Gurriers (61 page)

I’m going to give myself full credit for the intent and the attempt, despite the fact that we did have sex that night. Besides, my vow was not to try to have sex with her, which I didn’t.

It had been quite a while since Joanna had had any male attention and once we got a few more beers into us she initiated the first kiss. This led to some pretty energetic snogging as the pints kept coming and when we left (before closing time), I
was pretty much dragged by the cock back to her place to have my brains fucked out in a most memorable night of passionate sex.

Vinno and Natalie were about to leave the flat the following morning as I made my smiley weary way up the stairs. Whenever she stayed over midweek he was actually on the road before me to drop her into work in Dublin 2 by nine o’clock. This meant that he had to put my bike outside to be able to get his out.

“Look at you, ye dirty stop out!”

“Morning Nat.”

“How’s the front of yer arse this mornin’, brother Sean?”

“Red raw, sore and happy, boss!”

“Gowan, the stud! He’s turned the grapefruits back into grapes folks!”

“We’ll have to go on a double date some nie nex’ week an’ meet this girl.”

“Er…em…”

“Don’t be pressurisin’ the lad, Nat. We’ll talk abou’ it later, man. Giz yer keys an’ I’ll put yer bike outside wi’ the disk lock on i’. I’ll drop them in the letterbox for ye.”

“Cheers, man, though I don’t know if I have the energy for work today.”

“When I get to the base I’ll have a word with Bollicky Balls, see if he’ll leave ye here as long as possible.”

“Thanks, Vinno.”

“Later stud. Where’d ye say this girl worked again?”

“I didn’t, and I’m not goin’ to!”

I saw Joanna again that Saturday for more of the same. It was no reflection on her weight that I didn’t bring her to the local that Friday; I wouldn’t expose any girl to the lads in full fettle after only one date!

The following week brought more meteorological misery. Every day contained a significant amount of rainfall, whether from heavy showers or persistent precipitation or both, made so
much worse by incessantly powerful winds.

The term “weather-beaten” is often used to describe an outdoor feature or a (usually old) person’s face with lots of character, but the expression can be considered in a much more literal sense when talking about couriers under these conditions. Every day the weather beat the crap out of us.

I saw Joanna twice that week, Tuesday and Thursday – both horrendous days – travelling to Walkinstown by taxi instead of driving both times due to being so sick of the conditions and so smelly from wet motorbike gear.

I’ve heard large people claim that they were built for comfort, not for speed and considered it to be just a catch phrase, but I found genuine comfort in Joanna’s ample bosom and honest affections. On Thursday we didn’t even go to the pub; I just went straight to her place for our first sober sex. Not bad for just over a week, especially when you consider the fact that I didn’t smoke joints in her company and only smoked cigarettes outside the flat.

She didn’t, and never had, smoke anything. It was important for me to respect this, even if this respect was a form of compensation for the failure to consider her as equal among all the girls that I had had relationships with.

The following week was more of the same. While in the local that Friday night and under extreme pressure to divulge information about my new lady friend (no point in asking Vinno to keep a secret), I felt the first sniffles of the impending departure from the perfect health that I kind of took for granted. I didn’t give it a second thought, as those among us who are lucky enough to so rarely suffer ill health do and carried on to have a rip-roaring session with the boys.

When I got up that Saturday, the sniffles were still there, discernable among the effects of my hangover, as was an irritating tickle in my throat. By mid-afternoon the tickle had progressed to a full blown sore throat, my nose was totally clogged up and I could feel the first signs of that sickeningly unique aching of the joints that heralded the advance of an ailment that I had not suffered for several years – the flu.

I got the bus in to collect my bike from the local and stayed for two pretty miserable pints, not even smoking any joints because of my ever-worsening sore throat.

As I bade my feeble farewells to my friends, I genuinely intended to go home and hit the duvet for the rest of the weekend, leaving it only to stock up on hot liquids.

