Please

by Peter Wild

  N if thir wis ivir a laddie less suitit tae a mill job than young John then ah’ve yit tae meet him. He wis yin ay they right quiet, shy, sensitive boys, ye ken the type. Now ah minded ay John fae the skill. Eywis playin the fuckin class clown tae try n get attention, bit ye could tell underneath it he wis a right shy wee bugger. Dinnae think ah ivir saw him talk tae a lassie in the four year we wir in the same form class.

  Because he wis so shy, it wis a big surprise when he came intae the work n startit goin on aboot this lassie fae oor year it the skill, Mary Carr. Seemed the wee man wis right fuckin intae her in a big way, hud been fir a fair while. Bear that in mind ah only funt oot a lot ay this story later on, when he laid it on me eftir she fucked his heid up. He telt me because he nivir hud too many neeburs outside ay work n ahwis yin ay the only boys in the mill he spoke tae on a regular basis. He kent thit he could trust me no tae knock a rise oot ay him, because ah kent he wis awfy thin skinned.

  Wee John wis right intae this fuckin Mary lassie, stars in the eyes, the lot. Couldnae see it masel, she jist seemed like an average bird tae me, bit beauty is in the eye ay the beholder n aw that, eh? She wis a bit ay a slapper, if the truth be telt. A couple ay ma pals hud a poke it her it the skill, bit ah didnae hae the hert tae tell the wee man. True fuckin love n aw that shite, ken? Ah sometimes wonder if ah’d telt him the score aboot her then whither it woulday made ony difference, bit probably no. Ye ken whit some fowk are like when it comes tae somebody thir right intae, they only hear whit they want tae hear, n even then they sometimes dinnae hear it right.

  Bit that’s the way John wis wi this Mary lassie. If ye said black aboot her he’d say white, the sun shone oot ay her fuckin erse, aw that rubbish. Perr bugger. It wis embarrassin the way he went on aboot her. Ye wid ay thought she wis Mother fuckin Teresa instead ay jist anither Fawkirk lassie tae hear him go on. He wis giein her poetry, floors, aw this fuckin romantic nonsense, totally smitten, n she wis jist eggin him on.

  Some lassies are jist like that, though. They’ll play wi a guy’s heid n get him tae dae cartwheels fir them, jist tae see how far they can push him, then jist move ontae somebidy else when they’ve hud a guid laugh it thir expense. Only thing is, some ay these lassies dinnae ken thir playin wi fire, or jist dinnae care, n they kin drive some guys off the deep end if thir no careful.

  Eftir him tellin me whit she wis sayin n daein fir a couple ay weeks ah sussed oot her game. Ah jist kept ma fuckin mooth shut, though. The way ah saw it, John wid go through aw this crap, make a bit ay an erse ay himself n learn a bit fae it. Ye live n learn n resolve no tae make such a fuckin mess ay it the nixt time, haud yer emotions back a bit, we aw go through it. Ah thought, well, it least wee John wis gettin the guts tae approach wimmin, ken? It’s aw aboot confidence buildin, as ye’ll no doubt appreciate yersel.

  So ah listened tae him goin on aboot her fir aboot a month or so. He fuckin took her through tae Edinburgh, bought her her dinner, records, aw that stuff. Which wisnae easy on a YTS wage, believe you me. He nivir got a ride ootay her, mind you–when ah say he telt me ivirythin, ah mean ivirythin. It wis a wee bit embarrassin tae hear the wee man go on. He’d nivir hud sex afore n thought his luck wis well in there. He got as far as her bedroom, sittin on her bed n spoutin aw this fuckin embarrassin personal shite while she jist sat n listened, nae doot gettin a fuckin buzz ootay it. Some boys jist dinnae ken who tae keep thir mooths shut in front ay, especially inexperienced yins like John.

  Ah made a couple ay wee enquiries n funt oot thit this Mary wis goin oot wi anither boy apart fae John n she wis obviously jist toyin wi him, fuckin stringin him along fir the hell ay it. They’ll huv tae bury her in a fuckin Y-shaped coffin. John widnae believe it when ah telt him aboot the ither boy she wis gaun oot wi. It probably wisnae ma place tae tell him, bit ah jist felt really rotten fir him. He said ah wis jist jealous. Me, jealous ay him! Ah wis goin oot wi a bird it the time, whit the fuck hud ah tae be jealous aboot?

  Bit John wis that far gone. He wis fuckin obsessed wi this wee cow n she wis jist toyin wi him the way a cat might wi a moose, only wi less fuckin mercy. He wis headin fir a serious crash n aw thit ah could dae wis jist stand on the sidelines n watch his life turn intae a fuckin car crash.

