Gurriers (29 page)

Despite my restraint of the irritation that ravaged me at the efforts of the old pair to help me out of my misery, my mood, and consequently my attitude, was particularly rotten. I nodded half-heartedly and forced the corners of my mouth to develop a poor semblance of the shape of a smile as I roughly bundled the assorted shapes of paper into one of the inside pockets of my motorbike jacket. I respectfully said nothing in reply to the ‘real job’ comment that I only half heard instead of screaming at the
top of my lungs for him to piss off and keep the hell out of what was left of my poxy little fucking life.

I had intended to make their day with the announcement that I had given up the dangerous profession that troubled them so much, but the weekend, without doubt, had been the worst one ever up to that point and I was so miserable by Sunday that there wasn’t the slightest desire within me to do anything to make anybody any happier. Why should I when I was the most miserable person in the world ever?

It’s quite possible that the shame of recognising such sourness within myself was actually beneficial when it came to controlling my tongue, which was never more than a hair’s breadth away from attacking the closest people left in my life. The sentiment that these were the only people left that cared about me caused an almost unbearable wave of self sympathy to wash over me that hurt so much it seemed to be physically mutilating the organs in my torso. Since Friday I had done little apart from mope and wallow in self sympathy that I could never see myself ever shaking off. I had slept on Friday night due to the extreme tiredness caused by the job but Saturday had been the longest, loneliest, emptiest day I had ever had the misery of enduring.

Saturday night had been sleepless, restless and hopeless beyond comparison. By Sunday I had almost decided that I would rather die than live through another like it. The low point of the night, and indeed the weekend, was a failed attempt to masturbate without thinking of her that left me sobbing violently until my pillow was soaked.

The only time during the whole morbid weekend that I wasn’t distraught with depression was the drive back from my parents that dry sunny summer’s day. By the time I left I had long passed the point of not being able to bear it anymore. Their concerned efforts to help me through the misery that engulfed me so completely only seemed to multiply that misery, which made them even more concerned, which made me even more miserable. I did well to suffer the half listened to cajolances, having to get every question repeated due to lack of attention, for 40 minutes after we had eaten dinner before hurriedly donning my motor-
bike gear amid cautiously gentle protestations that it would do me good to stay longer.

Vague mumblings about having things to do was the only form of explanation they received to convince them that my haste was not purely fuelled by my desire to get away from them. A pang of sympathy for them made me feel like a shit-head but didn’t delay my departure. Unlocking and mounting my bike was welcome activity, benefitting me to occupy even a little attention away from my sorrow, but also having the promise of speed thrills make my heart skip a little faster. I exhaled purposefully in preparation as I rolled the machine backwards out of the driveway and onto the road. I gave a brief wave at the folks (almost an afterthought actually), as I fired up the engine then into gear and away as fast as possible.

The demands of extreme acceleration taking my attention away from my depression felt almost as if I had sped away from it to gain a micro second head start before it came speeding after me. Each gear up at full throttle and its subsequent increase in velocity made my pulse race ever faster and my pain recede to lesser significance, but the bastard caught up with me every time I had to brake.

The angst of the parent situation was exorcised fully by my dangerous, irresponsible and personal speed record beating driving, though, as I nailed the machine to the limit in my demonic race against myself and with each wrench of the accelerator, I felt some bit better but not fully recovered from this misery that plagued me.

As I sped under the overpass at UCD at speed somewhere close to the maximum, hunched over as far as possible with my elbows almost touching my knees, a scream erupted from me. It was loud, long and exhilarating – straight from the heart, just like a scream of death. The flicker of an image of death caused a deceleration but my mood and attitude kicked in to wind the throttle back to the max. That was scary – no conscious decision but nevertheless a decree that I didn’t care if I lived or died.

The lights at the next junction (RTE) were red and I found myself with a little reflection time as my depression caught up
with me once more. I told myself that I didn’t actually want to kill myself but failed to convince myself totally, causing a wave of more stinking self sympathy to wash over me, making my bottom lip quiver until I noticed the opposing light go orange.

A rev on the throttle and a clenching of jaw muscles had me ready for maximum take off as soon as (or indeed slightly before) my light went green. I smoked through the city and onto the west bound N4 like a demon, breaking every red light bar two that dared try to hinder my hopeless dash away from my torment. The six miles of the N4 to Lucan went like a blur and before I knew it, it was time to veer left for the exit at the Fox-hunter. I didn’t want to slow down for the misery that would catch up with me and for the briefest of seconds, I imagined keeping on driving down this road and away until the realisation hit me like a brick that this road would eventually lead me to her.

By the time I had manoeuvred my bike through the housing estates and into Eoin and Marie’s back garden, tears were streaming down my face. The onslaught of misery was only momentarily defended against when I looked at my watch and realised that the 40 minute journey had taken a little less than 15 minutes to complete from start to finish.

The misery stayed with me for the remainder of Sunday and on through another wretched and lonely almost sleepless night to leave me here and now as I was - a feeble shadow of the man I used to be with nothing worth living for except possibly the thrill of taunting death at a high speed.

I managed to somehow resurrect myself from the bed and make my way down to the kitchen to put the kettle on and light up a cigarette. I fetched my radio from the broom cupboard and placed it beside the ashtray on the table.

I’m not a courier anymore!

There was a beep, as I switched the radio on.

“In the Hibernian Industrial‘ll give ye-”

Click. Radio off.

Silence and emptiness.

Beep.

“Have another one for ye in...”

Click.

