Bone Idol

by David Louden

  “Would you come upstairs and have a look at it?” they’d ask all doe-eyed.

  I’d watched too many of Jason’s uncle’s special videos and expected some innuendo littered chatter followed by a gymnastic display of grunt work and a big splash of old salty on the chin but it never happened that way. By and large the most I got was a little bit of drunken flirting which I didn’t know whether to take her up on the following day when we’d pass each other on the stairs and I’d know the particulars of her underwear because she was drunk and modeling them for me the night before.

  I bounced around in University for a bit and was beginning to feel like the whole thing just wasn’t for me. It seemed like everyone had their heads screwed in the right places and knew what they were there for. I’d wanted to be a writer but couldn’t figure out what it was I wanted to write about. I tried writing about life and what little I knew and had experienced in the world but it all came out tainted and chocolate box and stinking of bad Hollywood. I read into the small hours drinking with each page; as the sun cracked the nothingness I’d be feverously working away at something that came to mind. Something that needed to be captured in the frenzy of which it had taken hold of me or it would be lost to thought; abused by efforts to sound intellectual. An intellectual says a simple thing in a hard way. An artist says a hard thing in a simply way. I had read that and it had stuck and I’d let the fever carry me for hours on end but once I’d sobered up I’d look at what I’d been working on and feel ashamed of the idea of anyone ever stumbling upon it and attributing it to me. I wanted to write but I hadn’t lived and it was infuriating that I had nothing but salad days ahead of me.

  During one of the morning shifts at Centra Morris Graham, the penny counting owner, overheard something I was telling one of the other members of staff and cornered me coming off break. He always wore short sleeved shirts with novelty ties and had an awkwardness about him that was contagious.

  “So I hear you’re a writer.”

  “You heard wrong Morris, I’m not nothing.”

  “Didn’t I hear you say something to Jill about writing?”

  “Yeah, sort of, maybe, I don’t know.”

  “What is that? Writer’s block?”

  “The opposite, writer’s diarrhea…it’s all shit Mo.” I’d try to go around him but he’d shift his weight in the doorway.

  “You know what you should write about?” he said leaning forward as though we were exchanging confidences “Sci-Fi!”

  “Sci-Fi…really?”

  “Yeah, there’s a lot of money in Sci-Fi Doug you could go a lot worse than Sci-Fi.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.” I’d reply, bone dry.

  “When you sell your first million you remember your friend Morris.” he replied slapping me on the back as he marched out on to the shop floor before clearing the meat shelf of beef which he’d freeze and bring out the following year because the expiration label didn’t carry a year on it.

  I chewed the corner of my cheek with rage. It wasn’t that I didn’t value input rather that I didn’t ask for it. I’d noticed how there was certain jobs which wouldn’t invite such input. Nobody ever walked up to a surgeon and said Hey Buddy, have you ever thought about using lasers for this procedure? Lasers are really cool, you should try them out! Then again surgeon was a real job and I was aspiring to be an artsy-fartsy waste of space that sits around and strokes their face. Maybe the old man was right; maybe it was better left to those who could afford to not earn a living because they came from the wealthy stock. Maybe it would be better if we all stuck to our callings and left aspirations to those who could afford them but that meant Centra was my destiny and the thought filled me with so much dread that I had to go for a beer on my smoke break.

  When I got home the landlord had dropped off two new washing machines for the communal laundry rooms for me to connect up. One for ground floor at the back of the building and the other for the top floor, some three flights up. I walked the shiny white box down to the back of the hallway and figured out how it was connected up by paying attention to how I was disconnecting the old one. I thought of Ronan and I remembered the bolt that needed to be removed before you’d be able to use it. He had fitted our washing machine in Poleglass and warned me of the damage you’d do if it was still in place when the splash hit the colours.