  Aboot six weeks eftir John hud first startit sniffin aboot this Mary he came in in a helluva fuckin state, heid totally wastit, wanderin aboot the mill like a heidless chicken fir the entire day. Telt me thit Mary didnae want tae see him onymair. Ah felt right sorry fir him so ah took him oot tae the pub eftir work tae get a couple ay beers doon his neck n gie him a bit ay a fuckin pep talk, lit him git things off ay his chist.

  Well, it turns oot John hus been intae this Mary fir three years–three fuckin years–n it wis on account ay she wis apparently the only lassie it the skill thit wid talk tae him much. So he fixated on her, nivir haein the guts thit ony normal young laddie might huv hud tae ask her oot n aw that. N his fuckin feelins jist built up inside. Because this Mary lassie spoke tae him–probably jist fuckin flirtin wi him the way she flirtit wi half the other fuckin boys in oor year–she wis his dream lassie. Or it least yin he could talk tae, n it that point they wur probably yin n the same tae him.

  So he bumps intae her eftir he’d left the skill n she gies him a ticket fir an eighteenth birthday pairty she’s haein. He gets wrecked it the pairty n makes a fool ay himself n sends her a box ay chocolates tae her hoose tae make up fir it, n she starts writin him letters n phonin him. He goes roond tae her hoose a couple ay times tae visit her, takes her oot n aboot, n things as far is he kin see ur goin jist hunky fuckin dory.

  So John is sittin it hame yin time listenin tae this band The Smiths–who’re a band ah’ve nivir been able tae stand, by the way, that Morrissey’s jist a whinin-faced cunt–jist thinkin aboot Mary n the fact thit she’s goin away tae university soon, switherin whither tae tell her how he feels aboot her n how long he’s felt this way, when he gets the idea fae the lyrics tae this song called ‘Back to the Old House’–ah’ll remember that title till ma dyin day–jist tae dae it n the hell wi the fuckin consequences.

  She’d huv hud tae be fuckin blind not tae be able tae read him it that point. Ah telt ye he wis a naive wee punter. She obviously felt fuck all for him, bit he nivir hud the experience base it that point tae read the signs. But he gits the guts–n this dis take a hellay a lot ay guts fir a shy laddie like him–tae go roond n tell this lassie how long he’s been intae her.

  Baaaaaad move.

  Onybidy who kent anything it aw aboot wimmin wid ken thit tellin her somethin like that wid jist freak her oot big style n hae her runnin a fuckin mile in the ither direction. Which is whit happened wi this Mary tae a certain extent, bit she liked him bein that much intae her a wee bit tae. Typical fuckin female ego shite. ‘Oh, John, you’re not obsessed with me, are you?’ she asks him, n he says she hud a look on her fuckin face thit said she thought this wid huv been cool, bit it least he hud the guid sense tae say no. So he walked ootay the hoose, heid understandably spinnin, n ootay her life.

  Well, ah tried tae set his heid straight, bit he wis in a right bloody state. Telt me she’d telt him he should see a fuckin psychiatrist, n ah wid agree–ye’d huv tae be mental tae fall fir a wee hoor like that sae badly. Ah telt him, ‘John, the hell wi it, son, jist forget it, she’s no fuckin worth it, she disnae deserve ye, move on n firget her, there’s plenty mair fish in the sea.’ Aw the usual shite, ken whit ah mean?

  N he seemed tae be listenin tae me. He stopped talkin aboot her n seemed a lot happier it his job. The boy’s jist hud a dose ay cold hard female reality, ah thinks tae masel, he’ll be aw the better fir it. He’ll no git taken sae bad the nixt time, or mibbe the perr bugger’ll get somebody who’ll treat him a bit fuckin better. Bit it least he seemed tae be gettin oor this fuckin lassie n her twistit fuckin evil wee mind games.

  So he didnae mention her fir two or three months n ah starts tae forget aboot her awthegither. Then yin Monday morning he comes in n his heid is fuckin wastit agai
n. Tells me he’d met Mary fir the first time in months on the train comin back fae Edinburgh on the Setirday night n thit she’d telt him he wis a fuckin looney n tae stop fuckin writin tae her cos she wis nivir gonnae reply again.

  Ah didnae even ken he’d still been writin tae her, n tae tell ye the truth it pissed me off a bit. Ah hate it when ye gie fowk advice thit they’ve asked ye fir n then they go oot n dae the exact opposite eftir agreein wi ye. So ah jist telt him straight he wis bein a fuckin idiot n tae get a grip ay himself n leave the lassie alane, thit we’d been through aw this shite afore. Ah wis a bit sharp wi him, but sometimes ye’ve jist got tae be tae get yer fuckin point across.

