by Dan Tyte
I’d pissed my boss off.
I’d pissed our main investor off.
I’d pissed Christy off.
I’d pissed my pants.
In a lifetime of lows, this was a new depth plunged.
And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something.
It was the ginger cat.
Hanging from a broken branch.
‘Hang On In There,’ the bubble written caption on the poster said.
Hang on in there.
Where had I heard that before?
Sister Gina. She’d said it to me. Over and over.
HANG ON IN THERE.
So I would.
Chapter 16
‘Can I get anyone a cuppa?’
Jill spun around her chair and shot me a look seen on faces the world over at moments of unforgettable social importance: the moon landings, the Kennedy assassination, the moment the plane hit the first tower, the day Bill McDare offered to make a round of hot beverages. Cultural flagstones one and all.
‘What the fuck are you after?’ she said.
‘Oh, I don’t know: friendship, camaraderie, a sense of togetherness, maybe one in return in an hour or so…’
‘But, Bill, you never make tea. NEVER.’
‘Well, there’s going to be a few changes around here.’
Jill looked at me with equal parts surprise and suspicion.
‘Okay, not too much milk.’ I trotted to the kitchen and set about my task.
If I had to pick a location for a road to Damascus moment, I’m not sure a blim-burned, piss-drenched sofa would have been in the top three but beggars can’t be choosers. Not that I was begging for change. I was quite happy to drink myself silly and be a bit, well, cunty, but when, as now, it threatened my ever being able to (a) work in this town again or (b) have sex with someone whose name I remembered, then things had to come to a head.
I thought long and hard about adding a nip of scotch to my tea.
I needed to pull myself together. What did my generation have to be fucked up about? No scurvy or black plague, no offwiththeirhead monarchs, no World War, no watching yourbuddydiefacedowninthedirt of a tropical jungle. Not even the credit crunch made a difference – we still ran at 100 mph, we just greased the gas differently. Our problem was superfluidity. Cars, communications, TV stations, shoes, socks, drinks, drugs, dicks, cunts. And my problem was: which one or how much?
Well, boo hoo.
Take Christy for example: a dead mother, a boozy absent father, a mother by proxy to a bed-wetting brother in her teens. And did she complain or kill herself with lifestyle choices? Did she fuck. I’d woken up with a start this morning, a dream, or a flashback, running through my mind. It was Christy. She was saying she needed her dad. Sometimes. Not always, but sometimes. She had tears in her big black eyes. Had this happened? Was this Friday? It was hard to know what was real after weekends on the wild side.
I sipped my scotch-free tea and mulled over the next steps. What this sea change needed was a charter to avoid deviation to the old ways. I went back to my desk. It was lunchtime now, the office plate emptying with errand runners and errant lovers off into the outside to scratch their itch until it was nose back to the bullshit time. I thought about the boys outside the building, with their premium strength booze and low rent conversation…
…they’d have to wait for a tale of valour from a balaclava-clad Gulf vet. I opened the word processor, clicked ‘New Document’ and started to type.
This would be my Ten Commandments. This was my Mount Sinai. I knew this Catholic education would come in useful for something.
1. Thou should probably not piss off the boss for sport, belittle colleagues because they wear tank tops and enjoy the countryside, or amble aimlessly towards middle management without an ambitious career goal.1
2. Thou shalt not be drunk on whisky, wine and mouthwash during work, the walk to work, the walk home from work, the waking hours.
3. Thou shalt not increase uptake of uppers, downers, screamers and/or laughers to compensate for aforementioned lack of alcohol or otherwise.
4. Thou should most probably take notice of Dr Linda Taylor and the intricacies of her Wellness Health Check (and not just because she was a knockout2), particularly giving up smoking.
5. Thou should stop littering each and every sentence with words including, but not exclusive of, shit, fuck, cuntface, bugger, arsewipe, dickwad, knob-cheese and shitfuckarsebollocksssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss.