  I got the second machine up as far as my door when I had to stop off and lose a few layers of clothing and have a cigarette. I was seriously out of breath and though a tab was going to do little to change that I needed the time to let my shaking arms rest before I tackled two more flights of stairs. The fire escape neighbour was sitting outside his door reading; at first I figured him to be locked out but he’d let himself in and come out with two glasses of beer and offer one to me.

  “Get this down you.” he said before introducing himself as Lee.

  I took the glass without having to be asked twice and sank half of it in an eager gulp.

  “So he’s got you doing super then.”

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  “Yeah, you think forty quid a month off your rent is a sweet deal but the old guy gets the work out of you.”

  “I’ve been up and down these god-damn stairs every night of the week.”

  “You been to the girls on the top floor yet?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “It’ll make it worth while, the dark one has fucked the last four supers.”

  “Well shit, had he pitched it like that I would’ve been paying him forty quid a month.”

  “Don’t go telling him that, he’s likely to try and change the deal for the next guy.” Lee said with a smile.

  He’d leave and come back with another two glasses and I’d pass him a cigarette and we’d chat a little longer. In the end he offered to help me upstairs with the washer and once we got there it took no time to fit though we’d have a smoke and hang out for a few minutes in the hope of catching sight of the super lover.

  I had a late afternoon Ancient History class but I was considering dropping it because the books were too expensive so I skipped it and went to Lee’s room. It was an exact replica of mine only his sink was in the opposite corner and his bookshelf contained a different colour pattern from the spines peering out at me. He had a high back leather armchair by the window that I took a shine to and immediately crashed into as he poured us both a glass of wine and rolled two joints for dessert.

  “So you studying at Queen’s?” he asked.

  “English Lit and Film.”

  “Artsy huh?”

  “When I’m not installing Zanucci appliances, what about you?”

  “Theology.” he said before clarifying that he wasn’t a God botherer or anything like that, he just figured it an easy subject.

  “How do you figure that then?”

  “Well it’s all theory when you think about it. If you can rationalize it then it’s right. Throw in a little Amen and something about Jesus and that’s that…doss really?!”

  “And you don’t think maybe doing something you want a career in is a better idea?”

  “Sure,” he said waving his hands manically as though he was trying to land a small plane “I’m a sculptor really but don’t tell anyone. This theology malarkey is all part of the plan. Two years joint Bachelors degree Art and Theology. Apply for funding grants to send me to the Vatican and all that…for work of course! Just so happens I get to be face-to-face with some of the finest works in marble there is in the world then third year drop Theology and I’ve got invaluable face time with the masters thanks to it.”

  “You’ve got your head screwed on.”

  “I’m no goats toe me,” he said raising his glass, he toasted “to fucking the system!”

  I drank to that.

  7

  MUM PHONED to see if I was keeping well and I was; with the exception of never having any money I was aces. I had agreed to drop over for Sunday dinner because Jeff was missing me and now
with Bosco having passed away he was the only Morgan family member living in that house with a Y-chrome. I was sitting in my English Lit class listening to the lecturer preach from his own book in the hope that we’d all see how it was impossible to pass the course without it and rush to the nearest bookstore to purchase a copy. It was a con. It was a con and it made me sick. Lee appeared in the window of the door with expert timing. I had to give it to the blonde scatter-brain; his body clock was hardwired to my boredom threshold. Making a face through the window he pointed outside and I slipped out of the back of the lecture hall and met him on the grass in the centre of the University.

  “I just got a cheque from the Inland Revenue!” he skipped excitedly

  “Oh yeah? What for?”

  “Tax rebate muthafucka! From last year, eight hundred pounds, we’re going shopping and then for lunch.”

  “We can be well-to-do!”

  We raced to the bus-stop at the bottom of the street and headed into town. He dropped two hundred on movies and CDs, another hundred on single malts and eighty on some buds that were a mixture of Black Widow and Big Cheese which he stuck in his ass when we suddenly came to police barricade by the front gates of City Hall.