  Ah thought it yin point the boy wis gonnae start fuckin greetin bit he jist nodded n agreed wi me, sayin thit he kent he wis daein stupid stuff bit he couldnae help himsel sometimes. Ah jist says ‘Look, forget her, leave it, end ay fuckin story, ah dinnae want tae hear nae mair aboot it, right?’ So we both goes back tae work n ah wis really hopin that would be the end ay it. It wis gettin a bit fuckin weird fir me, tae tell ye the truth. Ah’d nivir seen onybidy as hung up on somebidy else as John wis on this fuckin bitch. Ah nivir saw him fir a couple ay days aboot the work, n ah thought he wis off sick or somethin. Then yin ay the mill boys tells me thit he’d heard fae the office manager thit John hud gone n fuckin topped himsel. Deid. A fuckin…paracetamol overdose. End ay…story. So that wis that. John McAllister, ma workmate n neebur, deid it sivinteen. It wis totally fuckin unbelievable, ah jist couldnae take it in, fuckin sivinteen, Jesus…

  Ah went roond tae his hoose that night tae see if it wis true, really true, fir masel. Ah hud tae. It wis John’s maw thit answered the door, een rid fae greetin n a bit spaced oot fae the tranquillisers the doctor hud gied her tae calm her doon. Ah’d met her afore, so ah went in n sat n talked tae her. She kept askin me why this hud happened, her n John’s faither couldnae understand it it aw. She hud nae idea why he’d done it, he’d nivir left a note, n ah hud tae explain tae her aboot Mary an aw the fuckin hassle he’d went through wi her. She wis completely taken by surprise. John hudnae even mentioned Mary tae her or his dad.

  Ah left that hoose that night jist feelin totally numb. Ah jist couldnae fuckin take it aw in! Why did the silly wee bastirt no talk tae me, tell me whit wis goin on in his fuckin heid instead ay takin aw they fuckin pills? We could’ve worked it oot thegither, but naw, he hud tae go n fuckin top himsel, ae? Whoivir said thit suicide makes murderers ootay yer pals wis right. Fir fuckin months ah kept goin oor the things he’d said tae me in the weeks afore he died, tryin tae find clues is tae whaur his heid wis it. Nearly drove masel fuckin mental, bit in the end the only yin responsible fir John’s suicide wis himsel. He wis the yin thit poured the fuckin painkillers doon his neck, n thir’s naebidy in the world worth fuckin killin yersel oor. Pity that Mary hudnae sussed oot she wis messin aboot wi a time bomb until eftir she’d lit his fuse, eh? Onybidy who treats ye like she treated John disnae deserve the shite off yer shoes, n ah’m shair ye’d agree.

  Ah saw her yin time eftir that, in the Cross Keys up the toon. She wis wi some fuckin guy n ah went up tae her n asked her if she kent aboot John. She said she did n thit he wis a nutter who should ay been locked away years ago. Ah jist shook ma heid in disbelief. Ah’ve nivir hit a woman in ma life bit ah wis sair fuckin temptit that night, ah kin tell ye. Bit causin a fuckin scene widnae huv solved anything n ah jist left the pub.

  Bit time rolls on, n it wis twinty year ago this August thit John died. Ah wis thinkin aboot him eftir ah opened the Falkirk Herald n saw Mary in the weddin pages. She wis standin there oh-so-pure-n-fuckin-white glued tae the airm ay some guy ah didnae recognise. Ah thought it wis lucky the photay wis in black n white otherwise ye’d huv been able tae make oot John’s fuckin bloodstains on her hands. Ah wis fuckin ragin n ah spat on it, ripped it oot ay the paper n chucked it in the fuckin bucket whaur it belonged.

  The way ah see it, she disnae hae ony right tae happiness eftir tearin oot John’s hert like that. Ah could understand her gettin freaked oot by him, but she might it least huv been a bit mair understandin, ken? Bit she’s still alive n John is still deid n that, ma man, is life. The whole thing wis a total fuckin nightmare fae start tae finish, n it’s jist a pity thit John nivir got the chance tae learn the rules ay the game.

