If it is your life

by James Kelman

  And propped up on all these pillows; this is what the vast pressure of water had done to me. Swimming against the tide, or with the tide, it made no difference. The exhaustion was one. An unimaginable

  the thought itself unimaginable. And as I began reaching for the notepad even my god my arms, even them, as though aching. Arms ached, but I pushed forwards one, my right, oh god, groaning aloud, and in the next bed the man moved his feet.

  This man had been asleep and seemed always to be so but now was awake.

  Because I had groaned! Yes!

  I held my breath, looking to the mound wherein lay my belly beneath the sheets. Better the devil one knows than the unknown evil thing lurking in the dark, enabled to perform its malevolence. I looked for the nurses, their voices no longer audible.

  They had gone.

  My pillows were stuffed together! They propped me up! They had been plumped! My pillows. Someone had done the plumping chore. While I was not looking. Was that possible!

  So there we are. One is reduced

  What time now?

  But who had plumped up the damn pillows? God damn.

  The smell of food.

  I was to receive food and the sense of it was to the fore. What might it be? No matter, I would savour it. I always did. My wife derided me for that. My sons didnt. It was a gender issue. And I hailed from a large family. Members of large families savour food. They fight for food. They die, die for food

  however

  No however, howevers. The food would come to me and the auxiliary staff person would not see me while serving.

  A tired woman. I could draw her, her face. She concentrated on the work. I would have communicated with this woman. I would encourage her smile. I would remark in an amusing manner as to the nature of the world, a Stoical perspective assumed, and she would respond to that.

  Nor need communication imply a new relationship. Tomorrow she could resume her normal working practices in silence, her blinkers donned, oblivious to one’s maleness; not any maleness, simply that of the patient, one’s humanity.

  I would so advise her. Do not nullify our existence. Nor is there a need to worry; and certainly not about me. Who has the energy for such nonsense? let alone hospitalized parties the likes of myself. Even prior to the present situation, and location, I was not the man to overstep the mark, certainly not.

  I would prefer being elsewhere. No harm in such a confession.

  The list of dietary details. Nought special for me. I ate anything, red butchermeat a delight. Even salad. Ho hum. I studied the leaves and other food. Oh well. But when I lifted my fork I found that I could not eat. I pushed a forkful of cold meat and lettuce to my mouth, into my mouth, but could not nibble.

  There was no space in my stomach. Where could I put the food? If I swallowed what would happen? Would the meat and lettuce settle in my throat. Perhaps if I masticated thoroughly the food might squeeze its way down. But my goodness it surely was a nonsense. Was I expected to cope. How could I.

  A fellow patient could no longer swallow. The food settled between his cheeks and gums and was a concern for the medical staff should a particle have entered the lungs, pneumonia? something like that. I watched for signs myself. But I was nowhere near that stage.

  My stomach should have had space aplenty for food. In recent days I had eaten less than normal. So why should it now be full? I reached for the notepad. Any phenomena, any at all.

  Nurse Liddell materialized. I prepared to smile but she did not glance in my direction. She returned to the bed nearest the window, old Mister Somebody – McGuire.

  The nurses called me him, but they called Mister McGuire old Mister McGuire.

  Old Mister McGuire. How could one but pity the man. He was always asleep. Or unconscious. The staff spoke about old Mister McGuire within earshot of other patients.

  Beyond earshot what did they call me? Him. But apart from him. The good-looking older guy!

  Has the good-looking older guy been given his bedbath this morning?

  Bedbath. A fantasy for many. Joe Smith always referred to bedbaths in his wee chats. But he was wrong: such events take place free of erections. The nurses, in full professionalism, merely brush the insistent manifestation to one side, get thee beside thee, and dight one’s thighs in a formal manner.

  Poor Joe. Unless he had gone home. People did go home, and as full human beings, resuming their personhood. Each time a bed became empty I presumed the death of the patient. It was nonsense!

