If it is your life

by James Kelman

  Didnt nobody tell you you’re a piece of shit, pieces of shit dont speak.

  I nodded. It sounded sensible.

  I had to hold onto my jeans at the waistband, they had taken my belt and my belly had shrunk. Skin and bone. When I lay on my back the skin at the front rested on the skin at the back. The cell entrance was ahead. Now. And I flexed my upper arm in preparation for the push in the back. When it came I went: Aaahhh! to improve the Officer’s temper. Useless being a right-wing sadist bastard if naybody notices. He was a heavy lump of a man and could have knocked the stuffing out me. If he had caught me. What they call a big clumsy ox. I was wiry and slippery and could escape from tight corners. I also packed a punch. The Officer maybe inferred as much and gave me a lengthy stare. Just you try it buddy. Such was the guy’s thought. Yet Accompanying Officers are also human beings. The doors closed solidly, with a juicy kind of thump.

  I stepped back and sat on the edge of the palliasse. Here was reality and yes it was grim. A time for reflection, when fellow beings are excused scrutiny.

  Later I felt better.

  Too soon for a wank. It was to be used for sedation purposes only. Okay. I pondered the past days. My sorry luck; it had been so bad there was nothing to be done, nothing to be said. Bemoan it, then proceed. Life would continue even though I had been absented from it. But if this palliasse had been available to me a few days ago then I would have been okay. I patted it. You should have been mine, I said, I would’ve taken care of you, kept you warm in winter.

  So I was talking to a bed, so what.

  Yet a sigh was warranted. This was to have been paradise. The only thing better than not working was not working in a land of sunny climes. This was such a land, where young women tourists freely gave of themselves to local young males of unmanacled spirit, suntanned and with healthy limbs.

  Why do suntans and healthy limbs enter it? The unmanacled spirit one can understand. Outdoor lives! I was thinking of those, where one could become fit and well, a lithe individual; maybe working as a beachguard. Once upon a time I could swim. If I escaped from the island gaol then certainly I might throw myself into the sea and thresh towards the horizon.

  But really, I didnay want to be deported. Had the Court Official stated such categorically? Perhaps he meant something else. Ambiguity was a feature in small southern towns. Sure they had found me ‘lurking’ beside the garbage bins down a ‘back alley’. But all alleys are out the back and anyone found in such a byway is said to be ‘lurking’. Come on now tell the truth and state the case fairly: Mr Duncan was sheltering from a gale wind.

  I was. That was a hellish gale wind and no mistake. Sure I had the smell of alcohol on my breath. What in God’s teeth was wrong with that? I was twenty-one years of age and beyond the age of legitimacy. It was my first day in the place and I had got ashore safely, safely. A celebration had been in order. Such behaviour was normal. What did ‘normality’ mean in this here burg.

  No job; okay. Abode there was none; okay. Cash ditto; nothing new in that. And no Verifiable Information as to Previous Whereabouts. So they said. Mr Duncan begged to differ. I did. I offered to verify anything, anything. To no avail. Then too, there also existed, and freely confessed: Bad Tidings from a certain Ship’s Restaurant.

  Such was the crime, such the criminal.

  At 4.30 a.m. they had chanced upon me. My first day in the place. Two glaring flashlights inches from my eyes. Eighteen hours earlier could life have been rosier! Bestriding the upper decks in jaunty fashion bidding fellow passengers G’day.

  Envious stares all round. I had been the only person left at the bar with a pint of stout in front of me. That was no sentimental nonsense. Truly the case. A six-hour sail had become a ten-hour battle through some of the worst seas the stewards had witnessed in fifteen years on the run. So they said.

  Ah but it suited me. I was trying a new approach to life and so far it was working. It was simple. I had ceased being stand-offish. I was always interested in the lives of other people but in the past had looked on from afar. The idea of opening a conversation with a guy behind the bar would have been unthinkable, even more unthinkable that I would carry it forwards. But I persisted and the barman repaid me by blethering on about all manner of oddities, some boring, some not so boring.