My concentration was broken by a loud, repetitive shriek reminiscent of an orgasmic seagull.
‘Tea… tea… do you want a tea?’
‘What?
‘Tea…?’
It was Jill repaying the favour.
‘Erm, yeah. Go on. Yeah. Milk no…’
‘I know.’
I’m sure Moses never had to put up with this.
Right, back to the redemption.
6. Thou should visit thy mother more often than on days designated special by greetings card companies and should recognise, if not celebrate, the happiness she seems to receive from that wrinkly wanker3 Barry.
7. Thou shalt aspire to have thy own four walls and to live in quarters that do not feature an al fresco bathroom experience.4
8. Thou shalt stop being such a cynical bastard.5
9. Thou should try and engage with the local community and help the downtrodden, in more ways than being a drinking partner to the socially delinquent.
10. Thou should try and find unselfish love.
I felt so worthy I wanted to throw up.
PING. The email window popped up in the bottom right of my screen.
From: carol.cleary@morgan&schwarz.com
To: all@morgan&schwarz.com
Subject: Give-a-garment
Dear all,
As many of you know, not that I like to boast, every Tuesday I help out at the SoupMobile Station in the centre of the city. I’m sure I don’t have to tell people as kind as you that it’s a great cause and we really do try and ‘make a difference’ to homeless and hungry people across our city.
Now it’s been a while since I last asked you all, but I would really appreciate it if you could have a root around your wardrobes for any old clothes you may have to donate. You know, the kind you don’t wear anymore but are in perfectly good nick.
Any jeans, jumpers, joggers or jodphurs (well, perhaps they won’t quite be horse riding just yet!!!) you find on your de-clutter will be gratefully received and will go to a good home.
Having seen the gladrags you all wore on Friday night I’m just certain you’ll all have some of last season’s clothes to give to someone who needs them more.
A point to remember is all donations must be clean and useable. Would appreciate any donations in by next week, before the weather turns too cold.
Many thanks,
Carol
From: bill.mcdare@morgan&schwarz.com
To: carol.cleary@morgan&schwarz.com
Subject: Re: Give-a-garment
Carol,
Have just written a reminder on my hand. In pen. Now if I don’t shower in the morning, you’ll know. My very own scarlet letter.
I don’t suppose you could do with a hand next Tuesday? At the Soup Station or whatever it’s called. There’ll probably be a lot of stuff for you to carry over and I don’t mind hanging around and helping out.
Or not. Wouldn’t want to get in the way.
Either way, let me know.
Bill
From: carol.cleary@morgan&schwarz.com
To: bill.mcdare@morgan&schwarz.com
Subject: Re: Give-a-garment
Bill,
That’s really very kind of you and I must say, really very unexpected.
I didn’t really think it’d be your kind of ‘scene’ if that’s what people are saying these days! I’m sure I’ll be fine with the clothes bags – Miles has very nicely agreed to my use of the pool car to ferry the donations across
the city – but we could always do with an extra pair of hands at the SoupMobile. It can get quite hectic!
Would love to have you on the team if you really mean it?!?
Many thanks,
Carol
From: bill.mcdare@morgan&schwarz.com
To: carol.cleary@morgan&schwarz.com
Subject: Re: Give-a-garment
Carol,
I do mean it.
You could say I’m having a bit of a clear out myself, and not just of my wardrobes.
Looking forward to it,
Bill
PS Oh, and Carol, would appreciate it if you kept this to yourself. Don’t really want the rest of the office knowing. You know what they’re like.
From: peter.white@morgan&schwarz.com
To: all@morgan&schwarz.com
Subject: Re: Give-a-garment
Hi Carol,
Sounds like a great idea!
Sure I can dig out some old clobber for your charity.
Just one thing though… you said the clothes will go to a ‘good home’…
Aren’t they all HOMELESS?
