Dirt Road

by James Kelman

  Except when he woke it was the real nightmare, this guy staring at him; some madman. A bloody madman. Just a fucking scary scary madman staring at him on the side of the bench farthest away just sitting there, less than two feet away oh Jesus Christ scary scary scary, he was scary, he was scary scary, just like a real real scary guy. That is the truth. Murdo kept looking at him. The one thing maybe was holding his gaze. Not looking away. But straight into his eyes just looking. Because then what could he do? Nothing, not with Murdo looking straight straight at him,

  and while he did he was pulling the belt out through the accordeon-case handle and the rucksack straps, then coiling it into a rucksack compartment, and rising to his feet still looking at the guy, and now off the bench he backed away, gripping the accordeon-case and rucksack in either hand, and he set off walking in a kind of curve so like if the guy tried anything Murdo would see him. Beyond the foodstall he crossed over the street, round a corner and crossed another one and round another one but then was on a main street and he kept along this.

  Murdo didnt feel like a coward. So what if he was? Guys had knives. Some of them did, hidden in the blankets like if they were homeless and sleeping rough, they were ready to fight. So if somebody went to get them they would leap out with the knife and stick it right into them. Ye couldnay blame them either. Things happened. In Glasgow ye had them begging on the street, they sat on the pavement even if it was raining; ye saw their trousers soaked. Some from foreign countries. They didnt have any money. Nothing. How even did they get to Scotland? It was incredible. A lassie he knew put a £5 note into one of their paper cups. Murdo didnt see it himself, a guy told him. They were up in Glasgow and were just like walking down the street and she saw a beggar and she went and put in a £5 note. A beggar. A fiver. That was lassies. No guy ever would give a fiver. It was just like incredible.

  It was safe now. He still had his money. He counted it. The guy couldnt have robbed him. But if the dollar notes had slipped out his pocket? While he was hunched up dozing?

  Imagine they had! What would he have done? He would have had to go back. He would have had to. So if the guy was still there? Okay. It didnt matter because it was the money so he would have had to go. What choice? None. To get his money, if that was it, he would have gone, he would have had to.

  Anyway, it didnt matter.

  A sandwich and a carton of hot tea! If he could find a 24/7 store. Maybe a garage; garages had shops. One foodvan he passed was advertising OPEN ALL NIGHT but it was closed. An all-night foodvan that closed during the night.

  Although it was morning. Nearly. The quality of light. That smell of dampness. A fresh morning. How near was the sea?

  Tonight was the gig. Amazing to think. Because he was here. Dad would be sleeping or else awake worrying. But that was that.

  More people around; early workers, morning strollers, a couple with dogs. Maybe somebody the same as him, nowhere to go and just walking about. Homeless people. Murdo was one.

  Then an amazing foodsmell, a wee café-style restaurant open for business bloody hell it was just oh man what a smell, just this beautiful foodsmell like aroma through a wee kind of alleyway and music coming from inside, a lone voice singing; a French guy and a French song; just him and the guitar jeesoh, bloody beautiful. What was he doing! Everything and nothing. Murdo stopped about thirty yards from the café entrance, listening. Food in the song too – le plat de fricassée. Just beautiful that nice nice guitar. What was he doing! Hardly any damn thing at all! How do ye get that? How do ye just make it like that? How is it people can do that? They just like do it, they do the song, they sit and they have the guitar like they just

  What an amazing-mazing thing! Murdo didnt want it to end, he strode on fast before it did. Because too he needed to play, he really did. Things press on ye. Tonight was tonight. One of the flyers showed Queen Monzee-ay featured as a guest at an afternoon Cajun session, traditional style, but no information on the evening gig. That was okay. The venue was a regular Zydeco and Blues Club and he had the street address. Things went on there all the time and he would find it. It was only the playing, he needed to play. Time was going and he needed to play.

  Okay there was no actual place but if it was dry he could play anywhere. So anywhere becomes a place.

  The wee grass square. What was wrong with the wee grass square? If the maniac was there so what if it was daylight. People were out and about. What could he do? Nothing. Not in daylight, not in front of witnesses. And like the cops too, if they were there, they would just shoot him.