Once my bike was in motion, however, it seemed to aim at Walkinstown of its own accord. As with most men when sick, my instinct was dragging me towards the bosom of the woman who cared for me the most. I didn’t go against this instinct. If I was going to be in bed recovering it might as well be Joanna’s bed, where I was sure to get my hot drinks brought to me, along with plenty of TLC and as much sexual activity as my depleted reserves were able for.

Fifteen minutes later I was locking my bike outside her place, having rung the bell first to minimise my time out in the cold.

Ok Sean, you’re sick and calling into your- em – girlfriend, I thought to myself. DO NOT be what women expect men to be in these situations. You don’t need sympathy or mollycoddling. You will be absolutely fine in a day or two with just a little bit of gentle nursing. No big deal. Not to a man.

“Sean, I wasn’t expecting to see you this early. Are you Okay? My God! You look terrible! Poor baby!”

“I’m not well,” I replied, big eyed and with my bottom lip out. So much for being a real man!

“C’mere to me, sweetheart.”

“My throat hurts and I’m all aches and pains. Will you look after me?”

“Of course I will, my darling.”

Joanna did a great job that weekend, so good that, despite my strongest resolve, I was a bit less manly about being ill than I had intended. Quite a bit. Well, lots actually but most of it was in reaction to her lavishing me with sympathy that I wasn’t really looking for, although I didn’t really refuse any of it.

Monday morning, however, I was still sick and the weather was shite, but I still made it into work. The last thing I needed
to be doing that day was driving a bike in freezing rain for eight hours, but a combination of macho bullshit about never taking a sick day, misplaced loyalty to an employer who didn’t deserve it and a yearning for respect from my co-workers had me home and radioed in by 9 am.

Since I rarely got sick I am probably a bit more sensitive when it does happen than those who endure it frequently might be. I’m not sure how much this fact contributed to my suffering that day, but suffer that day I did, with bells on!

Every slight movement meant enduring pain, every single raindrop felt like an ice javelin penetrating my skin, every gust of wind left me feeling as if naked in a deep freeze.

My frequent coughing fits hit my chest like multiple mule kicks and every sneeze shuddered my whole body with instant jolts of sheer pain, with most of them covering my lower face with gooey liquid.

I was a walking misery in every office that I was sent to. No receptionist received even the merest fake attempt at friendliness of any sort and nobody was smiled at. I longed to stay in the warmth of each reception that I was in, but still sulked sullenly at the slightest hint of any delays. And I was slow.

Normally, under the constant barrage of throttle or brake options that define the overall rate at which a courier moves through the city, my percentage of throttle decisions was extremely high, backed up by racing multiple calculations of a brain considering many factors.

On sick Monday, however, the brain wasn’t arsed about judging moving gaps in relation to the power at my disposal in this gear at these revs considering the road surface and weather conditions and making instant predictions about the worst possible actions open to motorists, factoring their vehicle path and estimated frame of mind.

Today, instead of mostly “nail it” decisions leading to use of the throttle, it was mostly “fuck it” decisions leading to use of the brake, and it showed.

“Abou’ fuckin’ time ye goh here, Shy Boy. Give Charlie tha’ return for dull an’ dreary and header roun’ to Counihan’s for
Walkinstown to go wi’ yer Tallaght. Giz a shou’ from there.”

“I haven’t got the return on yet.”

“You’re fuckin’ jokin’ me! Wha’ the fuck have you been doin’ all mornin’?”

“I’m not well, Aidan.”

“I asked ye wha’ ye were doin’, noh fuckin’ how ye were feelin’!” Aidan looked beyond me and shouted, “Charlie!”

“Do you want me to go get it?”

“Too fuckin’ late now. Charlie, this fucker has some sort of a disease tha’ has him even fuckin’ slower than usual. He hasn’t got the return on board for Dun Laoghaire so I’m gonna get you to fly over for i’, an’ we’ll see wha’ else comes in for ye.”

