Bone Idol

by David Louden

  “You can always return them if you don’t like them, just take them to the lamp post at the corner of Fortwilliam.”

  She laughed “They’re beautiful.”

  “Then they suit you.”

  There it was, it was out, out before I could have the none pecker related part of my brain check it for typos or school boy errors. She’d blush, not shying away from the comment in a way that I liked and as she grew redder and accepted the flowers into her waiting arms I did my best to wrangle down the salute my bugger stick was attempting.

  “I’m not one of those guys, you know that right?”

  She nodded.

  “It’s a long story but it was personal is all…I’m not…”

  “I know, I know you’re not. Thank you for the flowers.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Shouldn’t you be heading to class?”

  “Suspended.”

  “Right. Then shouldn’t you be enjoying your freedom?”

  “I’m off to do that right now, just wanted to do this first.”

  “Much appreciated Douglas. I’ll see you in two weeks then…maybe.”

  “Yeah maybe.”

  “We have Henry Miller, so be prepared.”

  “Maybe.” I said, backing out the door.

  As I left the school teachers and pupils were eyeballing me, all wondering and speculating what had brought me here. I couldn’t have cared less. I was walking two inches off the ground. I didn’t need a cigarette but I had one anyway and watched from the front gate as Gerry Zippo bullied a couple of the tiny kids. I should have cared how he escaped the suspension but I didn’t; I didn’t care about much of anything just how red she got.

  16

  THE OLD LADY put me to work as though I was a house servant and she didn’t waste a god-damn minute doing it clapping her hands inches from my face moments after 9AM the next morning.

  “Chop, chop!”

  “Are you shitting me?”

  “You going to fuck around in school, well I can’t do much about that but while you’re out in the cold you’re going to work and wish to God you weren’t. Now, get your ass out of bed!” she barked “Breakfast is on the table, if I’ve to come up and do this twice I’ll be bringing a pot of water with me.”

  She’d leave and I’d rummage around behind my head in the chest of drawers I’d stuck there to allow me to get dressed without having to get vertical too early. I threw on a pair of boxers, a white tee and a pair of jeans before skipping downstairs.

  The gutters at the front and back of the house were overhanging with green slop. I took the ladder up with a handful of plastic bags tucked into my back pocket and began scraping them out. I’d work a few feet before lighting up a cigarette and, being careful not to use any of my gutter fingers, would smoke it down to the tip before stubbing it out in the damp of the gutter and dropping them down into the bag. The old man’s quote came to mind. He may have been a bastard and a fiend of an old drunk but that didn’t make the prickly faced old codger wrong. I’d fill another bag and spark up another cigarette as the ladder shuddered and shook below my feet.

  “Earthquake test muthafucka!” Jason called out.

  “You’re a funny prick aint’ you?!”

  “Damn right.”

  “Funnier yet when I drop a deuce on you.”

  He’d hold it firm and I’d descend with my four bags of moss, dropping them into the bin before it occurred to me that Jason was also suspended but yet still out of bed with the milkmen.

  “So what’s up baby?” I’d ask.

  “Running up to Jamaica Street for the old man,” he said slipping a cigarette out of my pack “his brother died last week and they’re coming to clear out his house tomorrow. He never got married but had something like eight fucking kids, all of them crack-heads. Dad wants me to clear the place out of anything valuable so those fucking junkies don’t pawn it.”

  I’d tag along as the chance to escape being kicked around by the schizophrenic wind at the top of a ladder was too good to resist. Jason’s granddad was a militant old asshole who spent half of his days behind bars and still managed to have an army of kids. He’d name them all after revolutionaries regardless of their mothers’ opinions on the matter making Jason’s uncle the only Ché I had ever heard of in North Belfast.

  He lived like a bachelor; two plates in the cupboard, a dozen glasses in the sink all with the same wash-back whiskey and Diet Coke. He had been diagnosed with type two diabetes two years previous and had switched to diet in an effort to keep his toes. The waste paper bin over-ran with crisp packets and balled up tissues and none of the walls had seen a lick of paint or wallpaper since the Bay of Pigs. Upstairs everything was in boxes, brown boxes with a single strip of tape and no description to identify bathroom from bedroom from guest room. Three inches of dust sat on top of everything upstairs, doors to duvets.

