Gurriers (6 page)

He made stern eye contact here. Whatever it was about these channels he was very serious about them. I put on a sombre face and nodded gravely as if I fully understood the gravity of the situation.

“Channel Two is for couriers to help direct each other – nothin’ else! When you’re on Channel Two I can hear you and you can hear me but all the other couriers can hear you also. It’s supposed to make my job easier bu’ some gobshites use i’ to wreck my fuckin’ head.”

I heard loud sniggers behind me.

“An’ some gobshites even get fired for actin’ the bollix wi’ i’!” Aidan stated this loud and serious enough to bring a momentary hush to the room. “You’ll always be able to hear me once the radio is on; you just have to push this button to talk to me.” He turned the radio to the side where I could see that somebody had cut a thumb-sized hole to get at a flat grey button which
was slightly smaller than the opening. I had no problem with that; my mind was still mostly occupied with wondering what sort of messing went on with Channel Two? Then it occurred to me. Since all other couriers could hear what was said when on Channel Two, a joker could have great fun screaming obscenities and the like on this channel to embarrass everybody.

“Gis over a signature book, Frank,” Aidan barked across to the other base controller whose base had the vans and the pushbikes on it while Aidan controlled the motorbikes. Aidan dispatched approximately three times as many jobs on average as Frank and was logically enough the senior base controller. He was handed a small simple two ring clip folder that opened across the top to about A4 size and folded to fit comfortably into courier bag pouches. The rings held several pages, which had Lightning’s logo across the top, underneath which was space allotted for the courier to fill in the date, his name and his number. Under that, the page split into columns under the headings: Pick Up Address, Delivery Address, Signature, No. of Items, and Time.

“Rie, ye fill in yer name and number here. Write down every job when I give it to ye – I haven’t go’ time to be fuckin’ repea’in’ mesself all fuckin’ day, rie?”

“What’s my number?”

“Er…yeah rie, fuck it! You take number four…that fucker Barry won’t be needin’ i’ anymore. Four Sean, that’s what ye’ll
hear me call when I’m lookin’ for ye.”

Oh, no, somebody else’s number! What if this Barry person that I heard him fire, takes it personally that I have his number? I knew nothing about this industry and was scared shitless of the people I had seen that were involved in it so far. For all I knew, having Barry’s number so shortly after him being fired was going to cause a whole world of hassle for me.

“Okay. Here’s an application form for you to fill in and give to the girls in the office for their files. Address, insurance, next of kin, who to call in an emergency, all tha shi’e.” It all sounded very humdrum to him I was sure, but he was hitting home to me the fact that this was a job where there was every possibility that I could get myself smashed to pieces. My reluctance to become a courier was much stronger than ever before. The little voice in my head that had been telling me to just get out and run was not so little any more.

“Just tell him you don’t want his job,” the little voice kept repeating.

“Bu’ I’ll have ye ready to take work in two minutes here.”

He was now typing at his keyboard while looking at the screen. I know that I intended to tell him that I had changed my mind and I even remember opening my mouth to do just that, but no sound came out. It seemed easier just to stand there and be mute and go with the flow, as he added me onto the database as one of his couriers. I took the proffered application form and signature book without opening my mouth (or, to be more literal about it, without closing my mouth).

“Any courier bags over tha’ side, Frank?”

“Er…just one of those old ones wi’ the big flaps…d’ye want i’?”

“Yeah, rie give us i’ over.”

An ancient plastic-coated canvas satchel was produced from the other side of the table and duly handed to me through the hatch. It was approximately two and a half feet across and maybe two deep with Velcro fastening all across the top. At the front there was an A4 sized pouch in the middle with a flap, which came half way down to fasten with Velcro. There was a
high flap which went from the top of the bag (just behind the Velcro fastener) covering the opening and all the way down over the pouch to fasten (surprise, surprise with Velcro!) at the very bottom of the front of the bag.