  At long last I was becoming a sociable animal. It was bound to aid my job prospects. I bought the guy a couple of black rums, then tried one myself. I sniffed at it firstly. Mm, an okay aroma. But the taste itself made me groo. The barman was relishing his. Black rum was a tradition, a fighting tradition. Besides being an old salt he was a decent guy and chatted away about life in general. He came from a wee island himself and had been raised to a life of easy servitude. He was even content! Tips were good and although a married man of somewhat advanced years, female tourists beckoned occasionally.

  It sounded the thing to me. But were there vacancies aboard the boat? I was set to enquire but for some reason the thought of work vanished from my mind. I certainly fancied life as a sailor. On short trips definitely. But if pushed I would hire on for longer sojourns. On ocean-going vessels only. Above all they must be sea-worthy!

  These ruminations were at an end when came an announcement. Last orders for the restaurant which soon would be closing.

  But man man man I was starving! I had not noticed this until that very moment! This call to knives and forks had been announced for me and me only. There was naybody else left. I bade the barman G’day and followed my nose to midships. I had to hold on to banisters and walls. The sea was going up and down to heights my fellow travellers found tricky and the floors were slippery with a mixture of vomit and the golden briny. But the God of Empty Bellies urged me on. Shipahoy, I was starving.

  The place was empty. A waiter showed me to a table and passed me a sheaf of menu pages. I thanked him, nodded appreciatively at the listed contents then ordered a meal that would plunder more than half of my entire life savings. But Gahd sir it was worth every coin. A three-course meal, plus a half carafe of casa rosa. The Starter I had was this: the Chef Special with Prawns and Mussels and Choice Fruits à la Mer and it came in a fishblood gravy – how else to describe it – with wee splashes of syrup at the side of the plate and a skinny trail of green peppery stuff. And thick bread to wipe it up; a sweet bread with a cake-like crust that one hesitates to describe as crust at all and yet as tasty a bread as ever succumbed to my advances.

  I was not alone after all. Gadzooks. This reached the higher slopes of sentimentality. Two fine-looking elderly ladies were to the side of the room, having a laugh together, both tucking into whatever it was, marzipan jelly and devilled ice cream with marshmallow sauce, chocolate nuts and very thin, mint biscuits, onchontay madames. These ladies were French, a la chic chic

  Meanwhile strong men crumbled, their bellies succumbing to the heaving seas. Why oh why did we have the last six pints of stout, they screamed to an uncaring hurricane! Or was it eight pints? Oh for fuck sake, Quick quick quick, was the shout, and which way doth the wild wind blow? Always spew portside. Such I had learned from a venerable sage of the sea.

  Between courses I endured a moment’s anxiety. Okay now my life had been short. Who could argue with that? Me! I would have argued. It had been forever! But I had already ordered the grub so no way back. Sink or swim.

  For the main dish I ordered another Chef Special. And never antagonize a Chef. We all know that. Chefs are unpredictable creatures in diverse ways when off-duty but not in the fucking kitchen.

  But no Chef worth his salt ever disliked a trencher-man. Any Chef worth his weight in biscuits was above and beyond the call of La cuenta por favor. For any creature such that that creature was a Chef, what occurred on the plate was the sole and overriding issue.

  The strict course of action was to finish the plate and wipe it clean, to cry for bread and sook up the gravy. That gave one a head start. Sympathy would be mine. Whereas to order such a meal and dilly-dally with it! A veritable slap on the face.
No Chef worthy of the name could endure the insult.

  It was true. I knew it for a fact. I had experience of Chefs, having worked in a restaurant on three occasions, howsomever in a cleansing capacity, having failed to traverse the higher rungs of the cookery ladder.

  For the Main Course, oh boy: Halibut Steak in Basic Garlic Sauce, with Chargrilled Tomatoes and Okra. Chargrilled tomatoes! A girl of a loquacious bent once advised me that along the Chargrilled vegetable route lay a cancerous labyrinth, that once entered could only advance. What did I care. Plus a mélange of thick red onions, red cobweb cabbage and chunky red peppers. Placed alongside this a pewter bowl with a further trio of vegetables: dark-green broccoli, blue-white cauliflower and slender green items that may have been beansprouts, peapods, or a luxury vegetable item rarely seen on workaday dinner plates and whose name seldom registers in the brain of such as oneself, to wit, me. Little wonder the two elderly ladies laughed so loudly. I waved across.