“I don’t be-fuckin-lieve it! Keepin’ me waitin’ here all this time an’ now I have to go an’ do your fuckin’ work as well! You’d want to get with the fuckin’ programme, Shy Boy.”

“I have the flu, Charlie. You wouldn’t even be in work if ye were as bad as I am now.”

“Yes I fuckin’ would! An’ I’d fuckin’ move a’ normal pace, an’ I wouldn’t fuckin’ cry like a baby abou’ it!”

“Ah well, fuck off then.”

“Have ye goh tha’ Counihan’s on board, yeh?”

“And you can fuck off as well. This is too much. I’m goin’ home sick an’ I doubt if I’ll be in tomorrow.”

“Give us yer work, yer bag an’ yer radio so.”

“You’re firing me for being sick?”

“You’re walkin’ ou’ for bein’ a pussy.”

“I’m genuinely sick and not able for this crap. What if I did one more run before going home sick?”

“Then you’d have to bring yer bag an’ radio with ye, wouldn’t ye!”

“I’ll shout ye from Counihan’s.”

I left the base vowing to myself never to forget this episode and to class my base controller as a dickhead forever more because of it. I also vowed that I was going to go to Le Mans with the lads this year and the more that bastard complained about being short of couriers, the better.

I was feeling much better the next day and with the weather
forecast as dull but dry I might well have gone to work had my base controller not pissed me off so much. But he had, so I had a very enjoyable “me” day, incorporating several joints and cups of tea while gazing out the front window in my dressing gown at the world going by.

This would have been more enjoyable had it been raining, but I didn’t actually wish for rain on behalf of my comrades. I was in a great mood, as people usually are when on the mend from an illness. I even dedicated an hour to the bike in the workshop. I changed the oil and filter, tightened and lubed the chain, adjusted and lubed my clutch lever and cable and secured my top box that bit better by tying extra knots in the bungees holding it on.

I know that this was hardly an hour’s work, but I was moving at a particularly leisurely pace – whistling along to the radio, skinning up and making tea as I progressed.

Much as I wanted to, I didn’t tell Vinno that I was going to Le Mans with them. Bollicky Balls had to hear it from me and the timing was crucial. If he heard one of the lads talking about it that week, with me after taking a day and a half off, it would surely be the end of me in Lightning.

As it happened, I finished that week and worked my arse off all of the following week to prepare him for the news. I had to bite my lip once or twice during that time when the lads were talking about the impending away mission to stop myself blabbing about my plans and even told Vinno a bare faced lie in the flat when he said that I should join them.

I was such a perfect courier that week that Aidan even nearly gave me a compliment about the pace that I was moving at. He stopped himself short, however, and shot me a suspicious glance instead, convinced that I was up to something. At this stage, I was becoming more and more convinced that the bastard was psychic.

The following Tuesday was the day that I picked my moment and his suspicions were realised. I had bashed out a whopping 37 mileage jobs on the Monday and deemed my chances of being fired to be at a minimum that day.

Spunky, Dave, Gerry, Naoise and Paddy were in the base
when I sheepishly entered it, steeling myself for the task at hand. I kept telling myself the same thing in my head over and over again, “It’s now or never, Sean. Have a backbone about this. If he fires you, it’s his loss. Fuck him!”

“I’m empty, Aidan, have ye anything lined up for me?”

“I suppose ye want to have tea and chatter with the other gibbons.”

“I suppose that’s your way of telling me to take a break.”

“Break! Who ever tells me to take a fuckin’ break?”

“Speakin’ of breaks, I’d like to book some holiday time.”

“Holidays an’ all! Fuckin’ life o’ Reilly yez have! What month?”

“Next month.”

“April? Ye know tha’ Le Mans is in April? Ye can’t have holidays if they clash with Le Mans, I’ll already be down loadsa bikes! Wha’ dates are ye lookin’ for?”

“The same ones as the lads. I’m goin’ to Le Mans with them.”