“Rie, Four Sean, you’re now a courier! Si’ down with the rest of the baboons until ye hear me callin’ ye. Yeah go ahead, Paddy.” And then he turned to his screen, microphone, phone etc. without any further explanations about how I should do this job. The expression, “in at the deep end”, did a few laps of my poor confused mind as I ambled awkwardly over to the table where my new workmates were talking about the most important thing in their lives – motorbikes.

“Never known a bleedin’ chain to last so long on my bike!” Ger was excitedly explaining to the courier who had told the salesman to get his arse out of his office chair.

“I’m tellin’ ye, X-ring is the way of the future.”

“Yeah but you drive like a bleedin’ pussy – everything lasts longer on a bike when ye don’t have the balls to drive the fucker,” said the same small, round individual with the blackest face and biggest mouth.

“Who the fuck asked you, Ray? Ye, fat little fuck. I’d out-balls and out-drive you any fuckin’ day of the week. Little bag o’ shite on yer fuckin’ Cary Grant. Talk to me when ye ge’ a real fuckin’ bike, ye little cunt.”

Ray, as I now knew him to be called, just sat there grinning through the whole torrent of abuse as if he was delighted with the response he had provoked out of an already aggravated individual.

“I’ve heard good things abou’ them X-rings meself,” said the little man with the big voice. “Bu’ they cost some fuckin’ serious amount of schilleros.”

“But they save money, Naoise. Look, an X-ring costs about one an’ a half times wha’ an O-ring costs, or about’ twice wha’ a heavy duty chain costs, rie? But they last abou’ three times as long as an O-ring, which is about’ five times as long as a heavy duty, for twice the price! That’s fuckin’ value for money tha’ is!”

“I don’t know about lastin’ three times as long as an O-ring,” said the last courier whose name I would later find out was John. “Where did ye ge’ those figures from?”

“I worked i’ ou’ mesself, John!”

“Like the constipated scientist,” Ray burst in enthusiastically, “worked i’ ou’ with a pencil!”

Everybody, including me, giggled at that one before Ger continued with his explanation.

“The last O-ring chain I put on needed adjustin’ after three thousand miles.”

“How can you be so sure?” asked Naoise.

“A little trick of mine. I have a notebook a’ home where I write the mileage off me clock beside everything I replace. I can tell yez exactly how long everything lasts on me bike,” He looked delighted with himself for being so clever and treated everybody to a large grin before resuming. “Anyway, this X-ring tha’ I go’ has been on the fuckin’ thing for the guts of ten thousand fuckin’ miles an’ I still haven’t fuckin’ had to tighten i’ ye’. It is a bi’ loose an’ I’m goin’ to give it a bi’ of a turn later on, but that’s at the very least three times as good as the O-ring!”

“I’m impressed!” Naoise loudly imitated the geek off one of those American shopping channel TV shows that are shown in the early hours on television. Nobody else had anything to say on the matter – proving with their silence that Ger must be right.

He had me sold, anyway, because I made a mental note to get one of those X-rings the next time I needed a chain.

A rumbling, rolling thunder then took over all of our senses. Loose panes in the multi-squared window frame rattled as they were bombarded by battalions of engine orientated sound waves. Everybody turned instinctively to the window to see the single cylinder 500 CC Honda XBR with the extra loud pipe come to rest immediately outside. When the bike came to rest, the engine, instead of cutting off, revved up like crazy for a second before suddenly quietening completely and then... bang!

A noise more like cannon fire than gunfire made me jump
almost out of my skin. The reaction was intensified by the fact that where I was looking from, I saw flames shoot out of the exhaust pipe.

Explosive noise plus flames in my mind was always serious trouble, so for the briefest of moments my imagination had this registered as some poor sod’s bike blowing up on him. This feeling only lasted about as long as the flames were visible and it sunk in quickly that whatever had happened had been done on purpose. This was my first experience of kill switch backfires.

Kill switch backfires are backfires done on purpose using the kill switch (the engine cut-off switch situated beside the throttle on the handlebars). They are very easy to do, make lots of noise
and are guaranteed to grab the attention of everybody within earshot. They are also very, very bad for the engine and have been directly responsible for the demise of many machines.