  A waiter lingered by the ladies’ table for a moment’s conversation, poured tea from the pot. I noticed that the fellow’s crisp white teacloth dragged from his elbow across the dessert plates. It must have been the roll of the sea for these waiters were top-notch servers, given they operated as gigolos on the side and were wont to exhibit a smug exhaustion. Of course I envied them. Of course I did. I was a personable young fellow. The position of gigolo was not beyond me.

  Ah but a most delicious and succulent repast. The waiter now served me Choice Cuts of Cheese and Rare Stuffed Olives. One’s compliments to the Chef. A brandy to follow would have been injudicious. On second thoughts

  No. No second thoughts. Not even the cheese and Stuffed Olives. I moved to a leather seat by a porthole. The shutter had been drawn. I tried to push it up but it was set fast. It would have been too narrow to clamber through. I knew how to clamber through narrow apertures but this would have been impossible, certainly in consideration of the recent repast.

  And alack alack alack oh, the waiter was presenting a la cuenta. He was of a kindly demeanour. I smiled and accepted the slip of paper. I folded it twice over without looking, slipping it into my pocket. I toyed with it for many minutes, unable to confront what could only be a disaster. Life had never been easy. Today was no different. I glanced sideways and roundabout.

  And the porthole cover remained stationary. By a glazed display cabinet the waiter was reading a folded newspaper. By the upper-deck exit stood his uniformed colleague. I was on guard misooh!

  Ach well.

  Time certainly passed. Where had the elderly women gone?

  I was in a state of extreme dolority, always a time for sore reflection. But what transpired during this time for sore reflection is anyone’s guess. Did I faint? I was resting with my head against the side of the wall, on the other side of which raged a hostile sea. Maybe I dozed. I sighed and my breast heaved and my heart was heavy, and oh, all manner of self-castigatory musings were mine. My fuck. I couldnt afford the damn meal what in God’s teeth was I to do may the decks open up and the seven seas swallow me oh Lord, for such would have been my fervent prayer had I been inclined towards such a course. Oh Maid de la Mer rescue me.

  But no such rescue occurred. Reality had never been more stark. At last the light tap on the shoulder. I sighed and braced myself. It was more of a bad dream than a nightmare.

  Both waiters were before me: We are approaching the harbour sir. The doors of this restaurant are closing, they are closed.

  I have no money.

  You cannot settle the bill sir?

  I cannot, no.

  They sighed.

  I apologize, truthfully. I do not have the money. I over-extended myself. Is there a Catering Manager?

  You have no credit card sir?

  No.

  It must go badly for you.

  Is there nothing can be done? Your food was just so good and enticing I mean it was just so so good.

  The waiters shook their head. It was apparent that what was happening had not been unforeseen. They had spotted me from the outset. They knew me for a risk. Och well. All to the good. Such was my conclusion.

  I shrugged but my brains were going nineteen to the dozen as my grannie used to say. Where was my grannie now, now that I needed that venerable worthy? She would have gathered me unto her vast skirts and hidden me asunder.

  The harbour police greet our arrival, said one waiter.

  You will be handed over to them, said the other.

  May I go to the upper deck until then?

  Alas no, it is not permitted.

  I nodded. Nothing was to be done. Once more I was afoul of the Fates. I closed my eyes and imagined stepping over bodies to the upper deck and outside, letting the wind blow the sweaty staleness from my clothes, the rain like buckshot, one’s head bowed, the scalp spattered.

  I again prayed. In an earlier time I prayed regularly to ward off evil and to bring material gain. How come I gave it up? Goodness me.

  The storm abated. The small islands would have emerged from the heavy mist and torrential rain.

  Soon the ship docked, the passengers disembarked; the two elderly ladies, the dishevelled and recovering stout drinkers, the lithe-legged female tourists.

  I alone, I alone.

  The waiters sat by the upper-deck exit. This left the lower-deck exit. I might make my way below, a speedy search for lost coins, lost bags and other properties. But this would be futile.

