That Was a Shiver, and Other Stories

by James Kelman

  – and this guy was still here. How come? This was turning bad. Potentially. Just something. I knew it, like sensed it. How come he was persisting like this? It was past time to cut the losses. Minutes ago he should have done that. So why didnt he? I could not figure it out. How come he couldnt call it quits? This was making me irritated too like not so much fearful, wondering what it was, if the guy himself was in danger and this was why he stayed there. That was it. It was him. It was the guy himself in danger. He was under orders. People watching him, waiting, they were waiting, they were watching him, jesus christ this was why he came back man he was scared. He was not past the stage of reason but he was scared, and I looked around and saw nothing – except this town. Cops and preachers.

  Yeah, I remembered this damn place. But if he was in danger then it was him. It was only me if I allowed it. I needed out of there fast. It was busy across the street and anybody could have been there. The guy saw me looking, knew what I was thinking. I had been identified by other bastards, he had been sent across. It made sense. He would have taken no for an answer if working alone. It wasnt up to him. This was another kind of business. No decision-making here. What is your problem? Me. I was the problem? He wont give you the money? So take the money. You want a resolution? Here is the resolution. The knife in the belly.

  These fuckers across the street would be here in a stride. I would be found in south river. There were two rivers in this town; north and south. This time of year both dried in long stretches, unless maybe flash flooding, except that was towards the end of summer as I recall. They met four blocks north from here and this juncture separated also the east of the town from the west. Over west was money; east was not. Follow the north river west and you met the big river; return south in the easterly direction and what would you find? My truck is what you would find. Yeah, and my sense of direction had returned; it was never the worst.

  The one thing this guy did know about me was I was neither a stranger nor a local. He came at me again as if convinced I was negotiating and again that hand going to my wrist. I raised my own hand. Maybe it calmed him a little, but only a little. The desperation remained. He sniffed, hanging back, wondering the options. I heard music from someplace; religious-sounding. Didnt he guess I could have smote him down! I should have told him I was there on religious grounds, religious business in his damn town and he should not interfere with this: such business is sacrosanct, is God’s business.

  But carefully. In towns like this sarcasm works in reverse if it works at all. The guy was no coward. This type of desperation makes the question redundant.

  Now it got me, the truck, it was the truck, they wanted the truck. What was in the truck? There wasnt anything in the damn truck. I unloaded it this morning and now at this very moment it was being loaded for the run east – I think east, maybe northeast. What was the load? How the fuck did I know? Hereabouts it might have been chickens. Or whisky, or guns.

  A woman in a doorway. I saw her peer in my direction. Unless she was hustling too jesus christ the little sister!

  What a town, it pains me to say; maybe it was like this before and I hadnt noticed, too busy with chillun and wives all over the place.

  Ahead and to the side was a charity store. One of these big stand-alone buildings with a major carpark attached. The guy walked to my outside which made it easier. What could he have done anyhow? Nothing. I did it suddenly, abruptly, no warning, nothing, a sideways turn and off, striding fast fast across the forecourt until reaching the double doorway entrance this grumpy old man like some antiquarian codger raised an arm to stop me in my tracks: What you blind boy?

  Okay, okay.

  Yeah okay, he said, hit the bucket! He pointed to this bucket which had a sign that read: Entry by Donation. You dont see the bucket? he said.

  No, otherwise I would have donated.

  Sure you would.

  Of course I would.

  Oh yeah, he said shaking his head and looking elsewhere. But I was glad to see the damn bucket anyhow, it was another obstacle for the guy with the little sister. By the doorway another sign read:

  Got a Gig?

  We’ll Give You One!

  Volunteers Run This Show.

  Come Join Us!

  I dropped a bill into the bucket, gave the codger a nod and entered. Mobbed inside. Immediately here was a long table. I stopped for a look and shifted to be facing the street window for a double-check on the hustler guy. Nobody nothing. This time he had to have given up. If there was people over the street he would check it out. Cut the losses cut the losses. Unless if it was personal, if it was personal it was the truck.