  “What the fuck’s going on here then?” I queried.

  The cop turned his nose up and waved us on. We reached Botanic and settled down in the seats outside Madison’s Bar and had the first meal in weeks that didn’t consist of eggs or oranges washed down with a steady stream of Guinness. I told Lee the story about Chink and he found it hilarious.

  “Am I boring you?” he asked as I yawned in his face.

  “Late night.”

  “When are you going to let me read it?”

  “It’s not ready yet, I don’t want to let the air out of it before it’s ready.”

  “I get that.” he was the first that did.

  On the way home we called into the Botanic Inn which sat on the corner of our street. Even as a student I felt out of place in there largely because it was heavily populated by pig shit thick farmer children from Tyrone who were so amazed by having a room full of girls they weren’t related to they’d try to club over the head and take home anything with tits. I said to Lee “we should play a game to see how long it takes the door staff to throw us out” and he agreed. We started at opposite ends of the crowded, dark, basement-like bar making our way slowly across the dance floor telling male and female alike that we’d lick their tits if they bought us some heroin but in the end we had to give up and leave of our own accord. When we got home I checked the mailbox and found a letter of my own containing a cheque of my own. It was from a small magazine based in Dublin rather than the Inland Revenue and stated they would be pleased to publish my short story in one of their forthcoming issues and I should remain in contact with them.

  The cheque was small, much less than what Lee had spent on weed but he cheered like it was the six lotto numbers.

  “Fucking hell yeah Doug! You’re on the road now!” he hollered at the top of his pipes.

  “It’s sixty quid Lee, let’s not get bent out of shape about it.”

  “Fuck you, it’s great news…it’s the start.”

  “Well it’s not Sci-Fi. I hope Morris doesn’t lose his cherry about it.”

  “We should celebrate by downing these whiskeys!” Lee announced.

  “Weren’t we going to do that anyway?”

  “Yes, but we can do it now with party hats.”

  Three quarters of the way down and the room was slipping away from both of us. Lee received a text from his mum and announced that he needed to drive to Warrenpoint to do something.

  “Warrenpoint, why the fuck do you need to go there? Isn’t that across the border or something?”

  “It’s near the border, my mum lives there. I need to go there now.”

  “How do you plan to get to Warrenpoint?”

  “I’ve that car outside.”

  “That’s your car? Why have we been taking the bus everywhere?”

  “Who needs to drive in Belfast?”

  He had a point. The village with tall buildings could be walked end-to-end in an afternoon; only wankers needed a car to just get around Belfast and no further.

  “You can’t drive to Warrenpoint.” I countered.

  “Can too, I know the way.”

  “You’re drunk, there’s no fucking way you’d make it.”

  “You should come with me,” he stated “two drunk people make a sober person. You could work the gears for me and I’ll do the rest.”

  “I don’t drive but I’m sure…”

  “That’s totally how it works, are you coming or not? I have two sisters and a mum who’s divorced and enjoys the company of younger men. You are more than welcome to them all if you work my gears.”

  I agreed and Lee prepared for our road trip by rolling two fat carrots and packing some concentration beers into his backpack. Through blind luck we made it to Warrenpoint; the drive uneventful outside the car yet inside full of mania, at one point he took his hands from the wheel demanding I steer while he had a cigarette. As I protested he released control of the vehicle and went rooting around in his pockets looking for his lighter. I’d clutch control of the wheel before reminding him “I don’t know how to get to Warrenpoint.”

  “I’ll keep you right,” he said huffing down a deep breath of nicotine “don’t worry you’re doing grand.”

  8

  SHE HAD BEEN COMING for most of the night, she came most nights, loud and proud and through the old creaky floorboards in the room directly above me. Every night since I moved in. The room had gone quiet for a couple of hours before It Won’t Take Long by The Rolling Stones thumped from her sound system and drew me from the tranquility of sleep into the sore and sticky reality of my bed. I woke one eye at a time, throat dry and inhospitable, my brain two sizes too big for my skull and damn close to overheating. There was a moistness to the sheets; I turned an eye to it and the wash of red that had escaped from my arm overnight brought it all back. I still had all my fingers and could move them not only independently but in unison which relieved me.