  Joe would be missed. But even he failed to engage old Mister McGuire in conversation. Nobody managed that. Not even his middle-aged daughters who appeared most days. They did. That old man was the most regularly visited party in the entire ward. He must have been a great old fellow. Otherwise why would they all come to see him?

  Because he was about to drop dead. And he was rich, and they all had an eye on the loot.

  Whereas me.

  Who the hell came for me! My sons were in England. And people forget. They do. I pretended indifference to my wife, if the subject arose. What did it matter if one’s visitors, one’s visitors

  Few, very few; few, fewer and fewest, in completion of the sentence, which is life itself, life itself is the sentence

  And I needed to piss to piss. But I couldnt. The need was not serious. The entire piss was psychological. It was one for the doctors’ rounds.

  How are you today mister errrrrr?

  Oh I had a psychological piss you fucking nincompoop.

  Nurse Liddell would smile. I too. Unless I frowned. I had no mirror. I wanted no mirror.

  The idea of seeing oneself!

  The philosophers were wrong.

  If I smiled it was self-consciously done. Otherwise impossible. A horse laugh could have worked.

  Another nurse was there now, alongside Nurse Liddell. Who was she? Merciful heavens. I had never seen her before. A thin skull, high cheekbones, lightly the nose, lower lip; hair – and so reminiscent, reminiscent, she was, my god, I knew this woman

  and tense right shoulder tense right shoulder, I could see it from here, the line of her neck, the line of her tits; her hand rested on the patient, near to my neck. ’Twas the same, the same.

  But the eyes of this nurse! Her eyes could not be drawn. Her eyes were so full of the life the life. In the most remarkable of remarkable ways, so full of life, vigorous and beautiful, moving to the other side of my bed, one wanted to kiss her, just embrace, an embrace, who was this woman

  and beyond there the old fellow, Mister – who was it? – somebody, Mister Somebody, dead to the world, shot full of dope, fucking dope

  The sigh was allowed. I had sighed. I sighed. Okay. Settling back on the pillow now, where the pencil, and notepad, the pencil and notepad. Close to the edge oh so close. Thank god she was not attending me, it was not a time for strange nurses.

  Here lieth I, sometime known as Old I, for whisper it: this indeed is I. In sore need of a breath, perhaps so, if not breathing hardly, hardly

  at all, thus might one sleep, have gone in sleep so far, so far, that the pulse, the old pulse, as when the tiredness hits, and the way such tiredness also affects, has affected, effected, so strange, how it happens, occasionally also when my wife is there, sitting by me, as if from nowhere, the plumped pillows.

  Bangs & a Full Moon

  A fine Full Moon from the third storey through the red reflection from the city lights: this was the view. I gazed at it, lying outstretched on the bed-settee. I was thinking arrogant thoughts of that, Full Moons, and all those awful fucking writers who present nice images in the presupposition of universal fellowship under the western Stars when all of a sudden: BANG, an object hurtling out through the window facing mine across the street.

  The windows on this side had been in total blackness; the building was soon to be demolished and formally uninhabited.

  BANG. An object hurtled through another window. No lights came on. Nothing could be seen. Nobody was heard. Down below the street wa
s deserted; broken glass glinted. I returned to the bed-settee and when I had rolled the smoke, found I already had one smouldering in the ashtray. I got back up again and closed the curtains. I was writing in pen & ink so not to waken the kids and wife with the banging of this machine I am now using.

  A Sour Mystery

  The security entrance buzzer sounded. It was somebody who used to be a friend, a firm friend; what they call an ‘intimate’ friend. Obviously I invited her in. Otherwise things would have gone from bad to worse. She was there to give me her troubles. Why else would she come! It was funny, but not amusing; funny peculiar. Her troubles had nothing to do with me. I was no brother-confessor, if that was what she wanted. I was not in that category. The category included ‘objective bystander’. It was annoying she could think such a thing.

  If she would only not visit me!

  Why did she? I felt like screaming. Maybe she mistook me for a monk. That was her habit, not mine.

  I was looking about for money. No damn money. My God. But the kitchen sink. Yes, there by the draining board. Where else. I was going mad. Oh well.

