Gurriers (60 page)

Beep

“...our Sean, four, I need you to answer me, Sean, three jobs waitin’ for ye and a customer on the phone. Four Sean!”

Fucking perfect!

I got home before Vinno that evening, stacked up with eight cans of beer and an Indian takeaway. I had two cans scoffed down in the process of half eating the food and another one butchered by the time I had managed to make and spark up my after dinner joint. I smoked and drank in silence, not consciously deciding against putting on the TV or music, just not bothering as I wallowed in my deepening depression, deepening all the more as my concerns for the well being of my landlord heightened with each passing minute.

I must have dozed off on finishing the joint, because next thing I knew I was startled into full consciousness by the bashing and clattering of Vinno drunkenly struggling to get his bike into the hall downstairs. Perked up, I set about putting skins together for a relieved welcome home joint for him.

I was just finished burning into it by the time he stumbled into the room. He was too drunk to be walking, let alone driving.

“Ahh…joinsh. Good man. Good man.”

“Sit down, Vinno, before ye fall down.”

“Whash wrong with the telly?”

“Nothing, just feelin’ like silence.”

“Post funeral blues, eh? Wha’ was work like?”

“Shite. Lots of work when I wasn’t in the mood for it. Covered high and low south, from Dalkey to Stepaside with two Bray’s thrown in for good measure. Here, you light that up.”

“Blesshings of God on ye, kiddo. Did Bollicky Balls say an’in’ abou’ us?”

“Yiz are all fired.”

“Lovely. Lie on in the mornin’!”

“Only messin’. I saved yiz all from the chop by workin’ me bollix off.”

“Our hero.”

“Still found time to ask a receptionist out.”

“Gowan the stud!”

“She said no.”

“Blame it on the gargle. Ashk her again sober.” Vinno then burped.

“Don’t think so. And I really liked this one too.”

“That’s jus’ ‘cos she said no. Forbidden fruits an’ all tha’ shi’e. Ye can’t win ‘em all ye know!”

“Before today I had. Two out of two.’

“Well, make sure ye get number three as soon as possible, keep the aul’ confidence high. Ye can’t have an old bastard like me ou’ wi’ a bird this weekend an’ you a’ home on yer jack pullin’ the stomach owa’ yourself, can ye?”

“You? Who? When? How?”

“Don’t look so fuckin’ surprised, man. I know how to turn the charm on when I have to.”

“You’re a right charmin’ lookin’ picture now, aren’t ye? Watch those hot rocks on the sofa.”

“The who is poor Gary’s cousin, Natalie. The when is shortly after you went back to work, or las’ sahurday nigh’, dependin’ on which when ye mean, and the how is tha’ we’ve met a couple of times before, bu’ this is the first time tha’ both of us have been shingle. Now don’t you be worryin’ abou’ my sofa, either. Any hot rocks fallin’ off this joint are your fault for makin’ it but are all goin’ to fall on my leathers an’ go ou’.”

“Not when you’re wavin’ the thing around like that, they won’t. Well done with the date though. I hope it works out for ye. Is there anyone left in the pub?”

“Nobody on bikesh. They stopped shervin’ us for our own good.”

“How many of yiz were left?”

“Pretty mush everyone ‘cept you.”

“That’s a lot of drunken drivers!”

“Gary was well liked. We drank to him a lot. Any beer in the house?”

“There’s a few cans of lager in the fridge.”

“Fuckin’ lager!”

“Guinness isn’t the same from cans. If ye don’t like it, don’t drink it. Ye still have time to get to the offy.’

“Fuck it, I’ll just force down one or two lagers. Here, you smoke this while I hit the fridge.”

“ ‘Bout fuckin’ time, Humphrey. And ye can get me a beer also.”

The trip took him long enough for me to have a good smoke out of the joint.

“Here’s to Gary. May he rest in peace and safely guide all of our comrades home tonight in one piece.”

“Well said, Sean. To Gary, the boys and to shpring.”

“Spring!”

We both drank heartily from our cans.

As it happened, there were three crashes that night involving drunken couriers. There were no other vehicles involved, nobody got arrested, and two of them made it into work the next day. The third was only off the road for the rest of that week. He was back the next Monday with a limp, another dent in his tank and a story to tell.

Who can blame us for believing that our dearly departed comrade was indeed looking after us from above?

Vinno and Natalie hit it off from the start and became a happy couple within weeks.

I was delighted for Vinno. She was truly a wonderful addition to his life and so good for him.

I got to know her pretty well, of course, from her visits to the flat. She was what most people call “real Dublin” (some, out of ignorant snobbery, might refer to her as common). She was early 30s, blond, attractive, loud and entertaining. She smoked joints, but never made them and was quick witted enough to keep my landlord on his toes. This, despite his complaining and face making, really appealed to the man.

Nobody who would take subservience over equality in a relationship could ever know the meaning of true love, only self-love. Such people are to be pitied almost as much as their unfortunate partners.

I, for my part, capitalised as much as possible on the happy new situation.

“Natalie, would you like a joint?”

“I’d love a joint, Sean, thank you.”

“Vinno, what the hell sort of a boyfriend are you? The poor
girl dyin’ for a smoke and you just sittin’ there idle. Here’s the skins.”

“Actually, I’m not idle – I’m thinking about moving Nat into your room!”

“No worries, the bed’s big enough for both of us. D’ye need this lighter?”

“Bit o’ fuckin’ P+Q would be lovely!”

“Never goin’ to happen, man!”

Naturally enough, seeing Vinno find something that had been missing from his life made me dwell on what was missing from mine, particularly with the rejection wound so fresh after my failure to win Regina’s affection.

