Gurriers (37 page)

I grabbed the skins from in front of Ray and set about sticking them together hastily, my mind working as feverously fast as my fingers to find a solution to my dilemma. I worked out that I would never have time to make a joint, go down to the bar and order, wait for the Guinness to settle, pay for the drinks and get them up to the table before the lads finished their pints. I needed help.

Gerry looked around him like a gun-fighter might have in the wild west, as he placed his two thirds empty glass on the table. Ray, having a break from his joint making, leaned back and swigged an agonisingly long swig out of his. I caught Vinno’s eye as I snapped the filter off a cigarette. There was my help.

“Vinno, could you please order another round over the balcony and I’ll run down and get it as soon as I finish making this joint for Al?”

Of course the song playing on the jukebox ended as I was asking the number one courier in the company to go run an errand for me and everybody heard and waited silently with me for the reaction as Vinno decided what to say or do.

The silence was deafening. A lump appeared in my throat and I could feel the palms of my hands go clammy. I hadn’t intended for this to be a moment, but that’s that what it was
for sure.

“Of course, no problem.”

The moment had swung in my favour and it was a moment of acceptance.

“Thanks Vinno.”

The two conversations and the music resumed at the exact same moment like some giant orchestrated audial sigh of relief as the tension left the company. After wiping my palms on my thighs, I resumed my joint making, which would have to be done quickly now for me to catch the pints Vinno was already gesturing for.

“Four Vinno!” Joe asserted his intentions.

Naoise arrived with three pints – two Guinness and, astonishingly, one cider - clenched between his two hands in a triangle. Al reached out with his good hand and took the lead pint of the three – the cider.

“How’d you manage that? I was forced to have a Guinness instead of larger!”

“Ah! If ye stand and fight yer ground hard enough, the aul’ fellas let ye drink yer own drink.”

“Fuckin’ wimp,” said the Gizzard as he used both hands to negotiate the reward of his Guinness from Naoise’s hands and consequent guidance towards the eagerly awaiting mouth. “Here, wats goin’ on wi’ this fuckin’ pool table? Who’s playin’? Me…is i’?”

“Fuck off! I’m jus’ throwin’ a roach in this an’ then I’m playin’!” Ray answered.

“Here, bud, here’s the fifty. D’you mind settin’ them up an’ breakin’? Cheers! Thanks, bud, it’s jus’ tha’ the grumpy fuckin’ aul’ lads have fuck all patience, man!”

“No patience wi’ fuckin’ stoners holdin’ up the game! If yer noh ready to play jus’ swap names wi’ someone further down the board, keep the game movin’!”

“I’m ready, ye old fuck!”

“Then ger up off yer fat arse an’ geh tha’ cue into yer grubby little paws!”

“He hasn’t even broke yeh!”

“And that’s another thing! I’ve never once seen you set up the balls; yer always skinnin’ up or on the way to the jacks or the bar when yer name comes up, ye schemin’ little bollix! Every time the person holdin’ the table has to do i’ for ye!”

“You never set them up for me!”

“Fuckin’ rie I didn’t!”

“So wha’ abou’ all the times you’re holdin’ the table an’ I geh on? Who sets them up for me then tha’ you’ve never seen me do i’?”

“Ask me arse, Ray. Jus geh the fuck up there so this chap can wipe the floor with ye an’ leh some fuckin’ decent players come on after ye!”

“Yah! Yer jus’ full a’ shit, old man!”

For the first time I looked at the man who Ray was about to play. He looked normal and ordinary except for one thing – he was terrified.

By the time I had finished making the joint, given it to Al to light up and gone downstairs, paid for the pints and brought them back upstairs, Ray had beaten the stranger off the table and Gerry was setting up the balls. Another wave of four couriers had arrived in also, and were standing around the table greeting people and unzipping jackets, causing Daymo to slide along the seat even closer to the two dodgy dudes near the door. I only recognised one of the newcomers from the day at the bridge when I had smoked my first joint. It was the joker Leo who had passed me the joint. I was slightly surprised to be greeted so warmly by him.

