Dirt Road

by James Kelman

  LAFAYETTE INTERNATIONAL FESTIVAL BIENVENUE FESTIVAL INTERNATIONAL DE LOUISIANE

  Ahead were the lights of the town itself. Murdo settled back on the seat and was about to say something to the man next to him but didnt. Soon the bus arrived in Lafayette. Murdo lifted the rucksack and moved out. Cheerio, he said.

  So long, said the man.

  *

  He had expected most of the passengers to be leaving the bus but only six of them did. The driver dragged out the accordeon-case. Murdo checked inside: the accordeon was fine. He set off walking from the bus station into the festival area. It was quite a distance. Along the way he lifted leaflets, flyers and a free map of the festival site. He stopped under a street light to read through the stuff, searching for the Queen Monzee-ay gig and there she was in the main festival programme, but listed as one of the guests in “Lancey’s Cajun All-Stars”, a lunchtime gig. That didnt sound right. According to Sarah’s message the venue was the Jay Cee Lounge and the gig was late evening. Queen Monzee-ay was supposed to be opening for a band called the Zadik Strollers. He couldnt find the Jay Cee Lounge even listed as a festival venue. Then he found its address in the index to the map but there was no proper information. He shoved the stuff into his rucksack, lifted the accordeon-case.

  People were gobbling takeaways and drinking beer. Everywhere ye looked. Hamburgers and stuff. He needed to eat. When did he last eat? Ages ago. Baton Rouge, an apple. He ate his last sandwich on the bus, the last one. That was past the Mississippi River; he couldnt even remember eating it, he just ate it. He had money. If ye were starving, ye had to spend it. He was starving. Even an actual restaurant, he could spend money for that except he wasnt going to. Plenty foodstalls were here. At one the menu was brilliant how it was written for the song: Jambalay, Crawfish pie, Fillet gumbo. Hot Sos to Taste. Po-boy, what was Po Boy? I am just a po boy.

  That was the trouble, not knowing what stuff was. In one place a girl was serving hamburgers, hotdogs and VGBugs. VGBugs. Maybe veggie. Murdo would eat it. Same as Dad. Dad ate anything. Murdo was the same. He waited by the counter. The girl served somebody to the side of him. Maybe she didnt notice him. He stood another couple of minutes. The girl served two other women. That was that, deliberate, because she had seen him, she was just ignoring him. He left the stall and continued walking. He was enjoying the sights and sounds anyway. Although it would have been nice to sit down. He was quite tired. He was used to lugging about the accordeon but at the same time a seat would have been good.

  People were dancing going along the street, brightly lit in the dark. A real mix. Guys wore cowboy hats, waistcoats and jeans. Women wore everything, shorts and short skirts; sandals, fancy-coloured cowboy boots, high heels, long skirts, jeans, whatever. Plenty young folk.

  He found a public payphone near a grass square and had enough change to try it but there wasnt enough light to decipher the instructions. He sat the accordeon-case by his feet, lifted the receiver and dialed the number. Nothing. Put in the money and dialed the number. Nothing. Dialed the number and put in the money. Nothing. He tried to speak to an operator, but nobody. Ye couldnt speak to anybody and ye couldnt read any damn thing. No wonder Dad had got angry trying to phone Uncle John. This was a nightmare. If ye couldnay read the damn instructions it was just stupid.

  He would have to ask somebody how to do it but that was tricky late at night. What time was it anyway? He returned to the main festival area where there was more light. He needed a sit-down; a proper rest. He was starving too, jeesoh. Nowhere to go either.

  Cops. Funny how ye see cops; ye always seem to.

  That was a thought, nowhere to go.

  He didnt have any place. If he had expected to meet Sarah walking about, that was so so unlikely. Not now anyway. Places were closing for the night. Some already had. Sarah had offered about staying the night with family friends but it could only happen if he made contact, and he didnt have any contact number, no address, no nothing. That was just silly, not thinking about that. But so what if he had? It was Sarah should have done it.

  Foodsmells. A foodstall with good lighting. Nobody queued. The guy working there wore an apron and a baseball cap. He stood behind the high counter phone in hand. Murdo walked over, laid down the accordeon-case. A sign said “Traditional cuisine de louisiane”. The menu was in Spanish, English and French; hand-written and scrawled, and difficult to read. Murdo studied it, trying to find something easy.