  Murdo felt fine. Not much sleep but okay. Imagine Dad. What happened what happened are ye okay are ye okay! Yes Dad. Why didnt ye phone why didnt ye phone! A bloody grass square ye spent the night! Did anything bad happen? No Dad just this scary maniac.

  But he wasnt a scary maniac. He was scary but not a maniac; a scary guy. A lot of guys are scary. They can be. Ye just have to tell them, Fuck off, away and scare somebody else.

  *

  He found a store. It sold sandwiches and hot donuts. No hot tea but hot coffee and a bottle of water for later. A turkey salad sandwich for the best value. Turkey wasnt tasty but it filled ye up, and that was what ye wanted. People looked in bins. Imagine looking in bins. Oh there’s an old crust.

  Murdo would have eaten the sandwich while walking but the accordeon-case made it tricky.

  Ahead was a bus-stop. He put down the accordeon-case then took off the rucksack and placed it next to it, and sighed, and floated somewhere off, off

  then opened the sandwich packet and scoffed everything. The coffee was scalding! He laid the carton on the pavement.

  He stood at this bus-stop for a while. No buses came. He was glad of that. What if one had come? Maybe he could have got on it, gone to the terminus and back. Worth it for the comfy seat. Maybe he could play them a tune. Good to get the fingers moving. The driver would be like Oh good, that’ll cheer people up. First thing in the morning everybody is all sad, going to school, going to work. Slavery. Oh here’s a nice waltz and ye dance along. Loudspeakers at street corners.

  Murdo eventually gathered up the stuff and headed along the road. Ye could play while ye walked, strolling players, who’ll come a-waltzing with me, waltzing Matilda. A waltz can be sad.

  But how come? If ye are dancing. Could ye dance and be sad? Maybe ye could. But if ye have a girlfriend and are dancing with her, how could it be sad! Although if it was yer last time together, if she was seeing somebody else and it was yer last time, yer last waltz. Or if it was yer girlfriend dancing with you but like thinking about somebody else.

  But it didnt matter. You were playing the tune. So you would be happy. Even if it was a sad tune, so what? Okay bawl yer eyes out but I’m happy, I’m just the musician.

  None of it mattered except you got it right. Queen Monzee-ay was thinking drums and bass but did she need it? Maybe not, it was up to her. Maybe it didnt matter. Their guitarist was the best according to Sarah. Usually he rehearsed with them but couldnt last Sunday. He was away someplace with his own band; he played in two different ones. So probably he was good.

  For Queen Monzee-ay the bonus was Murdo’s accordeon. He wasnt being big-headed. She said it herself and it was true. Two accordeons made it exciting. She was powerful, so so powerful, and the whole thing, like jeesoh he just needed to play, needed to get his fingers moving he was rusty rusty, so so rusty, just rusty. His fingers were like carrots.

  The payphone!

  Here he was. He rested the accordeon-case against the wall and read the instructions, coins at the ready. He finished dialing the number, and waited. Nothing the first time but the second time it rang Aunt Maureen answered. Aunt Maureen herself. Murdo smiled.

  Yeah? she said. Who’s calling there?

  Aunt Maureen it’s me, Murdo.

  Murdo?

  Yeah.

  Murdo!

  Yeah, how are ye Aunt Maureen?

  Oh now Murdo.

  Sorry for phoning so early. I’m j
ust wondering about my Dad, is he there?

  No – my Lord! Murdo he aint now he’s gone. Murdo, he’s gone.

  Pardon?

  He aint here. Forty-five minutes they’ve been gone son, they’ve gone to Birmingham. Your Uncle John is driving him down there right now. Right now son, they are driving right now. You hearing me? Your father is catching a bus and he’s going to meet you son.

  …

  You hearing me? Meeting up with that musician fellow now what d’you call him was singing at the Gathering huh, the Irish fellow, your Dad got him now, Uncle John got him the number.

  …

  You hearing me son? You in Louisiana? Is that where you are?

  Yes.

  You got him so worried.

  Is he okay?

  He’s okay. Murdo now you should have phoned: last night like you said. We waited and waited.

  I couldnt.

  We waited.

  Yeah but I couldnt, I couldnt Aunt Maureen I dont have one I mean…

  You said you would.