“Alrie, Shy Boy! What’s the story, man? Are you goin’ to have a greener tonie? Tha’ one on the bridge was fuckin’ champion, man!”

“I’ve…er…been getting a bit o’ practice since then, Leo.”

“Ye didn’t fall off yer bike or an’in after, did ye?”

“I nearly toppled over once from driving so slow but I sped up a bit after a few Woolie Willies overtook me!”

“Here, Macker, ye should’a seen Shy Boy on the bridge the other day; first joint in years, one a’ Eight Gary’s fuckin’ destroyers. Oh, the state of ‘im – green face, weak knees – if me an’
Vinno hadn’a caugh’ ‘im he woulda fuckin’ fell under a bus!”

The fact that Leo was just delighted to see me because of the amusement value of what had happened to me cast a slight shadow over the warmth of the welcome and irked me momentarily, but I got over it quick enough. Sure, wasn’t it better to be welcomed for amusement value than not to be welcomed at all? It was also good to hear that the joint had been made by somebody renowned for powerful smokes! I felt that little bit less of a wuss.

There was no harm intended by Leo’s recanting of events and beyond that, well, I was clever and witty enough to handle any flack that came my way and fling some back also.

“Don’t just tell him about it, Leo, show him!”

“Wha’?”

“Sit down there beside Al and get a number together!”

“Oh! Er, yeah, rie! Giz the skins.”

It was worth sacrificing my seat to take control of the situation. Besides, I wanted to give the pool games more attention with my turn looming ever closer. I had been concentrating on my joint-making at the start of Ray’s game and had been at the bar for the end of it, but I knew that he had polished off his opponent pretty quickly and that invariably meant some expertise with a cue. He looked comfortable as he leaned over to break.

“Goin’ for a medal, Gerry?”

“Oh yeah.”

Ray took his shot and it was a controlled and powerful break. Every single ball on the table moved, one or two even went up the table and then back down, but nothing dropped for him. Before Gerry took his shot they each produced a pound coin and placed them beside each other on the table, settling my mini mystery about what the medal comment was all about.

“Here, Shy Boy.”

“Cheers, Vinno, I had forgotten about that one!” Accepting the end of a joint that I had made but not yet smoked from, wary of Leo’s watchful eye flicking up expectantly from his makings.

I finished the joint and stood and drank my pint, watching
the game and listening to snippets of the high volume jukebox beating conversations that were going on around me. Gerry got the upper hand at the start of the game but opted for a number of safety shots instead of risky hopeful attempts at pots, much to Ray’s dismay.

“For fuck’s sake, man! If ye fuckin’ went for tha’ seven an’ goh i’ ye woulda had the fuckin’ game! Yer not afraid o’ little ole me, are ye, Ger?”

“Jus’ play the fuckin’ game, dickhead! I’ll finish ye off when I’m good an’ fuckin’ ready!”

Gerry’s choice of shot and Ray’s subsequent protests declared Ray as the stronger player of the two and sure enough he eventually won what turned out to be a very long game. So long, in fact, that we were all ready for more pints by the time it was all over.

Gerry made his way to the bar while Joe set up the balls. Vinno was to follow Joe and then it was me. I always fancied myself on the pool table and was relishing the notion of a game against Ray. I reckoned that if I played well I could beat him, but knew that even one little error could cost me the game against him.

Looking out the window I saw two more bikes pull up onto the path to join the ever expanding array strewn on and about the footpath across the road outside. It was Fifteen John and Eight Gary from the bridge. Gary was famous for his joints and John was a poet. I remember thinking that this night kept getting better and better!

Surprisingly, Charlie was the next courier to join the company, all showered and shaved and dressed up for clubbing – sticking out like a sore thumb, sporting a glass of Coke instead of a pint and was chewing gum vigorously. He added his own contribution to the ever increasing volume of the group, as all who had entered before him also had, loud and fast and animated, with hands and body doing their very best to accelerate even further the pace of the conversation.

I felt as if I was swimming in a sea of stories, jokes, slaggings and greetings that cascaded around the room as a growing number of loud jokers in party mode did their very best to
greet, entertain and take the piss out of every other joker in the company.