I found myself cursing Meat Loaf every time his damned song came into my head, which it did so frequently as I wallowed in self-sympathy. Two out of three is fucking bad, Meat, until it becomes three out of four! It was time for me to bag my third receptionist.

I’m sure it was a coincidence that it was the time of year that Hallmark and the people who make crappy disposable, over sentimental gifts tell us that a young man’s thoughts turn to romance, but I turned into a moving erection that February

As the temperature increased and the evenings lengthened, I scoured the city for my next conquest - assessing every female in every building for shagability, putting out feelers for any sign of potential in every single verbal exchange. I averaged ten tries a day with the “sign there for them and put your phone number there for me” ploy and generally approaching every receptionist as a hound’s nose might approach a bitch’s hole.

Hunting for a mate is a numbers game and, as with all numbers games, more attempts lead to better odds. By the time I succeeded in getting another receptionist to go with me it was something of an inevitability. The surprise about the event was not that it happened; it was who it happened with.

It was the second Wednesday in February and the weather was shite, and had been all that week. The days were getting longer and the temperature was on the increase but so was the wind and rain. Monday had had frequent heavy showers and the bastards had seemed to follow me, Tuesday had persistent drizzle all day and Wednesday so far, up to half eleven, had seen heavy and persistent rain with westerly winds reaching gale force in places. I had to wrestle my machine for control on poor surfaces all day. Every piece of motorbike gear I owned was saturated and smelly and my balls were already wet. I was sick of it.

I squelched my way into Farm Fresh Foods in Cookstown Industrial Estate in Tallaght to deliver under severe pressure, as usual in these conditions when people are reluctant to set foot outside their offices, and on the verge of breaking down emotionally, as usual when the pressure mounts under such horrendous conditions.

Being in this negative frame of mind, I anticipated nothing but woe from any people that I had any dealings with. I could see that the receptionist was speaking into her headset and doing something with her hands below the counter top.

This could only mean a delay for me; a delay that I certainly did not have time for. By the time I reached the reception I had decided to drop the envelope and leave without a signature, even though our client was Young Advertising, and they were very particular about signatures. Well, I was very particular about tolerating no delays.

I had the envelope and signature book in my right hand. As I used my left to remove the envelope from my right prior to dumping it and running, she looked up and made eye contact with me. She had fantastic azure blue eyes that seemed to dance merrily as she spoke into the headset. She stopped writing with her right hand, tapped the counter top with her forefinger and winked at me with a smile. Her teeth were perfect and her skin, despite an excess of makeup, seemed unblemished. I understood the gesture and was delighted to comply. It was refreshing to have a receptionist weave me into her multitasking instead of negatively prioritising me. In the second or so that it took me to position my signature book for her to sign, I was impressed to notice that her left hand was actually searching through a box
of files beside her. She never stopped talking and it was obviously a business call, not personal – while she signed her name, Joanna – with her beautiful eyes just flicking occasionally to monitor the progress of her left hand. I was free to go as soon as her name was written, but was rooted to the spot by this all too rare example of efficiency. And it got better.

Writing furiously with her right hand to catch up before finishing the phone call, she found and extracted the desired file with her left. She then pushed the button on a small intercom beside her with her left thumb, protruding slightly from the top of the file, and spoke into the intercom as soon as she finished the phone call without even the merest hint of a pause.

“Thank you very much, Mr McGovern. Bye now. Mr Byrne I have that file you were looking for.” She looked up at me quizzically, curious about my continued presence in her work area.

The words were out before I realised that I had intended to say them. “I’m also gonna need your phone number, Joanna.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ve never seen such an example of efficiency in my life and I‘d love to take you out for a drink, if you’re unattached.”

“Because of the way I do my job?”

“And because of your beautiful smile and sparkling eyes. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean any offence.”

“Here. I’ll be at this number after seven most evenings.”

“Cheers. I will be ringing you later. My name is Sean, by the way.”

“Okay, Sean, see you soon. Hello, Farm Fresh Foods, Joanna speaking.” This time she winked an entirely different wink at me. A wink that had me grinning broadly as I returned to the shitty weather.

The surprising fact about this incident is that Joanna was not like any other girl that I had ever been with or attempted to be with. If Joanna were describing herself, for example to a dating agency, she would probably use the word voluptuous. I would use “chunky”, but there could be no doubt about how my friends would invariably describe her: fat.

She lived alone in a flat in Walkinstown, so our first date, the
very next night, was a meal in the Kestrel pub on the famous Walkinstown roundabout. It wasn’t exactly haute cuisine, but better than you’d expect from a pub and just two minutes from her home.

She was in good form, though jittery and nervous to begin with, and I genuinely enjoyed her company. She loved science fiction, as I do and thought that the X-Files was the best TV show ever. Conversation flowed freely between us, punctuated frequently with laughter, the volume of which rose in direct proportion to the amount of alcohol consumed. It was a good date.

However, I found myself to be shamefully aware of her shape. I had never been on a date with an overweight woman before and I was considerably less than proud of the way I handled it. I had to make a conscious effort to concentrate on Joanna as a girl with pretty eyes and a nice smile and not some fat bird that I was out in public with. The lowest point of my journey of self-realisation was when I thought I saw a courier that I knew on the other side of the pub and my first reaction was to raise my menu to hide my face.

Joanna did not deserve such disrespect. After catching my reaction when I thought I saw somebody who knew me (an easy mistake to make among couriers – we all look so different when clean, out of motorbike gear and without “helmet hair”), I vowed not to attempt to have sex with Joanna until our second date, as with every other girl I had been with. This was partly to afford the girl the same respect as her slimmer counterparts and partly to punish myself for my failure to shake off my shallow attitude.