  She was smiling. Good. But it was nice to see.

  I was not apologizing for a damn thing. That includes the draining board. Why! It was mine. Whose life was it!

  Okay one can have less than positive habits. One of mine was emptying my pockets where ere I happened to be. When one empties one’s damn pockets there are sundry other objects, pieces of wool, old tissue with cracked snotters and God knows what else. Dirty greasy coins. Where had that money been! Look at it! Dirty greasy coins! Do not let it near food, oh keep it away from the food. Especially fresh meat. My God the case for vegetarianism was strong.

  But that was was not her. She never said that. Who the hell did say that?

  My mother!

  Interesting to have mixed Jennifer up with my mother, dear old mum.

  But anyway, I would keep my money where I wanted. It was my bloody money. As also my apartment. Or studio. Nowadays it was a studio. Oh I am buying a studio, I am renting a studio. Everybody said it. Pretentious crap, as if everybody was an artist. I have a loft studio. A studio up in the loft. I need it for the light. That was these middle-class television programmes shot in New York City and featuring all these beautiful young people. A load of shit. In the old days a loft was the attic. Nowadays it was a penthouse suite. Old Mike Gilroy referred to it as a bedsit. We shared a first name. I was young Mike and he was old Mike. He was from Wales and worked in the storeroom. I worked in the office. He called me snooty but he was only kidding.

  A bedsit was a bed-sitting-room. A room with a bed to sit in, a room you sit in that also has a bed. That was the studio, one single room where you had a bed and a sink and a chair, all crammed in together with a single wardrobe, a ward for your robes. If ever we wear robes we store them in this ward.

  Ward!

  One of these days it was the lock-up wing for me, I knew it, nothing more certain. How else to cope? How else!

  The world was going crazy. Did dictionaries even exist any longer? That was old Mike’s position. A typical old-timer. The world has gone to the dogs. Dogs. Was I a dog? I felt like a damn dog, especially with her around. No sex for ten years. What was that about, that was me, slight exaggerations here and there, thank God otherwise I would be out the window, I would have jumped out the window.

  She was waiting for me by the outside door. She knew my habits. Mike, she said.

  What?

  We dont have to go out.

  Yes we do, unless you dont want to.

  I dont mind, I dont mind if we dont.

  I shrugged, not looking at her. Because of course we had to go out. Because I was going mad and could not have coped with her presence, never! Not in isolation. I required the additional anxiety of other people, the life-saving force of other people.

  How’s Marianne? I said.

  Oh, good, she’s doing good.

  School and all that?

  Yeh, thanks for asking.

  But the idea of not asking after her daughter! What did she think of me? That spoke volumes, it really did. Why had she even come!

  Seriously, she might have phoned first. Why not? Did she think I never left the place! Like I had nowhere to go. Work and sleep. That was not the case, not at all. Why would she think it? Was I such a a – what? a wreck? she thought I was a wreck? Probably. Probably she did.

  I followed her downstairs. There was a sense of – a definite sense of – of relief, yes sir, a sense of relief coming from her. It was like a draught of air! I felt it!

  People take you by surprise. It is intentional. Then that is them, they have the advantage and will retain it until you retrieve it.

  Society is a jousting match

  But at least she agreed to come to a bar. A coffee house would have been a nightmare. A café or one of these damn what-do-you-call-thems central damn perks. I had forgotten what you even called the bloody places, people sat in them, and there was no beer and no damn spirits. Maybe you got wine. People went to them and were served cheesecake, lattés and liqueurs. You expected it to be full of these white horrors, chins all shaking, the plumply rich and fat wealthy, all eating their Stilton cheese, imported from the French Alps.

  Then we were walking, and how we walked! Our elbows, wrists and coats touched, frequently they touched. My coat touched hers on the hem, mine touched hers. Could my coat be described simply as ‘me’? ‘I touched her’ instead of ‘my coat touched her.’