Gerry arrived up with a tray of beer containing five pints, four Guinness’ and a cider for Al. I smiled at him all the way across the room, as he substantiated my train of thought perfectly.

“Ye haw!” He shouted to Charlie and “Yup ow a tha’.” to the one that I didn’t know that Leo had called Macker. “Awrie!” He greeted another unknown to me.

“Did ye see the bollix?” He asked Vinno, making head gestures towards Ray.

“Shy Boy!” he said, making eye contact and another head gesture, this time towards the tray that Vinno was in the process of lightening for him and Al. The message was received and understood. That was as far as the tray was going.

I had to wait for Joe to take a shot before stepping around the vacant stools to fetch my pint. While I was waiting, I noticed Leo slide across the seats vacated by Joe and Ray with a freshly rolled joint in his mouth, and by the time I got back to the windowsill he was applying fire to it. After puffing out a big cloud of smoke he spoke.

“So, Shy Boy,” He paused to let another cloud of smoke pass. “How’re ye gettin’ on?”

“Grand. It’s fuckin’ tough but I’m getting the hang of it.”

“Ye have the rie bike for i’ anyway, that’s a beauty that is!”

“Cheers.”

“Ye don’ do tha’.”

“Do what?”

“Ye don’t thank people when they say ye’ve goh a nice bike.”

I thanked God that I still had the pint in my hand. “I said cheers, Leo!” I raised the glass.

“Oh rie, hang on!”

I couldn’t help but grin as he shuffled his way around the table some to get within reach of his pint, joint hanging awkwardly from his mouth to observe the sacred drinking custom.

“Cheers,” he said and we klinked glasses.

“So how many jobs are ye doin’ a day?”

“About fifteen on average.”

“That’s noh too bad, but ye’d want to be doin’ twenty a day to make a decent wage on dockets.”

“You’re on a basic, aren’t you?”

“Yep. Bleedin’ grea’ i’ is. Take it nice an’ handy, do as little work as possible an’ still make the same money. Some day all courier companies’ll give a basic – they’ll have to or they won’t geh any couriers!”

“What happens if you make more than the basic?”

“Ye fuckin’ geh i’! That’s the beauty of it, man. Every week yer dockets are added up, if ye didn’t beat the basic they add on whatever they have to to bring yer money up to i’ bu’ if ye beat the basic they give ye wha’ ye earn!”

“That sounds good. Does anybody ever beat the basic?” “There’s two hungry bastards in our place tha’ usually do an’ sometimes if one o’ the others gets a busy Monday an’ Tuesday in they’ll chase the work for the rest o’ the week. Not me! I think they’re mad, breakin’ their bollix for an extra forty odd quid. Jus’ fuckin’ stay in on Sunday nie or sum’in’ – jus’ have a few smokes an’ a couple a cans instead of goin’ ou’ an ye’re caugh’ up wi’ them. Know wha’ I mean? Here grab this.

Oh, hard luck, Joe!”

I now had a joint in one hand, a pint in the other and only Vinno was to play before I finally had a crack at a game of pool.

A roar erupted as Gary and John came through the door, both sporting creamy pints. I was delighted to see John and eager to get talking to him. I waited until he had greeted most of the company and then caught his eye and waved at him. To my momentary surprise he came straight over to me. The surprise dissipated with his first words.

“Why, Shy Boy, it is just invigorating to receive such wonderful narcotic greetings when one enters a pub!”

I had waved the hand with the joint in it. John had come over
to it and not me.

“I just got it! I was only saying hello, but you can have it next. Did you write any more of that poem?”

He finished a long slug of Guinness before shaking his head while replying,

“Nah.”

“Did you write down what you made up in the canteen?”

“Nah.”

“I think you should; you’ve really got something there!”

“It’s just a selection of words, Shy Boy. Nothing to get worked up about!”

“Selection of words is an art form, John, and after witnessing what I did I would have no problem whatsoever calling you an artist – and a natural one at that! That is something to get worked up about. Here, grab this!” I held eye contact with him as I passed the joint, punctuating the enormity of my statement with a sombre little nod of the head.