  The guy was waiting and watching. Eventually he turned to read the menu himself. He said something to Murdo in Spanish, then in English, You want something?

  Eh like a hamburger? a hot dog?

  The guy shrugged, pointed at the menu.

  Murdo tried to read it again but he couldnt. He just could not decipher the actual writing. Have you got any hamburgers or hot dogs? he asked.

  Hot dog is cat fish, said the guy.

  Murdo looked at him.

  No hot dog, cat fish. The guy smiled and pointed to a place on the menu. Catfish. Is cheap and drink goes for the deal.

  Murdo saw the price. Please, yeah, thanks.

  You want catfish?

  Please yeah.

  Sure.

  Murdo watched him scoop the food from the containers and dish it onto the paper plate: rice, onions, relish and lettuce too, and bits of tomato; thin strips of onion; plenty lettuce, rice. The guy smiled. Hungry eh?

  Yeah.

  What drink you want?

  Do ye have orange juice?

  The guy sighed. No orange juice. He gestured at the glass-fronted, chilled drinks cabinet. You want coke? We got 7 Up, orange fizzy.

  You got tea?

  No tea. Fizzy. Coke, Doctor Pepper. We got 7 Up.

  Have ye got water?

  Sure, water. The guy got him a bottle of water. He pointed at the accordeon-case: Hey man you play?

  Yeah.

  Good, good. The guy smiled, and hesitated, then added: Me too.

  You too?

  Si, I uh…

  What the accordeon? you play the accordeon?

  Si, I play.

  Murdo grinned. The guy stood the bottle of water on the counter next to the paper plate. He straightened his baseball cap, waved round the foodstall. I got kids man you know, I earn money: got to earn money. He made a mournful face, but chuckled. He wagged his finger at Murdo. One day!

  Murdo chuckled. Me too. He paid a $10 bill over the high counter, lifted napkins then collected the change; three single dollars and coins. A tips jar was there. Murdo dropped in the coins, stuck the dollars into his jeans pocket.

  The foodstall guy frowned at him. Hey man!

  Yeah? Murdo smiled.

  The guy gestured sharply with his hand. How much you put in there?

  Pardon?

  How much? You put in there, how much?

  Eh?

  The guy wagged his finger at Murdo. You put in thirty-five cents! Is change I give you, thirty-five cents. No, is not good. The guy pointed at the tips jar: Put in a dollar man put in a dollar.

  A dollar? Murdo looked at him.

  One dollar. The guy shook his head. A dollar man, you know.

  Murdo sniffed and took out a dollar, he shoved it into the tips jar.

  The guy shrugged. Is what you do man.

  Murdo nodded, he put the bottle of water in his rucksack, lifted the paper plate and the plastic fork. The guy said, Salsa?

  No thanks. Murdo turned to leave.

  The guy raised his hand to stop him. Hey you will be glad I tell you. You gotta tip a guy man.

  Okay.

  Yeah. Adiós.

  Okay. Murdo walked on, and continued where the pavement led out of the lighted area and farther along where there was grass, like a little park, and two old-fashioned benches about twenty yards apart which were both empty. He chose the first, laid down the accordeon-case, swung off the rucksack and plonked down on the bench, utterly knackered. His first seat since whenever, the bus!

  Then he opened the food, use
d the fork to break up the fish. It was tough and the fork was made of soft plastic.

  He had heard of catfish but just really the name. It was a good-sized solid fish. Did it look like a cat? He lifted it up in his fingers. It was quite stiff, ye could hold it and just eat it. He took the first bite. And it was tasty, jees, a real mouthful. He used the fork to get some of the relish: onions were in it and a liquidy kind of stuff. He coughed and swallowed a mouthful of water. Usually he liked it peppery. It was chopped-up red chillies. He tried some of the relish on his finger. Very hot, but tasty. He was eating everything. Even the lettuce. Lettuce was good; he liked it. He never used to. Now he did.