  Life was beyond me. It had never been sweet. Adequate luck was all I sought; the occasional discarded, half-eaten jellied pork pie. But ah me, the stuff of dreams. I saw the waiters. One dozed. Had I tried a fly move they would have been instantly alert. Instead I called: Hullo!

  They looked across.

  I have discovered money! May I now settle the bill in full?

  Yes, they said.

  The difficulty is that it represents three quarters of my entire life savings.

  Ours also sir, we are a poor people.

  On a previous occasion and in a different location I had landed in a new town at the start of a new life with funds whose extension was negated by one coffee and a cheese and pickle sandwich. I thought to narrate this to the waiters. They would have been interested.

  Nothing was to be done. My pockets were not vast. I brought forth the money and concluded the transaction. The waiters nodded me towards the exit.

  Lubbers yawned as I stepped down the gangway. Apart from the boatstaff I was last man ashore.

  I strolled the nearby streets and alleyways, familiarizing myself with the landmarks. Evening approached. I returned to the promenade and a small coffee stall, but it had closed. I moved to a pub and eavesdropped conversations, sipped long on water, hoping for reports on temporary abodes and immediate job prospects.

  Then it was closing time. The barman was upturning chairs on to the tops of tables. The pub doors were open. I had to leave. My bag was at my feet. I lifted it and walked.

  Later I settled myself on a bench, and tried to doze. But a hurricane appeared as from nowhere. I returned to the nearby streets and alleyways, seeking a likely place, a place of repose. Enter Officers with Flashlights.

  Tomorrow the sun would shine, cooking the tar on the roads, upon which feet might squelch. On the walk to the beach an agreeable suffering. Of course posing along the hot sands, flicking grains of sand onto people’s skin, stepping across brown curvy bodies, whither a one may rise and follow, an heiress searching for the simple unmanacled life, the sensual masculine animal to lead her and show her that which exists for the bolder imaginations, and how to take it without disturbing other souls, to spend that fortune wisely, seeking only happiness at a cost other than rippling waves, and so on, into the water. Enter Officers with Flashlights.

  Ach well.

  One day I would gaze back upon this escapade wistfully. Yes me hearties, this yere were the point my whole life did change.

  I sipped at the mug of water. A uniformed fellow had brought me this mug of water. The Gaoler
. He looked ages with me and was self-conscious, almost embarrassed. In another life we might have gone to the same school or else been a pair of coconuts on the same tree, if one believed in reincarnation. Some of these beliefs embraced the world of objects; former or future lives might include lower vegetative states. Fanciful but appealing. Coconuts too have a life. They hang beneath a clear sunny sky, sipping their own palm wine, gazing upon a placid sea.

  The sex life of coconuts.

  My ferry fare back to the effing mainland had been paid by the island authorities. I would have accepted half of that sum roundly and in the palm of my hand. It would have enabled me to go forth on a full stomach to seek work and sustenance. I would have accomplished the mission. Never no more would I have been a burden on the island citizenry.

  Honest!

  In the name of God’s teeth it was surely bad sociological economics to deport me to the effing mainland. In days past such offers were surely afforded the more exotic beggar. And I was of that ilk.

  Date of departure: April.

  I aimed a kick at the palliasse but did not perform the action. Instead I flopped into the corner that had become my favourite. I once considered joining the regular army as an escape from reality. Now here I was.

  Why had the Accompanying Officer not allowed me to shave and get my hair in order?

  I belonged to that class of fellow whose existence antagonized a particular kind of older male. The Court had been composed of these Older Males. A ‘smart appearance’ was always of the essence. Thus had the Court Official stared upon me, lips curling, nostrils flaring. He coughed three times before speaking, which denoted a grave conclusion:

  Pieces of shit do not have the power to speak.

  All aboard!

  These and similar musings. I lay on a palliasse in a cell six feet long by six feet wide, or was this too a part of the dream? Would I awaken from this?

  In the outside world people enjoyed living. The sun shone. The salty island air, the salty freshwater.

  In the town dungeon, a young man of sound limb awaits a ship to points north.