  “Where the fuck did he piss?” I’d ask.

  “I don’t know, Dad said something about him living in his kitchen but I just thought he was taking the mick out of the old guy.”

  Jason suggested we take down and break open a few boxes. I’d grab a hold of one; we’d lapse into a sneezing competition the second the earthy tones were disturbed. Jason would rip back the seal and pop open the first box; an orderly mass of black video cassettes sat side up keeping the mystery alive for a moment. We’d grab another box, more video cassettes, a third would reveal a pattern and by early afternoon we had opened every box that dominated the top of the house. I’d flip a few side-on to see the spine. Deep Inside Desiree, Cumpany Girls, Moanin’ Lisa. The list would go on and on and on, some titles clever puns others simply graphic descriptions of what to expect. Jason would pop one in and hit play; his uncle had copied them from long lost masters and fast-forwarded through all of the narrative and exposition straight to the pounding.

  “This one’s like six hours long,” he’d say with awe “all the boring shit cut out.”

  “There’s fucking hundreds of them.”

  “Thousands maybe.”

  “You think your dad meant fuck tapes when he said about your uncle’s valuables?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “So he must have meant the tea set rather than the tea-bagging set. He must have spent years bashing his balls.”

  “You know how much we could sell these for?” Jason struck.

  “You and Scotty do it, I don’t need the money.”

  “You can’t still have anything left from working the track, that was like two years ago.”

  “I worked it over good enough, and I don’t need the trouble.”

  “What trouble?”

  “You going to go door-to-door? Excuse me sir when was the last time you slapped the Cyclops, may I interest you in a lady nailing a dwarf!” I said in an accent I wasn’t sure where it came from.

  “No we sell them at fucking school dickhead, you know how many of those horny little bastards will cough up their dinner money to get even fifteen minutes.”

  “So now you’re copying them too? And what happens when they’re nutting one out and their old ladies walk into the room to see The Adventures of Throbbin’ Hood on their kids’ Superman TV and VHS combo?”

  “Not our problem.”

  “Til they tell their parents where they came from and the fucking school gets involved. I’ll pass man, thanks for the tapes though…” I said grabbing four cassettes and jamming them into my coat “Don’t spend too much time in front of the idiot box because you’ll go blind.”

  When I got home Mum was standing in the living room with her hands on her hips waiting for me. I was conscious of the unfamiliar bulge in my coat so I dropped it at the bottom of the stairs. I’d expected her pissed face but her eyes were soft, cloudy even and I knew something wasn’t quite right.

  “Douglas, come sit down I’ve something I need to tell you…”

  I stepped into the room; Beth sat in my armchair so I sat on the couch by the window.

/>   17

  THAT FRIDAY WE sat surrounded by a sea of green bottles. On my way to Jason’s house I past a window display in an off-license for Rangers Beer; 10P per bottle. Everyone knew the beer they stuck in those sports related bottles where the same nasty piss regardless of what club you supported but the retailers underestimated the pseudo-religious brand loyalty that the tattooed, tracksuit wearing, gold chain clad folk of Fast City had within them. I checked in on three more off-licenses along the path to Jason’s house, all singing the same hymn. When he answered the door I barely gave the pale one time to speak.

  “Get your coat, I’ve got an idea.”

  We’d walk to the first couple of off-licenses and clear them out of their red, white and blue Rangers beer before ordering a cab to round up the rest. Scott was waiting at the last one with seven stressed blue bags of beer in his hands; we loaded him into the cab, he suggested we hit the other part of town and scoop up all the Celtic beer that the city’s Protestants would rather die from a dry throat than drink. The Shankill and Lower Oldpark Road had similar offers and when we arrived back to Jason’s parentless house we counted four hundred plus bottles of beer. Word got out quickly and it wasn’t long before the New Lodge ghetto was empty of street children as they flooded into Jason’s house to avail of a free beer with every VHS purchase. He’d ring them up on his kid sister’s toy cash register charging £5 per tape while I sat in the corner of the living room tossing through the CDs looking for something that varied from Cock Rock and sinking a green beer for every blue.