  Another customer at the foodstall, a wee man. Him and the guy that worked there were chatting, laughing together. Probably they knew each other and were speaking in Spanish. Hot dog cat fish. Ha ha ha. Maybe laughing at Murdo. A dollar tip. So what? Ha ha. He was enjoying the food. He ate the lot, wiped his fingers and sat an extra five minutes sipping the water then was onto his feet again. He kept the napkins and stuffed the rubbish into a bin which was about overflowing. It was getting cold. Not cold so much as cool. He had other clothes in the rucksack, if it got like cold as in really really cold where ye were shivering and not able to get warm. This was just cool. Not really cold at all. He pulled on the rucksack, gripped the accordeon-case handle, then was walking again. Where? Where was he going? He walked a while, not thinking about stuff, or not seeming to think about stuff; maybe he was but not registering what it was; just like whatever, a mix of stuff. His mind did that like one thing to another, just leaping about, stupid. Because where was he going? Maybe there was someplace. Where? He would see it when he got there! His feet would lead him. People said that, Oh my feet led me. Ye closed yer eyes: Right feet, on ye go, then they tripped up and ye fell on yer face.

  Later he laid down the accordeon-case and cupped his hands, blew into them. He stood for a while. The streets were quiet, very very. He was by the entrance to a venue now closed for the night. He felt like he had been walking for hours. Had he ever stopped? Yes, to eat a fish. He sat on a bench and ate a fish. His hands were still greasy.

  He just had to keep walking. It was important. Why? Just because. Because what? Something would happen. What? Something. Definitely.

  One thing was the toilet: he hadnt been since Baton Rouge. Whatever they called it here, washroom, restroom. But if ye couldnt find one? What did ye do if ye couldnt find one? An actual lavatory. Ye couldnt take a chance and just do it someplace because if ye got caught, like the cops or somebody just seeing ye and shooting ye down in cold blood.

  He lifted the accordeon-case and continued walking.

  But if ye couldnt find one and didnt have a choice like if ye were bursting and really needed to go, like really really, ye were desperate, then ye had to, because ye had no choice ye had no choice.

  The next street corner. He would get to there. Then the one after that, he would just walk to there, jeesoh. Could he do another one?

  Probably there werent any toilets. He had the festival street map in the rucksack but was wary of taking it out to read. Nobody was walking. If anybody came along and saw ye with a map they would know ye were a stranger and that wasnt good, that was risky.

  Maybe turning back was best.

  Where was he?

  Ha ha.

  That happened; ye turned a corner then another and another and ye wound up lost. But it wasnt good to stand still.

  Ye dont do anything standing still. Ye have to walk. Murdo did, just forwards, but then maybe not, maybe best just

  What? Thinking about it first. Was it best to go back? Where to, the bus station! Ha ha.

  That was the trouble, he wasnt thinking, he wasnt thinking at all he was just like – whatever, just whatever, walking, walking and walking.

  Whereabouts? Where was he?

  Ye aye hoped ye were on a square so ye turned a corner and followed a straight line backwards or forwards and then ye would be out but what if the streets went at an angle so then ye went wherever, north instead of west. Angle lines are straight. Even the line of a circle! When is a circle not a circle? Please sir infinity. Please sir three right sides, a point a point a point.

  Maybe he was lost. Was he lost? Maybe he was. Not lost but just away from everything. Not everything, just everything that is like

  He walked closely by the wall of a building where the light was a little better.

  A block farther on the pavement became more shadowy; this building of an older type with ordinary doorways and in one was an edge of something

  like a body

  like wrapped in a blanket, a body.

  It was. A tuft of hair poking out. A man’s head. Jeesoh. A man’s head; a man asleep, African-American, snoozing, but ye couldnt hear him, ye couldnt hear his breath.

  Murdo had stepped aside along by the edge of the kerb, turning the next corner and walking fast, faster, just in case of whatever, guys sneaking up and jumping ye, and on into another street, wee and narrow. Dark and like pitch black even; and not a sound. He was not worried; definitely not worried but just like where was he going where was he going! Jeesoh. Having to take the chance but this was for a pee, he could pee, jees, it was so so dark. He stepped in at the side of where it was, set down the accordeon-case, stepped a little way off and urinated wherever wherever, into the street just, hoping, hoping, doing it as fast as fast made possible, just like – oh God…

  Then grabbing the accordeon-case he was quickly walking walking yes thank God, thank God, thank you God, keeping to the outside edge of the kerb and away from the wall.