  I checked the long table. Twenty-four bodies could have sat down round it, maybe thirty. This was from an old-time bunk-house kitchen.

  All sorts of people and all sorts of ages. A preponderance of young folk; infants, babies and buggies. Oh yeah, and the look! These young couples had ‘the look’. I identified this years ago when I was half of one such. ‘Fervent’ is how I described it. Yeah and it still obtained. No matter the political reality they will live their lives and raise a family and will fight to the death to preserve this. They will make that Life a full Life or they will die, they will breathe their last, in the attempt. This is them setting out for the long haul, picking up their furniture and white goods where they can. Okay they come here but next year who knows, who knows.

  I saw the sign at the far side of the room: Husbands Corner, where the men were dumped among the old PCs and DVDs, old books and old vinyl, and I saw old cassettes there too and hell, who knows what, 8-track stereo systems. But the books! I could not believe my luck. These books were proper, I am talking proper books. I could have bought all day. Instead I bought three, to fit into my jacket pockets. I needed my arms free.

  Okay. Three women chatting behind the counter. They gave me the amused look. Essentially patronising but I dont mind. I like it. It annoyed my girlfriend. Other guys do not get that reaction, she said.

  Yeah they did, she just didnt notice. She said I gave a signal. What like a scent? Yeah a scent. She said I gave a scent. Well yeah, like male? Okay. Was that a fault? I didnt see that a fault. That was gender difference man and I could not care less about that. I enjoyed it. I was as predictable as the next guy and these books were the goods to prove it.

  The woman examined each of the three in turn, glancing at me and drawing a line of consistency between me and them. Weird guys read books. That hurt my ego. I figured myself a cool sort of guy. Who cares. The truth is she amused me, this woman with the good smile who did not know what to make of me. How come? Because I did not look like a reader? I could not believe how cheap they were. That was that nowadays, nobody wanted books. Not nobody; some did. The three of them were about fish. No wonder she thought I was weird. Unless an actual fisherman. Probably that is what she thought. I smiled at her. Yeah, I said, I read them, I read these damn things.

  I know you do.

  Yeah? I also do fishing.

  I guess, she said. You want a bag?

  If ye’ve got one, yeah, that would be good.

  She got one from beneath the counter; an old one. We have to charge, she said, it’s policy.

  I paid the money, dropped in the change to another donations’ bucket and saluted the woman. They had a little café in one of the side rooms. Only a couple of people were there. It had that hostel feel to it. I chose a table to the far side wall, carried over my coffee. This was me getting things out my head. Life was tough enough.

  I had the books on the table. The books the books. One by Herman Melville, Great Short Works. I might have bought Moby-Dick but it wasnt there. People talk about it. I tried it years ago thinking it was a kind of Huck Finn. I gave up. Call me Ishmael, it was like the bible or something. I should have stuck with it. Stories about fish is what I like. One I got seemed like a Moby-Dick for children, about a huge porpoise. My daughters would like it. They enjoyed adventures, like every other kid, and swimming too. So a story adve
nture with a swimming theme. Well now. But I would enjoy it myself. It reminded me of a movie. Maybe it was a movie and this was the book version, about a porpoise and how one spring she was swimming down from the Antarctic in pursuit of the cod who were all swimming down in pursuit of the small bait, a little thing like whitebait but called something else. My daughters would tell the story in class. Their teacher seemed like an enthusiast, she got them to read and discuss stuff from home. The porpoise was a girl and not a boy. My daughters would love that. I was wanting to read it now myself. It didnt require too much concentration. If I could regain concentration, and not go worrying about stupid things; stupidities you meet on the street. Any street any place somebody wants to do you in.