  “You’re drinking all the profits!” he’d scream.

  “They’re here for the fuck not for the footie.” I’d reply.

  He wanted me gone, I was ruining his shop day and the irony of the situation wasn’t lost on me.

  “How you feeling buddy?” Scott asked.

  “I am groovy mucker, thanks for asking…does Jason have any food in this fucking place?”

  “You’re Jason’s friend Doug?” asked a girl.

  “Friend…is that what he calls me?!”

  “I heard about your dad, I’m sorry to hear about him…you know…dying.”

  “Happens to the best of us lady, appreciate it though.”

  Jack had disappeared into the wind. He was still living with that woman and apparently even sired another burden to carry his message for one more generation but he had skipped out on a bender which she assumed was still taking place three weeks later. It wasn’t until a woman living in a bedsit on the Castlereagh Road complained how her upstairs neighbour’s toilet must have been leaking that someone put a foot to the door and found Jack Morgan, bloated, eyes rolled back into his head and his body as grey and blue as a seniors highlights. The old cooze he’d shacked up with even threatened to have any of his other family shot if we dared show our faces at the funeral. Mum told me all in the living room that day and then went to make lunch. I’d go back and finish the gutters but by the weekend I’d have a thirst on me I couldn’t resist chasing. Each beer brought me a step closer to the edge of reason; to a point where behaviour and consequence belonged to someone else. I was out to achieve non-existence and 10P beer would be my guide.

  I’d slide out from between the girl and Scott but she’d follow me to the kitchen where I scavenged for scrans; a six foot swaying raccoon. I’d turn right into her, her blonde ringlets offsetting her dark Dago eyes.

  “I’m sorry if I upset you.” she said.

  “Don’t be, you didn’t.”

  “Jason said you weren’t that close to your old man but I was blunt and I’m sorry.”

  “Jason has a habit of that…but it’s fine…”

  “Zoe.”

  “Thank you for your concern Zoe, appreciate it. Would you like a beer? When they’re ice cold they’re not as repulsive as when they’re not.”

  “With an offer like that I’ll take two.”

  “Don’t say that too loud, Jason will try to sell you one of his fuck tapes…he’s the Pablo Escobar of titties now apparently.”

  “That’s funny,” she said without laughing “you go to school with Jason?”

  “Not this week but yeah.”

  “So you’d know all about that kid that got fucked in the back of that guy’s car, right?”

  PART II I

  1

  SCHOOL WAS ALL change in my absence. Peahead was running around school beating any and all kids smaller than him (so about six kids in total) who mentioned the story that the good Samaritan screwed him in the most notorious of orifices before dropping him off at the front door of the Mater Hospital; done and dripping Chicken Kiev style.

  “I heard they found him with an ass like a Japan flag and a rubber Johnny full of jungle juice dripping out the back of him.” I heard Gerry as I walked through the front gates.

  The story was too good not to stick. For years after Peahead would be fighting the story but it seemed that the more he fought the more people believed it. I’d see him on the street when we were all grown up and watch as a mutually familiar phantom of old approached him.

  “Hey you’re Chris right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “At school they called you Peahead right?”

  “Yeah what of it?”

  “Do you remember that time we went up to fight…”

  “Nobody fucked me!” he screamed “You fucking hear me you fucking asshole! Nobody fucked me!”

  The mall security escorting him from the Disney store as he screamed and pleaded his anal innocence.

  Peahead charged over to Gerry, I could see he was itching to throw down but knew he’d end up in another car on the way back to the hospital and would probably have something else done to him.

  “That’s fucking bullshit Gerry, shut the fuck up!” his face reddening with the rage.

  “You watch your tongue Peahead, your fucking boyfriend isn’t here to protect you now cream-hole!”