The only bearable thing is being on a bike!

Beep.

“Mornin’ Mick, ye’re next away ou’ tha’ side.”

Click.

There was a choice to be made right now: either wallow alone in misery or risk my life surrounded by wild and scary crazy people.

Beep.

“Who else is callin’ there?”

“Four Sean.”

“Sean, good mornin’.”

“I’m in Lucan and I’ll be ready to go in ten minutes.”

God help me.

During the course of that day – in the context of the misery and woe of the weekend – I concluded that the variety of distractions involved in coming to grips with a new and taxing profession were serving my purpose a lot better than I had previously given them credit for.

Of course I was depressed and miserable while I went about my work, but by Christ it was so much worse when I was idle. Driving the bike was the only thrill left in my life; therefore doing it all day was as good a form of therapy as I was likely to get. The constant jumble of information scrambling about my brain demanding attention left such a reduced propensity for dwelling on my woes at work that at times, I never slipped fully into depression until I had dropped my last job of that run.

I developed a hunger for work that was only found in the most successful couriers, albeit driven by emotional rather than financial needs. The emotional turmoil combined with the pressure of the work resulted in me driving my machine at full throttle most of the time.

As I learned the locations and routes and had to use my map less and less, I became quicker and quicker as a courier. I
listened intently to every conversation between other couriers in the base and picked up many, many time saving tips.

My manner in offices improved – or from the perspective of office workers, deteriorated – to reduce the time wasted on me by the ignorance and incompetence of others. Following the example of Charlie and the advice of my other workmates, I developed the habit of erupting into offices like a tornado, usually with the radio blaring full blast and bellowing my destination from under the helmet, invariably balanced on the top of my head, before reaching the receptionist’s desk no matter what she was busy doing. When delivering envelopes, I would just slam them onto the reception desk while asking the receptionist’s name, which would be scribbled into my signature book the next time I had it out.

This behaviour didn’t make me any friends but it got the job done and these bitches all had a low opinion of couriers anyway, and trying to be friendly to them was just a waste of precious time. It served my purpose much better to be an asshole when dealing with receptionists because the general trend was that the more obnoxious you were, the more they wanted you out of their faces, the quicker they gave you what you were there for.

Of course, there were exceptions, from nasty old bitches that knew damn well that the worst thing you could do to a courier was to delay him and therefore must not be rubbed up the wrong way, to ignorant bitches like the one in Counihan and Counihan that had to be sidestepped as Charlie had shown me, to dumb idiots who just got flustered if they tried to do things too quickly and ended up taking more time to get you out of there the more you pressurised them. Then, of course, there were the ones you wanted to spend time with, no matter what the consequences, although it was some weeks before I would have any interest in flirting or otherwise enjoying female company.

Each reception was unique in its own way and the only thing in common between them was a desire to get out as soon as possible.

Twelve Joe shared one of his favourite tricks for getting out
of receptions quickly with me on a tea break during the afternoon of my second Thursday as a courier. He called it the clock trick and he employed it in receptions that had a wall clock (as most of them did) when he was under severe pressure. It was advisable to remember where this trick was used, however, as repetition seriously diminished the effectiveness of it.

The process, as described by Joe, was a simple one. He would walk up to the reception, fixate himself upon the clock, and scream loud enough for everyone to hear him. This, of course, got him instant attention no matter what else was happening. Then it was time for the performance.

“Please tell me that that’s not the right time! It’s not ten past eleven already. No way! Oh, God, I’m dead! Oh, Jaysus no! Do you have something there going to Santry? Thanks very much.”

In, picked up and out in seconds. Genius, absolute genius!

I noticed that more work was being despatched to me with each run as I got to grips with the job, akin to the progression of an apprentice as Vinno had described on my first day. I did 20 jobs on my second Friday, which everybody agreed was very impressive for a total beginner. I put it down to luck because ten of those jobs fell together in one run out the low road south, but I was still proud of myself. More work meant more money, but also more pressure, which deep down was what I really craved.

As I became sharper as a courier, I also began to experience a surprising amount of job satisfaction in the way I did the job. Reading an address and having the exact location click into place in my head was a buzz that presented itself with ever more frequency. Then there was the buzz of getting there quickly – apart from the thrill of driving fast – to save the day. Quite frequently the person handing me the envelope or package would be in a state of panic about getting it where it was going as soon as possible and would need reassuring that it was in good hands now. Telling people not to worry like that and calming them down made me feel like an emergency service personnel of sorts. Of course, the bastards were looking for the impossi
ble most of the time, but I employed the same calming manner to placate them even though there wasn’t a hope of me getting where they were sending me when they wanted me there. There was also a huge scope for the application of common sense to get the job done more efficiently which brought a big feel good element with it.

On the Tuesday of my first full week in Lightning, two days before I got my own top box, I was heading out the high road south and was despatched a pick-up in a company called Compusol in the triangle in Ranelagh going to Bray. When I got there it turned out to be an A4 sized box about ten inches deep that hadn’t got a hope in hell of fitting into the bag, three envelopes and an ink cartridge for a photocopier. The receptionist apologetically insisted that she had specified that she needed a bike with a box to take it. Just as I was about to call Aidan to tell him that I couldn’t take it I had a brainwave. When she said “box”, I remembered the bungee hooks on my bike. I had driven up Chelmsford Road, noticing the Gem Motorbike Shop right beside the corner as I came into Ranelagh and it hit me instantly that if I bought some bungees there, I could attach this box onto my back seat and get the job done.