  I picked up the third book. This was by that hard-drinking fat guy with the zeezee beard and how he came to set some world record with that one fish-rod cut from birch or something. His old ancestor showed him how from way ‘up on high’, and this rod won all the major championships. He smoked that old pipe too; one belonged to the same ancestor, and drank his whiskey neat, yessir. Him and his ancestor’s pipe man that was sick. Let the old guy rest in peace. This one was about big game fish off the west coast. I hadnt read anything by him. Everybody all talked about him. They played his stories on late-night radio stations. That native guy who goes with him who spends his Life seeking the ‘spirit fish’, this ghostly apparition, symbol of mankind thrashing around in a foolish attempt to defeat the natural order. Shit, it doesnt interest me. I listened to these stations driving. Maybe they kept me sane. The gaps in my brain. Music didnt fill them. I needed the words from other people. These stations done it. Except penance was necessary. Supernatural crap man you got to put up with it. What do we give? In exchange for our soul. I did my penance.

  Take the water out your whiskey. Drink it neat like old fat boy with the zeezee beard, him and his fucking fish-pole. One radio guy went on and on and on about him, all through the damn programme: Hey now you got to read him, read him about the fish-pole and that native guy seeking the spirit fish, he goes looking for the spirit and what does he find? el diablo. Philosophy for crackpots all jumbled in with religious notions. You would be as well hitting those places right here and now, we all know them; joining the freaks who want to get the 6,000 years fixed into the school curriculum; an alternative theory of In the Beginning. Forget the Holocaust man I want to deny the entire outside World. I want to disappear. Where to? Everywhere the same, give or take a fucking nuance. Spiritual native guys were only there to make the front man look good. Fuck them. If I was going mad, at least I knew it and that was something.

  Okay. I was enjoying thumbing the books, taking a sentence here a sentence there, savouring what I could; late 18th early 19th Century novels, seeing whole paragraphs. I liked doing that. I wanted to shout them out. What I hoped for, what it might give rise to. Like a whole new politics and way of living, linked into some ethical code where people are people and fuck the capitalists man, these billionaire bastards man, let us wipe them out and lead our Life. I could shout it out, I could get the soap box, I could shout it out: Why sell your sister asshole, buy yourself back instead!

  They did that already, and had a name for it: redemption. Redemption!

  A woman was watching me. I had laughed aloud. Giggled more like. At one point I had to. About what, hell, what was I giggling about? My own grandfather who knew fuck all about fishing, what was I thinking about. My own grandfather who loved John Wayne.

  In the midst of everything. Where did it come from? This is my brain. Ever looked at a brain? Up close? Had he slipped something in so now you found yourself away someplace else? Talking about the writer: what was he, God? John Wayne, boy how fucked up was he! Except he wasnt. Only naïve, like the rest of us. What goes on in the world. How can you be so famous and buy into such shit? be so ignorant of the ways of the country? How can people be like that? My grandfather man how could he buy into that? A few days ago I was stopped in this place eating breakfast, sitting with these guys and they were doing just that, John Wayne, and I had to keep my trap shut listening. The politics of our country.

  Acts of contrition.

  Maybe it was personal; me sitting there this spring day, not knowing a soul in this town that I used to know reasonably okay. That was long ago. This was now, and that stupid hustling bastard thinking he had found one, found me.

  If the truck was loaded I could drive it out right now, right now, is what I felt like doing, drive to hell out of this place. This is how things were. Sometimes we pretend otherwise. My memories of this town were based on a lie and it was my own. I had ignored the reality. Candy floss. Where was my head? White-rite strongholds. How come? This phrase from someplace, lodged in my head. Where had it come from? White-rite strongholds.

  An eerie scent charged my nostrils. An elderly woman gazing at me. I didnt feel uncomfortable about that but I felt uncomfortable about something. She would see I was not from hereabouts. How come? She was doing a real stare like she was smelling me too: Oh you from up north? Yeah, you got your own smells from there son – fresh! That right?

  Fantasy conversations. Back to the porpoise story. How come the north is up and the south is down? My daughters would have answered that one. Down south, up north. Over east and easy, across the west. So where is hell? down below and heaven up above. Okay.