;)
Pete
The trouble with moments of clarity was that the lucidity of your new situation hit you straight between the eyes. And getting hit straight between the eyes hurt like a motherfucker. I was, if not yet killing my babies of hooch, hits and whores, then making the first step towards a pre-meditated smothering. In the court case of McDare v Vice, today would be used as damning evidence against me. If it ever got to that. It would. It would. It would. It would. It would. It would. It would. It would. It would. (The theory of repetition posits that even the best students needed eight repetitions to commit an idea to memory).
It would.
1 Thou shalt not use the term ‘career goal’. Thou cunt
2 Thou shalt not covet thy medical consultant’s calves
3 Sincere apologies to the Fifth Commandment
4 Thou shalt not base the location of a new dwelling on the covetousness of thy potential neighbour’s wife
5 See footnote 3
Chapter 17
‘So, in a nutshell that’s what the SoupMobile Station is all about. Remember, folks, we’re giving these guys and gals a ‘hand up’ not a ‘hand out’. There’s a big difference. Now let’s go make a difference!’
I was stood in a small, damp Portakabin with five or six other ‘enablers’. I hadn’t taken in a word that had been said for the last twenty minutes. An attempt at rousing had been made by a youngish man by the name of Nick. Behind his beads and sparse post-pubescent beard hid a face, a demeanour, an accent of privilege. I could see it now: the youngest son of the Earl of Bucklebury. When the family entertained, as it often did, he’d always slipped away into the grounds with a handkerchief full of canapes for the gardener before returning to the grand hall and drawing rolled eyes from mother for his muddied soles. After fagging for a singularly brutal master at school he refused his own boy and ended up being bullied by the seniors for his stand. He’d spent summers volunteering for Médecins Sans Frontières in the Democratic Republic of Congo, using the impeccable French he’d learnt from his Parisian au pair to provide logistical support in field hospitals. It was here that he met his first real life black person. And now this. Serving watered down minestrone and on-the-turn bread rolls to miscreants. It made him feel warm inside. His parents, the Earl and Countess, disapproved. This was his adolescent rebellion. The SoupMobile Station his teenage tattoo. Mummy and Daddy were mortified. Why couldn’t he be a banker or a barrister like the other children? Bleeding heart liberals were the worst fucking kind. I made a mental note to stop these thought patterns. Nearly three decades of cynicism through the synapses was hard to stop overnight.
‘Oh, and before you skip to the beat, there is one last thing everybody. We have had a few reports of over-familiarity with our female enablers from some of the diners. I’ve got to stress, guys, that these are isolated incidents. Let’s keep on keeping on, yeah? Now get out there and spread the love!’
Carol visibly shrunk into her Berghaus like a fleeced turtle. I couldn’t help thinking Nick had chosen the wrong call to action to send us out shovelling soup to sozzled sex pests. At least I’d know the audience.
We filed out of the temporary hut, modern day Nightingales against the urban darkness and all its broken baggage. The SoupMobile Station was situated behind one of the shopping district’s many department stores. By daylight, thousands upon thousands of desensitised dummies traipsed the concrete paths, driven by the desire for designer names, digital goods and deep fried doughnuts. Water features and plastic trees made them feel calm. Shops had become the new cathedrals. In 2436, East Asian tourists would be snap-happy outside the remains of an Abercrombie and Fitch, while futuristic hustlers, dressed up in plastic six-packs and prep wear, vied for their space dollars.
It was a different story at dusk. While the shoppers and store workers swarmed out to the suburbs to play with their new answer to life’s problems, the underfed underbelly came out of the corners to pick on the bones of the day’s trade. Half-bitten burgers, dropped purses, binned receipts ready to become part of a return scam: the cyclical nature of the shopping centre’s eco-system would have pleased even the world’s best botanist. But there were only ever so many bones to go around. Which was where the SoupMobile Station came in. A twice-weekly drop-in dispensary offering the feral food, first aid and a sense of family. All paid for by the commercial property fund behind the retail outlets. A raging corporate social responsibility hard-on, written off against tax. It had been Miles’ idea and we’d all kicked ourselves when he had it. Why didn’t we come up with that? That’s why he was the boss, we’d supposed. It had opened three years ago in a blaze of back-patting publicity. Morgan & Schwarz even arranged for the social justice minister to serve the first soup for a photo opportunity. ‘Make sure the tramp is black,’ said the brief.