  I had worked a sixteen hour day the day before and was trying to sneak home without making a sound so I could make myself some dinner and get some rest when Lee swung his door open as though he’d caught me. He looked as surprised and awkward as I did trying to skulk by him as he stood there with a blue carrier bag full of hair he had just shaved off his head.

  “Give me a minute to clean up,” he said “I’ve something wonderful to show you!”

  I cooked up some pork chops and ate them without anything to accompany and waited for that knock. That knock that was different to others and that signaled the unpredictability you were ironically guaranteed if you spent long enough in Lee’s company. I savoured the pork chops as much as I savoured the silence, my promising start hadn’t led to anything and I hadn’t had so much as a sniff from any publications. Eventually Lee came calling and invited me into his lair. He’d been scribbling on the wall, defacing every corner of chaotic green wallpaper there was.

  “Don’t worry about all that, something I’m trying to work out.” he said waving me away from it and directing my attention to the armchair.

  A five foot broad sword sat shimmering in the evening light, its handle beautiful leather wrapped in the most interesting design imaginable.

  “Pretty sweet right?”

  “Oh sure thing Lee, it’s aces!” I humoured him as my dogs began barking.

  “Sit down, let me pour you a drink.”

  I dropped down on to the floor where he handed me a glass before revealing a bottle of Bollinger, striking the cork off the champagne with one blow of the mighty sword spewing champagne everywhere before he topped me up.

  “We celebrating something? I haven’t missed our anniversary have I?”

  “I’ve come to the most wonderful decision Doug…I’ve decided to celebrate it.”

  “What’s the decision then buddy?�
�

  “I’ve decided to flush my meds.” It was news to me there was even meds in the equation let alone the fact he was flushing. Only fucking God knows how they managed to work with all that alcohol coursing through his system.

  “But won’t that mean you’ll turn back into a girl?” he found the joke at his expense funnier than I thought he would and proceeded to roar.

  “Who knows, let’s find out!”

  He raised his glass, I raised mine and we sank them down. The bottle ended quickly and then we were back on the beer. By the end of the evening I was trying to show Lee how to disarm someone wielding such an impressive weapon as a broad sword, first snaking my arm around the blade before straightening my elbow and trying to pop the thing from his hand all the while slicing hot butter cuts through my flesh and dripping blood all over the floor. Eventually it worked and I popped the sword from his grasp sending it flying into the air before it embedded itself in the original ceiling.

  The sheets were ruined and went to the bin. I’d flip the mattress to get rid of the soaked-in blood before wrapping my arm in the previous night’s tee shirt, getting dressed and heading out to a pharmacy to get what I needed to clean out the multiple open wounds that adorned my right wing. The door above slammed shut as I closed mine so I busied myself at the stairs in order to get a look at who was keeping me up all god-damn night without any of the gratification.

  She hopped downstairs on a rainbow; her hair intentionally messed and cropped close to her smooth sculpted face. She wore a v-neck tee shirt and her jeans were covered in little flecks of paint. We exchanged nods and she was off on her way; that was the artsy type I figured the old man was talking about. She didn’t have to make money she came from good stock, you could tell by the amount of effort she put into looking untidy.

  I told the pharmacist what had happened and watched as his opinion of me shrank away to nothing. He sold me some bandages and some painkillers and all but booted me out the door when I asked for a lollipop with that. When I got home Lee was awake and had drawn all over our front doors in the same gibberish he had covered his walls with. The landlord would be expecting an explanation why I hadn’t cleaned that mess up so I went to the laundry room and got a basin and detergent and scrubbed the two doors clean, though not without dulling down the paint job.