  Yeah but just like a landline and I couldnt get through and

  Didnt sleep a wink hardly at all then first thing this morning him and your Uncle John. My Lord Murdo…

  Yeah but the phone wasnt working, I couldnt get it to work and it was very late.

  You took the money son. Why’d you take the money? I could have given you money. You didnt ask! Why didnt you ask me? You should have asked me son.

  I just needed it. Aunt Maureen I’m going to pay it back, it’s just like a loan I mean I’ll pay it back.

  Well it aint the money Murdo. Tom is so worried. Where’d you sleep? You eating? What you doing son? In Louisiana, what you doing there?

  Murdo didnt answer. Aunt Maureen began repeating bits of what she had said and more that related to it but Murdo couldnt take it in properly – as much as he tried, he tried.

  He needed the phone call to finish. He had to finish it. She was talking on and he cut in: Aunt Maureen! Aunt Maureen…

  When she paused he said, I’ve got friends here Aunt Maureen. They’re musicians and I’m staying with them so dont anybody worry. I’m completely fine I mean like I’m just phoning to tell ye.

  I would have given you money son, if only you said.

  I know you would have Aunt Maureen I mean so like I’ll see ye soon. I’ll see ye soon. ’Bye!

  Oh son you’ll take care now?

  Of course. Of course. Okay Aunt Maureen I’ll see ye soon.

  Oh Murdo.

  ’Bye. He replaced the receiver, maybe not cutting her off. Probably he had. He stood a moment. He would see her soon anyway. He looked one way then the other. He just wasnt sure about stuff. But how could he be? He couldnt phone back.

  He started walking then stopped along the pavement to look back. The accordeon-case. Inside the case the accordeon. Where he had left it by the wall next to the public phone. He was about twenty steps away. Imagine leaving it.

  But weird seeing it. What was it? Just nothing. A machine. It was him made it work. The handle of the accordeon-case fitted snugly in his hand. It was no effort to lift it. He could have smiled, but whatever, crossing the road to the wee grass square and to the same bench as last night.

  The scary guy was gone and the bench was empty. Although maybe it was “his” bench, if he was a homeless guy and that was where he usually slept. He scared him away so he could get “his” bench back. Probably he wouldnt recognize Murdo if he saw him again.

  The sun was good, even this early. Blue sky was great. Back home it was clouds, clouds and grey clouds; purple clouds, red clouds, orange clouds; yellow clouds and almost black clouds, palest blue clouds, almost white clouds.

  He took the leaflets and flyers out of the rucksack and checked through once again for information on the Jay Cee Lounge gig. All he could find was Queen Monzee-ay featured among “Lancey’s Cajun All-Stars” in an event scheduled for lunchtime. Sometimes “All-Stars” was a label for anybody available on the day. Murdo put away the leaflets and flyers and opened the case. He pulled on the accordeon, adjusted the straps and began on a thing that got the fingers moving. He had Queen Monzee-ay’s set in his head and needed to go in and work but not too fast. Ye could go too fast. Sometimes ye did and it was a waste of time. It didnay work and ye had to blank it all out, and go for it again. Okay if he had been playing like usual like every day, then it would have been easy. But if ye werent playing regularly ye lost the feel and did things that were only there to guide ye in. Once ye were in ye dumped them. Ye just had to judge it, and go with it, and move fast: push it push it push it and not be scared.

  Not a great accordeon but it would do. It would be his American one; he would leave it at Uncle John’s house, then the next time him and Dad were there he could use it again.

  This was a public place and people were walking now, and walking was moving, moving to the beat, dogs this way and that. Kids there too. Ye got it anywhere. Joggers, strollers; fast power-walkers, shoulders going and Murdo moved on with a kind of two-step thing in line from what he had been hearing off the two CDs, the bare thing itself then thickening it out – making it thick was how he thought of it: beginning on the bare thing then over and over and over, opening it out but bringing in what else could be there and that was crucial.

  If he had had a guitar he would have played in a rhythm the way he did for Chess Hopkins. Just to get himself in. Once in that was that. Here he didnt have the guitar, he went with the fingers, where the fingers led him, geared towards the tunes he had been listening to these last many days.