Problem was, the bottom had fallen out of the commercial property game since the recession. The fund was pulling out and the place was going to close down. No more free soup for the smackheads. Time to get there before it closed. In fuck knows how many years of working for Morgan & Schwarz, tonight was the first time I’d ever gone near the place. The first thing that hit me was the smell. It reeked of piss and pea and ham soup. Sure, I was used to hanging out with society’s scrotum scratchers, but always in an altered state of consciousness. Smelling the city through a sober nose was, well, sobering.
‘So this is your first time here, isn’t it? I don’t believe I’ve seen you before.’ I was being addressed by a ruddy septagerian dressed in entirely in tweed.
‘Yes, yes it is. You could say I was a volunteer virgin.’ Fucking hell, I was turning into Pete. Carol blushed at the subverted sexual side to my response and moved things along.
‘Derek, this is Bill. Bill’s a colleague of mine.’
Derek’s sunken eyes lit up.
‘Another truth-bender are you, son? Ahaaa, ha ha…’ The laugh emanated from deep inside his overhanging belly and he playfully punched me in the arm. Every sinew of my soul wanted to punch him in the face. My fists clenched. Remember the rules, Billy boy. Moses wouldn’t deck a red-faced pensioner, would he? Moses was a red-faced pensioner. I took a deep breath, or as deep a breath as my laconic lungs would allow.
‘Something like that, Derek. Right, let’s go and save the world, shall we?’
‘Bill, Bill, Bill…?’ Derek was shaking me by the shoulder.
‘Uhhh….’
‘We run a clean ship here, Bill, you hear me? We wash up as we go and we wipe down soup splats as and when. You with me?’
‘Uhhh… I’m sorry Derek. I kind of drifted off a little there.’ In the short period I’d been off the hooch, this had been happening a bit. Hallucinatory holidays to the inner depths of the imagination. If the booze couldn’t give me a break from reality, then it seemed my brain would.
‘Their ETA is in approximately 30 minutes
so we need to man our stations. You know what they say: fail to prepare, prepare to fail.’
‘Right.’
Derek’s air of order and pomposity clearly marked him out as an ex-military man. Never a private elbow deep in the mud and the blood of the trenches, but a paperwork man, a second signatory, a minute taker and motion-passed man. His small eyes looked at me with a sympathy usually reserved for retards.
‘First things first, time to don the appropriate attire.’
‘You wouldn’t want to get broth on your tweed would you?’ My attempt at humour was ignored.
‘Certainly not. Here…’ He handed me a white apron, a plastic hair net and some blue gloves. I put them on very slowly.
I forced a smile through gritted teeth.
‘Start buttering the rolls, will you?’
‘Got it.’ I located a value pack of 100 white rolls and an industrial-sized tub of margarine.
‘Do about forty to start with. That should be sufficient. The rest can be done as and when.’
‘Sure.’
I lost myself for a few minutes in the reassuring monotony of the task. Cut, spread, fold, cut, spread, fold. And repeat. Disappointed faces danced through my mind: Mum, Miles, Carol, Connie, Craig, Dr Taylor, Pete, Barry, the German, my Dad, Christy.
Christy.
I needed to – to borrow a phrase from that twat Nick – ‘turn those frowns upside down’. And not just through the old friend of self-deprecation. Because where did that get you in the end? Where did anything get you? How did my particular set of circumstances throw me here, to a fucking soup kitchen with a retired bastard brigadier? Satan moved in mysterious ways.