  There were a couple of ordinary bars in the vicinity thank God, where your ears could relax and they knew how to deep-fry a sausage. The nearest was an ugly place and I disliked drinking there but no point walking miles when a return journey is all that lies ahead. I used to like walking but that was the problem, one had to come home. Sunday was my favourite day. The one day a body could drop money into a beggar’s cup and remain sane. What could be better than the city on a Sunday? The evil horrors have returned to their country mansions and one can walk around at one’s leisure.

  At all other times I barely walked anywhere. How come? It was nothing to do with laziness, I was not a lazy man. Not in my own estimation. But I was honest. She could not have accused me of dishonesty. Never! Never never never!!!

  Surely not. If so then things had changed; things had certainly changed. But people do change in this world. If one seeks certainty, if one were to seek one fixed truth, one by which we might construct a universe, then here is that one certainty, that one fixed truth: people change. Ha bloody ha.

  I heard her shivering. My God. And the traffic was busy. How come it was so busy at lunchtime? She used to worry about a car losing control and crashing into the passersby. If I was late home from work! Yes! She used to worry about me. Oh hell, hell hell.

  Or should one laugh; an hysterical outburst.

  In the old days she would have walked closely by me. But would her arm have been in mine? Lovers entwine arms. Had she ever entwined mine? Or what about me? Had I ever done it to her, entwined? Was this a deficiency and if so who was to blame, if anyone, perhaps no one; why do we always have to blame people, especially those closest to us, and she was, had been so, and was looking older. God almighty! She really was. And walking with her shoulders hunched, and head raised. Head raised. This would cause physical problems in later years. For the spine. Women develop spinal problems; bone conditions for heaven sake surely walking properly was a help! Surely to God! Hey Jennifer, I said.

  What?

  Oh nothing. Only watch the way you walk. You know.

  What?

  You dont want a weakened spine.

  What do you mean?

  How you walk. I shrugged. That spondulitis thing or whatever you call it, women get weak spines

  Oh thanks, she said, thank you, thank you. She paused in walking and smiled at me, and shook her head, shook her head at me, and traffic passing everywhere, and people, all people, all sorts passing, the whole damn world, all passing, and in front of
me, with her there and saying it to me. If I had been in my teens I would have blushed.

  She had to move sideways to avoid a boy on a skateboard, I also stepped to the side. If I had been that age I would never have owned a skateboard. But why not? You only have to be careful, I muttered.

  She looked at me and we continued on. But it was not a mean look or a chiding look, there was a sympathy there. She thought I had been an overly protected boy, that my mother was a tyrant. My mother was not a tyrant. My plight had nothing to do with maternal so-to-speak mismanagement.

  We hardly spoke another word on the walk but she did smile now and then, when she saw me watch her. And I did watch her. Okay. There were these large store-windows. It was quite embarrassing. You were both walking towards one and then looking into the reflection at the same moment. I pretended not to be doing it. I did not even care about my appearance. I had no ego. No ego! What in heaven’s name did that mean? Ego me mihi meum: everybody has an ego. Well not me, not in that sense. I was a damn weed! A nine-stone weakling, thirty-six years of age and I only bloody hell my body, an embarrassment.

  Who cares. Bodies are bodies. Then again

  No.

  But there was a demeaning side to what was happening. I could not take all the blame. Once upon a time ours was a proper relationship.

  I have to describe myself in the third person.

  At least they slept together, once upon a time. Once upon a time she enjoyed his company. Yes, for its own sake. When males and females sleep together it is a very fine thing indeed when they are also friends. Maybe not with bisexual males who are noted for their one-night stands and general promiscuity. Promiscuity. The word itself, the herald of untold mystery. He knew one fellow who drank in the same local bar as himself and acted in a coy manner. Mike was not unfriendly but distant; typically he was drunk by the end of the evening [a damnable lie!] and joked loudly with the barstaff. Two other fellows drank in this bar and might have been lovers in that non-physical masculine manner, they were forever kissing and canoodling. Bidding one another hail or farewell was an excuse to get physical.