  He glanced into doorways and spaces where a body could hide or even just sit to keep out the road like if ye had to if it was raining, just to shelter.

  Way along he saw two figures. The cops here had guns and holsters, sticks and handcuffs and that other thing they had that reminded ye of a ball and chain for knocking off people’s heads. That spiked ball thing like dangling at the end of a chain; they used them back in the olden days, knights in armour, and swung them round and round then crash, knocking the head off yer shoulders. The cops here were tough and killed people. Dont ever make jokes. Then a voice, somebody shouting at somebody, farther along the street. Then an actual person across the street. Somebody, Jesus Christ, Murdo walked fast on. Leaning against the wall or just a shadow maybe a shadow. Creepy. Dont stop. Along another street and onto a wider street there was grass. And a certain building. Grass and a certain building. And there the public telephone he tried to use earlier. It was, it was the same public telephone. The grass was the same grass square. On the other side of there was the catfish foodstall now with the shutters drawn, and the benches, and the road that took ye back to the main festival area. Thank God.

  He walked round the other side where there was a little bit more light, and a bench. But two people were there already. He kept going; farther along there was one empty. It was. He set down the accordeon-case and the rucksack at one end of it, he sat down.

  Later his head was full of stuff, but away in the distance someplace and ye had to grapple to discover what it was. Spots of light down the end of a tunnel. Then ye were at the end and nothing except feeling kind of cold, yer body. He shouldnt have been cold but he was and his teeth did the rapid shiver-click he used to get as a boy, trembling out the bath and Mum wrapping the towel round ye: dih dih dih dih dih dih dih, dih dih dih dih dih dih dih, oh Mummy Mummy Mummy. Are ye cold? I’m freezing I’m freezing I’m freezing.

  Not freezing, but cold. He opened his rucksack and brought out his other top, took off his jacket and pulled it over the one he was already wearing then put the jacket back on. He had spare socks. Yes he did. He could put them on too. Maybe later. He sat a moment, then extracted the belt from his jeans and tied it through the handle of the accordeon-case and the rucksack to connect round his wrist, so if anybody tried to snatch them it would alert him. He could even doze off and be safe, although he didnt want to; risky stuff. First thing
in the morning he would phone home. If they were back. Of course they were back. They were back right now. They never would have stayed overnight. Then the letter. Dad would have read it! They all would know. He says he will phone, thank God. Then it would be Dad, Oh why hasnt he phoned, he said he would phone.

  Ye said ye would phone and ye didnt! Yes Dad but if ye dont have yer own and there arent any landlines that work.

  He tried to phone and the damn bloody thing didnt work. It wasnt his fault. How could it be? If it didnt work it didnt work, people couldnt bloody use it, they couldnt use it. Jeesoh. Jees, jees. Ye said ye would phone. Yes but. Yes but.

  He folded his arms in tightly, hunching in his shoulders, bent forwards, elbows resting on his thighs, rocking back and forwards a little bit but stopping that and just hunching in and hunching in, the heat in, keeping the heat in like trapping it, trapping yer heat, oh mammy daddy mammy daddy mammy daddy, then shoving his hands in his pockets, leaning forwards.

  Later again he was awake so he must have dozed; definitely. He looked to the sky. Probably about whatever. Who knows. Three o’clock maybe.

  The bottle of water. He unscrewed the lid and sipped.

  He should have brought a blanket, he was quite shivery. Aunt Maureen’s big towel. He brought a wee one instead. He was shivery and it was cold, it was, jees like jees jees jees, really. Getting up and stamping his feet was what he felt like doing but he didnt, he just sat there tighter in, in, not wanting to move at all because even the slightest most minute fraction would take the heat from his body. Socks could be gloves. Socks and towels for warmth for warm, heat warming, body warming, and extra socks and yer teeth drrrrrrr drrrrrrr drrrrrrr drrrrrrr, that was ringing not shivering ringing ringing, ring ring, ring ring

  Oh hullo Dad.

  It was just round and round and round, things things things and whatever the tunes would be then they would be that, whatever they were, tunes shivery and doh doh doh, doh.

  A mental sort of a doze. What like was it? Horrible. That was him, for however long he had no idea except cutting off consciousness if ye can say that, something dark and switched off.