  She was watching me. This old lady had been around this town so long she not only knew everybody by sight she knew their smells and their pastimes too. She saw me and knew me for a stranger immediately, this guy with the books, what books, sitting here with his coffee like this, who is he? What books is that he’s got, he aint from here. She would sniff out a stranger at two hundred metres. She was the one. Anybody not from there she sensed it and knew it. That was one fearsome thought. She had the apricot pie. A big slice of it, full of juice and syrup, a dollop of cream. She attacked it. Elderly people eat things different; they begin passive but are not passive. That is the last thing. They are aggressive, like a machine is aggressive, they are involved in a struggle, they are fighting for their lives, chip chip chip chip, chip chip chip. No let-up there. This old lady was no joke. And the way she looked at me! Those eyes! Jesus man who was she! Here I was. Recovery. Now this. Her.

  Everything connects. Were they connected? Anything is possible. Ma whatshername with the kids; gangsters and butchers, machine-gunning the cops. You hear the stories over this side of the country. Things that should be stories arent stories. So what does that mean? Real Life? No but reality, that is the horror. You see the guys inside the gas station, ordinary guys, heading into the diner, crossing the parking area toward their truck and you know they have their stories. Nobody knows them. How come? These stories are important. Their stories. How come nobody knows them and are listening to them? Even if they are bad stories. What is bad stories? Stories about bad things. That is what stories are. These people too man where do they stay? Who knows where they stay. I got a little sister man, you want her? They stay miles out of town and their families been here since the ‘purchase days’, maybe where they got decent beer or maybe like from the Indian states, their ancestors came down to fight with the white-rites.

  These people in the charity store, I was angry about it. Young families. Going the same way, end the same way. What was their stories. We dont know their stories. How come we dont know their stories? They have them to give and sometimes they give them but nobody listens. How come nobody listens? Even if they cared but they dont, one way or the other man they dont give a damn who listens, it never crosses their mind, that is their history, that is the history of their people and they dont give a damn who listens, it isnt for telling, they keep their stories, they keep themself to themself. This is how they live and been so living for hundreds of years. That is their culture, that is their tradition, that is how long they go back. Thousands of years is how long they have been around; dynastical systems, what are we talking about – 7,000 years? is that what that means, 7,000 years
before Jesus Christ was born? Tell that to this old lady with the apricot pie, who saw me glance at her and smiled. I smiled back. Why? God knows. But now she took the lead and I knew she was going to talk. She began by smiling at me. How come? I was too polite. I was a stranger. Strangers are polite. Or should be. In these parts especially; even ones with blue eyes, getting mistook for locals. Did I want people smiling at me? No I did not. Old lady or not. Life is too fucking tricky. I didnt want that at all. Not here and not now man I was not right for it; stuff like the hustler guy, it wasnt good for the confidence. He chose me. How come he chose me? What did I look like man a tourist? Hell. I opened another book just to see what it was, and to end these thoughts, the elderly woman and the charity store regulars, these young families; broken dreams, broke the law. If there was any truth to the tale, his little sister, the horror of that, he was mid-twenties so she could have been anything and where was she, locked in a room. Except it was a line. That was a line, it was not the truth.

  I was too polite; the old failing. I should have told him to fuck off. I did. Yeah but too late too late. What if he had gone for it with me? I knew he was holding. Then the working compadres on the other side of the street. I would have wound up in the river.

  Okay. A book or a beer? I needed something. A book, concentrate on the book, but I was thinking because one thing how people do not take the lead like this elderly woman was doing. They wait for you. People react. What are you doing. They wait for you. Once you do your thing then they respond to you. I saw this as a key into the character of this place. Are you a friend or foe? I did this on the road into a town near this one time where a bad murder had been, and I didnt want to stop there, just keep driving but this once I needed to stop and just rest, I needed to rest and through this wooded land, passing by a pond, thick forests, how do you see through the trees, you cant, all small places there, decrepit shacks and broken-up automobiles, and you didnt need to see people to know who was living here; this was them and if you aint one of them or related to one of them you should drive on pretty damn smartish and dont risk any blowouts on your own vehicle, make sure about them tires, you dont want to stop here man you really dont want to stop here.