  First years would scream Donut Hole at him before racing off towards the trees. It was embarrassing to watch him chase after them, to defend an honour he never had in the first place.

  I was crossing the bridge between my first two classes when a shoulder thumped into me going the other way and almost put me to the ground.

  “Watch where you’re fucking going.” advised the voice.

  “Fuck off di…” my eyes came up from my BT Cellnet mobile’s screen to see Paulie standing before me.

  He was a good bit older, his face had filled out and he was wearing an unconvincing rat moustache on his top lip but it was still my old pal Paulie.

  “Shit Paulie, is that you?”

  “Like I said, watch where you’re fucking going.” he stormed off through the entrance on the end of the bridge I had come from, slamming the door behind him.

  Paulie had been attending a Secondary school on the other side of town but had been kicked out for bullying. He had come to our school as it was the last one that would take him and immediately he was out to try and re-establish the pecking order putting him, if not top then at the very least top five. I couldn’t give a shit about all of that. I kept myself to myself, I read my books, I hung out with Jason and Scott and every once and a while pulled the odd harmless prank. Paulie never got this about me; he had always seen silence as weakness.

  I was in Dani’s creative writing class when it happened. Paulie pitched himself up directly behind lanky Patrick in History, he flicked at his ears tried to set fire to his trousers and all the while whispered Paddy are you a faggot? Paddy, tell me, are you a faggot?

  “Don’t ignore me Paddy or I’ll kick your fuck in after class but I bet you’d like that wouldn’t you faggot?”

  He chirped in his ear all class and broke him within thirty minutes. Patrick would spin round, his eyes bulging, face almost purple with irritation. He’d slam a palm down on the edge of Paulie’s desk.

  “Yes! Yes!! You fucking hear me?!! I’m gay! You want to fuck already?”

  “Patrick!” called out a stunned substitut
e teacher.

  “I fucking knew it!” roared Paulie.

  Patrick would turn back to face the blackboard, take three deep breaths cross him ankles and ignore the dull wave chorus of hoooo-mooooo that Paulie and Gerry would take pleasure in reciting over and over again, their new abusive mantra. Even Peahead would join in, in a lame attempt to win favour with the new order.

  “You’re one to talk Peahead!” clipped Paulie “I heard you got the load shot in you.”

  Hoooo-moooooo

  Donut Hole

  Hooooo-moooooo

  Donut Hole

  From there on out Patrick was out and the easiest of targets. His sexuality didn’t mean shit to me. It was no surprise really but I didn’t care, people’s happiness is their own business, the kid deserved better. I had my books, a pack of smokes and a regular drinking habit to disguise. I had enough to concern myself with but that didn’t mean I didn’t feel bad for the guy. He got a lot of grief before coming out but afterwards those animals made his life hell. Years later so many of them would blossom and flower into the most beautiful of orchids and they’d get a lot easier a birth into their new life than they afforded him. Fucking animals. But he’d take it and he’d blossom, I used to think the school was too tough for him but he’d blossom and in the harshest conditions.

  At the bell the corridors would be awash with the news. I’d bat the waist high monsters out of the way en route to Art and Design where I’d no doubt see and hear all about it.

  “You hear what happened?” Scott asked.

  “I heard.”

  “So that guy Paulie, he’s a friend of yours right?!”

  “He was.”

  “Your friend Paulie is a bit of an asshole.”

  “Well it’s been a while, he’s had a few years to practice.”

  Miss Armstrong was a stoner of an Art teacher, fresh out of Art College and would demand we called her Grace. The class would be made up of tables of four, each of us at a side with a plinth in the middle and some benign object that we had to sketch or shade or paint. That day it was the axel of a bicycle. I sat with my pencil in my hand, pondering the first stroke of the day. The first hand movement was critical. I always lingered before committing myself to the movement that locked in everything. The first would determine the second, which would insist on the third and before you knew it the sketch was doing itself. As my pencil glided towards the page I heard my name breeze through the air and my ears picked up.