  Ye ken it’s funny, bit ah kin see history kinnay repeatin itsel in a sense. Ah ken this young lassie who has this quiet young guy thit seems a bit obsessed by her. He’s sent her a couple ay bouquets ay floors, n even went tae the lengths ay paintin the words ay some auld love song on the pavement outside her hoose in the middle ay the fuckin night. Pretty mental stuff, eh? Bit like ah says, some boys jist dinnae ken how tae express themsels ony ither way. The sad thing is they build up a mental picture ay the lassie thit she could nivir live uptae, even if they did go oot thegither. So they hit the groond wi a bump…

  …or mibbe a fuckin overdose. Ah hope this laddie’s got a wee bit mair sense thin John hud, bit if no ah hope ah’m in the pub the night he comes in fir a drink n a talk.

  So ah suppose the bottom line ay it aw is that shit happens, bit it hurts like hell at the time. A bit like ma parched fuckin throat here! Your bell, ma man.

  Ah propose a toast: tae John McAllister, rest his soul, n tae the insanity ay true love…

  …Cheers.

  Stop Me If You Think You’ve Heard This One Before

  Willy Vlautin

  I didn’t find out about The Smiths until long after they’d broken up. I was sitting in a car with my cousin who’d just moved back to town and he played me ‘The Queen is Dead’ and I couldn’t believe I’d missed them. I became a huge fan right away. My life was a million miles away from The Smiths. I had barely left my hometown, and most of the friends I had would have thought I was a real freak for liking The Smiths. But man were they good. I always imagined Morrissey as a dramatic disgruntled co-worker. ‘Stop Me If You Think You’ve Heard This One Before’ is a straight-up country song title, but everybody ends up in a country song at some point. Morrissey’s lyrics seemed to live in the drama of one, and for a while he could write about it better than anybody. So the story I wrote is my ‘Stop Me If You Think You’ve Heard This One Before’. This is my country song story.

  For years I just floated along. I wasn’t much. I’m not saying I’m anything today, but back then it bothered me more than it does now. Now I’m all right with where I am. Now I know that just getting along is OK, that it’s better than a lot of things.

  I grew up in the same house that I was born in. My mom and me lived there. My dad left us when I was eight. He moved out of state with a woman nobody knew or even knew existed.

  Growing up I wasn’t much of a student or an athlete. I barely got through high school, and I tried at it. I stayed up a lot of nights studying, toiling over it. So when I got out I didn’t even think about college.

  I’m not extraordinarily gifted in any particular way, and I’m not saying that for any reason except that it’s true. I have never been obsessed with working on cars or slaving over a computer or trying to make a trunk full of cash. Plus I’ve always had trouble speaking in front of people, a lot of times I can barely eat in front of them. And I can get lazy. I can watch TV for days. I can let dishes stack in the sink for a week. I feel bad about all of it. About everything I just mentioned.

  I guess when I was younger, deep down I wanted to amount to something, have some sorta normal life like everyone else. Own a house. Have a kid that likes me and a girl that stays with me.

  For six years after high school I worked at a chemical warehouse and loaded trucks and answered phones. The chemicals we sold were to mines located all over the northern part of the state. I’d load 48-foot trailers with chemicals used for leaching gold out of the mountains. I couldn’t smell, my sense of smell was ruined because of the chemicals, and my hands were scarred. But it was a job and, for a guy like me, with my education and experience, I guess that I felt like I was lucky I had it and I
worked pretty hard at keeping it.

  So the story starts here. It starts out of the blue. It starts after a yearlong dry streak. I met a girl at a bar called the Swiss Chalet.

  She was young and had black hair and was small. Not much bigger than the size of a jockey. But she was good looking. It was the summer and she wore summer dresses. The dresses you see poor women from the South wear in old movies. They were thin, almost see-through, and she had a body. Jesus, it was something else. And then on top of that she flirted. She was an expert flirt. She would talk to me and look at me and laugh with me, the whole time giving me that eye. She had an eye worse than a broke hooker.

  After a while I began taking her home to my room and she would spend the night there. And the nights, I got to admit they were something. I’d never been with a woman like that. It was like something out of a skin flick, like something you’d read in the letter section of a porno mag.

  But then the night would end and morning would hit and everything changed and I should have known it right then. I should have realised it and run as fast as I could, but of course I didn’t. Of course I just got myself in deeper. It all went like this.

  She got up before me. Her job started earlier. And she’d always make a big production of it. Like she was a real saint just for getting out of bed. She’d wake me, every time, and say a few things like, ‘Why don’t you get better coffee? Where did you put my underwear? Your neighbours are too loud. You should talk to them. You shouldn’t let them take advantage of you like that.’ And then she’d get dressed and leave. I didn’t know her phone number. I didn’t know where she lived. It wasn’t like that, you know? We weren’t like that.

  Then one morning the woman woke me up and told me I slept too much. I told her I didn’t have to be to work until ten, that I liked to sleep in and she just shook her head and said it didn’t matter.