All you have to do is to rev the engine hard while the bike is in neutral to build up piston momentum then flick the kill switch into the off position. Timing is essential here because the whole effect depends on how much pressure builds up inside the engine with the backlog of fuel and air that doesn’t ignite because the spark plug isn’t sparking (due to the kill switch being off). The next step is to flick the kill switch back on while revving the bike like crazy to cause the backfire. If this is done too soon there will only be a splutter, too late and the engine will not re-ignite but get the timing right and bang! Noise, fire and lots of attention. This man had certainly got his timing right and achieved the desired effect, aided by the fact that single cylinder machines are the most effective at this sort of tomfoolery and XBRs are quite possibly the best of the whole lot.

“Numero-uno!” sang Ray loudly to herald this individual’s entrance, as if he didn’t have enough attention already. Numero uno – number one; this was the one called Vinno that Aidan had been nice to.

He burst through the door, using his shoulder instead of his hand to open it, with the air of owning the place. As the helmet came off his head, he gave a quick nod towards the table where all eyes were still pointed at him before looking towards the
hatch, knowing that Aidan’s head would be there to greet him.

“They go mad in the office abou’ all tha’ bangin’ shi’e, Vinno!”

“It’s not my fuckin’ fault tha’ the timin’ plays up on me bike – is i’?”

“An’ the only fuckin’ place i’ plays up is outside here where the baboons can all ge’ a laugh ou’ of i’?” Aidan barked back.

“Baboons? Wha’ fuckin’ baboons? You mean these?” He was over at the table now with his hand resting on John’s shoulder. You could have heard a pin drop as Vinno paused for effect. “Do you mean these men here?” The voice now much louder and deeper. “These men who risk their lives in that stinkin’ city,” Vinno gestured towards the window. “Every day of their working lives, sufferin’ every misery the weather can throw at them – being picked on by every pig and doin’ battle wi’ every scumbag taxi driver and cowardly bus driver to do the work tha’ brings in the money tha’ pays your fuckin’ wages. Is tha’ who you’re callin’ baboons?”

I was fascinated. Vinno took a deep breath as he swept his raised right hand from pointing at the window to a spot on the wall past all of his workmates, engulfing all (even me) in both gesture and gaze, as his eyes followed suit. He held everybody’s unwavering attention as he regained eye contact with Aidan at the pinnacle of this breath. The atmosphere was electric. Every muscle in my body seemed to be flexed with the tension again.

“Yes!”

I didn’t understand how Aidan could be so calmly defiant after having a speech like that directed at him. Then to my utter amazement, Vinno just exhaled quickly, instantly releasing all of his own tension and replied mater-of-factly in his normal voice (which now sounded as if it was somebody else speaking because of the sudden change).

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right – they do look and act like a bunch of fuckin’ monkeys.”

That was the first time I heard Aidan’s unique chuckle, loud and hearty in a generous sort of way. “That speech gets better every time.”

“One day ye’ll fuckin’ start lis’nin’ to i’!”

“Dou’ tha’!”

“Me too – and mores the pity!”

There were grins all round and everybody was friends again. I was beginning to feel slightly more relaxed with the environment as it dawned on me that all of these characters were just buzzing off each other.

Lots.

“Vinno; Please don’t bang yer bike outside the office. Please!” Aidan implored.

“Bu’ it’s fuckin’ lunchtime!”

“The neighbours don’t like havin’ the shi’e scared ou’ o’ them any fuckin’ time!”

“Yeah but zzmish zzmish wobba wing.” Vinno began the sentence facing Aidan but spun away from him lowering both his voice and his head (which directed his voice into the front of his shoulder: away from Aidan and muffled totally by his shoulder being between his voice and the hatch) to leave Aidan thinking that he had missed a point that didn’t exist.

“Yeah bu’ wha’?”

Vinno, now facing me, wiped the grin off his face before turning to the hatch once more and repeating the tactic even more brazenly.