink. I can feel the heat of the leather through my clothes. I put on my sunglasses and they’re hot against my skin. Then I could hang around and wait for Ruby. Give her a lift home. Spend the night at her place.
I put the key in the ignition. Radio Nova comes on. Bruce Springsteen. No better man. What if I did move in with Ruby? We’ve been together a couple of years. Perhaps it’s time. God knows, I’m mad about her, and I’ll never find anyone like her again.
My phone beeps in a text. Speak of the devil. ‘Hey hun, you coming to Broderick’s later? I’m working. Would like to talk...’ I text back – ‘See you soon, babe x’.
I put the car into gear, and ease out of the parking spot. The main road is quiet for a Friday afternoon. I slow down to check the traffic, but don’t stop, and then I floor it. The engine roars so loudly that I have to higher up Bruce on the radio, as I tear up the road and away from the garage.
Broderick’s is busier than normal for a Friday night. I wanted a chance to tell Ruby about my new found freedom, but she’s too dedicated to her job. Can’t even take five minutes for a chat outside. Now that she’s gone back to work, the thoughts of spending the rest of the night with Charlie and Liam is depressing. But we always come out on this night every year. I hope Nick turns up soon.
‘How the fuck did they let you in here looking like that?’ Charlie asks Liam.
‘What’s wrong with me?’
‘You look like you’re ready to crawl into bed,’ Charlie tells him.
‘He looks more like he just crawled out of bed,’ I say.
‘I wouldn’t mind crawling into bed with some of the sluts in here,’ Liam says, shoving his hand into his tracksuit pocket and looking around him.
‘You’ve got bigger titties than most of them,’ Charlie says and reaches over and squeezes Liam’s man boobs under his white T-shirt.
‘Fuck off,’ Liam screams at him, knocking his hand away.
‘What are you drinking, Danny?’ Charlie asks me.
‘Heineken shandy. I’m driving.’
‘I’ll have a gin and tonic,’ Liam says. ‘A double.’
‘A shandy and a G and T? You can buy your own drinks, ladies,’ Charlie says, and takes his drink off the bar and walks away.
Ruby is behind the bar now. She’s a great worker. It’s a bit weird, but I find it a real turn-on to see a girl working hard. But there’s very little about Ruby that doesn’t turn me on. Apart from her looks, of course, I’m crazy about her accent. She says she prefers the East Coast accent but to be honest, I can’t tell the difference. A lot of people are surprised when she tells them she’s Californian. She said that one of the reasons she agreed to go out on a date with me was because I never said to her, ‘wow you don’t look Californian’. In fairness though, I don’t know what a Californian is supposed to look like.
I think Ricky can be a little too tactile when they’re working together. He’s forever touching her waist or rubbing off her as he squeezes by. It freaks me out, but when I mentioned it to Ruby, she went ballistic and accused me of being possessive and immature. I was actually excited coming in tonight to tell her my news, but looking at her now, I feel more nervous than anything else. What if she sees me losing my job not as the opportunity that I see it as? What if she sees it as, well, me losing my job?
She has suggested before that I move in with her. She thinks I haven’t taken her up on it because, as she says, ‘You’re a bit of a Mama’s boy’. Actually, it’s because there’s no parking where she lives, and there’s not a chance that I’m parking on the street. It’s just not worth the risk of my car getting keyed. She’s not a great cook either, that’s another thing. I can’t live on noodles and toast forever. I once spent an entire weekend at her place and we barely ate anything. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she kept telling me, ‘there are calories in beer.’
Her visa’s almost expired and she’s talking about going back to the States for a visit and renewing it there. She wants me to go with her, meet her family, and take a little holiday in San Francisco or Vegas. She’s hinted that if I liked it enough, I could stay over there for a while, but I’m a bit of a home bird. The town she’s from, Santa Barbara, looks nice. I Googled some images of it. The American Riviera, they call it. Now that I’ve lost my job, though, it’s not the best time to think about moving abroad. Best to stay here and to try and get some cash behind us. We’d need at least ten grand to get us started over there. And where am I going to get that sort of cash now?
I don’t think I’ve ever seen this place so busy on a Friday. Ruby’s under a bit of pressure tonight. She looks a little pale, but maybe she’s not wearing any makeup. Where’s Charlie gone? I can’t stand here looking at Ricky rubbing off Ruby all night. I bet anything he’s had his teeth whitened, the big smiley head on him. There’s no way his hair is naturally still that dark either. He must be in his forties at least. If I owned this place there’s no way I’d be working here all night. Get a couple of staff in. The amount of cash coming in here, he could well afford it.
‘Hey, Danny.’
I look up and see a hand floating in front of my face. I raise my eyes above it and am almost blinded by the incandescent white teeth of its owner. I take the hand loosely and it’s shaken about like the tail of an overexcited dog.
‘Hey, Ricky,’ I say. He takes his hand away and offers it to Liam, who grabs hold of it with an enthusiasm normally only reserved for food.
; ‘Liam, my man,’ he says, ‘how’s it going, bro?’
‘Not too bad, dude,’ he replies.
‘How about a couple of drinks for you two?’
‘Sure, Ricky,’ Liam yelps back.
We order and he walks away, shooting us with a departing thumbs up sign. Liam returns the sign to him. I look at Liam.
‘What’d I do now?’ he asks, but I say nothing.
Ruby
THE FINAL MINUTE before three pm seems interminable. At last, three numbers switch simultaneously on the clock, and then a moment’s pause before it screams out and physically bounces along the bedside table. It’s louder than I expected. I shut it up with a slap from my hand. I’ve been patiently watching its numbers turn since getting home early this morning. Begging, no, imploring sleep to overtake me. Watching and waiting. Minutes stoically passing. Apathetic hours dwindling by. Suddenly, I’m tired. Goddamn it.
The room is hot. I can’t remember it ever being this hot in Ireland. It’s outrageous. Baking hot sunshine here is like heavy rain at home in California. It’s like it’s inappropriate or something. Irish people going around like recently awakened coma patients. Happy, but not quite sure what to do or what to wear. Danny will be bugging me later for still being in bed this late. Let him work till four am and then see how bright eyed and bushy tailed he is the next morning. Where the fuck is my phone anyway?
I look around the room. It’s in shit. I don’t know why this surprises me, my room’s always in shit. I haven’t been to the laundromat in over a month. I stare down at my bare breasts and run my fingers over my flat stomach, and then puff it out as far as it will go. Not much. Have my breasts grown since last night? An ascending wave of panic trickles down from my chest and through my body until I’m so consumed by it that I sit upright in the bed. I try to catch my breath in the clammy air, and I pull my knees up to my chest. I breathe deeply several times until I start to relax.
Surviving Michael Page 4