  Where did it take ye? Wherever, just wherever. Ye didnt know till there ye were, and that was that in the best kind of playing, the best kind of players. Queen Monzee-ay would be leading and you would know which way to follow, you would find it. You go that way how you think, you go that way how you think, how you think, oh jees yeah on ye go, just like whatever, whatever. Ye could shiver in that kind of playing; and hearing it in other musicians. After it ye needed a gap, not talking to people; the audience were there and however they heard it, okay, but you needed to disappear.

  However long Murdo was playing on the bench he didnt know but it felt good and his fingers were fine just moving from what he had been hearing these past days down the basement. It was his learning, whatever that was, it was his to work from. That was enough. Once the band was in he would be in. Queen Monzee-ay was leading the way. He would be with her, he would be with her. She knew he would. That was all she wanted. She was only asking for that.

  A crashing noise from the catfish foodstall. A woman had unlocked the shutters and pushed them up. The guy’s wife maybe. He was home with the kids as in turn and turn about. Two jobs, sometimes three. The husband and wife too. One worked then came home. Then the other one went out. One night and one day.

  Murdo took off the accordeon. It was a beautiful beautiful morning. He walked a few paces exercising his shoulders and arms, swigged from the bottle of water. Two people were already at the foodstall counter, waiting for the woman to serve them. Nearby the bench three birds pecking into the grass by the verge; crumbs in the dirt, birds look for crumbs; people too. The bird with the human face. Maybe it was there. Aunt Maureen thinking of him. Thinking was worrying. She was worrying. She didnt have to. Aunt Maureen! You do not have to worry! Murdo is alive-alive-oh! Where is that bird! Away and tell Aunt Maureen! Murdo says dont worry.

  It was true but. People worry, why do people worry? Dad would just be

  oh jees, Dad.

  But what could he do? nothing. Dad was coming and that was that because Dad was Dad and Dad just like whatever: that was Dad. Murdo shut his eyes, only a moment: he pulled on the accordeon. Dad was a worrier. People were worriers. Other people werent. Murdo settled the accordeon then stood still and sang a song for Dad:

  I was born and raised in Glasgow

  in a Glasgow tenement

  and when people spoke of my bonny land

  I didnt know what they meant />
  For I have seen the Highlands

  I have seen the low,

  And I will brag of my native land,

  Wherever I may go.

  On the shores of foreign brothers

  we’ll lay no robber’s hand

  all we ask is to toil and live

  in our own native land.

  The song for Dad was a song for Dad’s own father – Murdo’s grandpa. That was Grandpa Macarthur and he used to sing it himself. Oh and he was a grumpy old guy right enough, who kicked the cat when he lost his temper and wouldnay emigrate to America when people wanted him to. Murdo didnt sing it like grandpa who sang it in a certain way like how he explained it, his own country wasnt his own country:

  when people spoke of my bonny land

  I didnt know what they meant

  because rich people had it all, and tried to keep out the poor people who didnt get the chance to see it and were stuck in filthy stone buildings and filthy stone streets, never allowed out to see the mountains and lochs and great places, woods and sea and sandy beaches and like whatever, rich people had it all, kings and queens and millionaires, landowners and robbers. Grandpa stood to sing it but he always talked, he stopped and talked and granny would give him a row. Sing if ye’re going to sing! We dont want a lecture! People laughing, Mum and Dad.

  Murdo sang it. They were all there. Everybody. Eilidh was laughing. Grandpa liked Eilidh, he always liked Eilidh, he smiled with her.

  He liked Murdo too. “Just you sing son, you sing!” Murdo sang. He wanted to sing! And that was the song; so what. He was just glad about stuff, just about being here. Today was today and here he was. Tonight was the gig and just everything was like everything.

  When he finished the song he went straight into a jig, capering about.

  People were watching. A few adults, kids and toddlers. A wee girl in a football jersey came forwards. She was like eight years old and the jersey she wore showed the colours of Barcelona FC. Kids wore the same jersey back in Scotland. She held out a dollar. His empty coffee carton was there on the bench. Murdo winked at the girl and nodded towards it. Beyond her he saw the mother smile. The girl dropped in the dollar, stepped back and returned swiftly to her parents. Other people stopped. A few looked foreign and were taking pictures. A couple of guys and lassies roundabout his own age stayed for two songs. The accordeon brought them. Not his voice!