by James Kelman
Taking a truck along here in itself was the gamble. Why ever did you come this way anyway, well you got to go some way or other, what road you going to take? the fucking highway of Life? like Billy Joe says, well dont you be mistaken mister you want to go some different route and see different ways of making it through because this can be of real service in the future, and this is where I was coming from. It is how I drove the truck, and I shall call it my truck. Because that is what it was. That guy who was murdered, black guy, in his own place too, in his own time: that preyed on my mind; east someplace, Texas maybe into Louisiana. Some tragedies you always go back to. That murder was one most shocking horrible thing, it was, if you can say any one is worse than another, taking the Life of a human being. It makes you sicken, dragging a man so long and so bad that his poor body falls apart; how do we cope? his family, how do they manage it? People would see me and know that too. People would see me coming and know who I was, who I was not and so what if I had those blue eyes? Some blue eyes are different. You got blue eyes in this place does not mean you sanction horror. What do you mean sanction horror. No one sanctions horror. Not that old lady smiling at me. I looked up from the book and enough. I smiled back at her: Hi.
She stopped smiling. You a teacher?
No.
You seem like one.
Well, I’m not.
She nodded. You sure seem like a teacher.
Yeah, okay, but I’m not.
We got teachers here.
Yeah?
She waited on me. I was to add something in of my own. I was not going to. There’s room for more, she said, there’s always room for more, if you love the Lord.
She was waiting on me again. No, I was not going to add one thing more to that. She was not bullying me, the white-rite shite man. I held up my hand. Pardon me ma’am, I dont want to be involved in this conversation.
She squinted at me.
Not at this time of the day, I said, smiling.
Her head shifted position as though for a better view of me, that she might see every move I made, hear every last utterance, uncover everything, get it all. She frowned. You love the Lord mister?
Me . . . well, really, it is no concern of mine, as I am to you, of no concern. It wont do any good for us to talk. You believe one thing, I believe another. You want to test your belief against mine but I am not going to allow that to happen.
She smiled. I dont test my belief.
I drive a truck.
You think about these things.
I do, yeah. But why not think about these things if all you have is your own head and your own stories, that is driving long distances, your brain is working and begins from there and makes what it can, if you allow it to, if you dont seal it off from interference.
I smiled at her. She was listening; wanting to be talking but needing me to talk so she could deliver what it was. People talking to me is interference. What I’m saying is be a listener, a true listener and if I was a teacher that would be my one exhortation. It is what I want in my own life, and other people too, pardon me, yourself included, should maybe seek the same, be a listener, be a witness in your own town right here, this very place, your own place, be a witness. This town is a difficult place. But I dont want to be a witness to that. I aim for something in my Life, but my Life is a solitary thing. That is how I see it, only with development. I see it as a development. Okay, a solitary development, always personal. Look around and see them here, young couples. Even their kids, they are with them too and they carry the goods out to the car and dont look this way or that, just getting on with their Life, they get on just living, and if you want to talk to them they will listen and maybe you get a smile from them but not much of a smile.
I seen you were a teacher from over there, she said, pointing at the door through to the long table by the front window, the old guy with the bucket, the double doorway escape. I seen you from there.
Well okay. But I think what you saw was these books. I lifted the one with the porpoise. This one for my daughters about the Pole and the cod fish hunting after the little whitebait fish what-you-call-them, I’ve forgot their name that they come chasing down here, all the way down – caplin – that long chain of existence, through all the species, down through the Southern Ocean, the great whites, supreme predators, giant squids, these ones where the belly entrance is through their brain.
The old lady smiled.
It is true, I said, they got a brain like a doughnut.
She got up from the chair.
That was my story with most everybody. If I managed back to the depot I could get the truck and just leave, leave.
Where was my head? I dont know except it was okay; nothing a cold beer couldnt cure. This town was not dry. Or was it? Maybe that was the problem. I saw guys drinking outside bars but these bars might have been alcohol-free cafés. That would make me smile. Yes.
My Life was like anyone else’s: full of exits. I would find one. I had a nose for such detail.
I took the books from the bag and distributed them into my coat pockets and headed through to the double doorway, checking it out while I went, not too fast, not too slow. No old lady. No woman on the door – who flirted with me. I think she did. They all had gone; all gone. Oh man except him, the old guy who sought entrance fees into the bucket, he was watching me, he knew I was there. Coming through, I said.
He glanced at me and didnt smile, he was unable to charge me for leaving the damn place. Here, I said and passed him the empty bag.
I needed that beer but closer to the depot and newer haunts. If a bar existed, a proper bar, dark, dank and dismal, with music playing, and I could say, Hallelujah.
A NIGHT AT
THE THEATRE
I was watching and trying to engage, but I could not. It was near the end of the performance when Christine asked the question. I could not manage an answer and could not explain the reason. She held my hand. I loved when she held my hand. My bones were weary. How she did this imparted life. Yet I could not raise my head. She was waiting for me to do so and had been so waiting. When I did not she did. She did, she managed it. I could not. I tried and I could not, god almighty, why could I not manage it? This was all I had to do and could not do it. I tried again, knowing she would have been staring at me, willing me on. No, I said, and smiled – I hope! I hope I did. Christine would cope now that I could not. Still I tried. I think I did. Go on man go on! The roaring in my brain my brain my brain. That same roaring. I could stroke the side of her face. I reached to her; the line of her chin. I managed to reach and press my lips to the side of her mouth.
The rest of it was nothing to me. Such a poor performance, it was impossible and caused only anguish. I hate theatre, I said. I smiled, still with my head lowered, avoiding her eyes. But I should have screamed it here and now, right here and now, in this damn auditorium, repugnant place.
To engage, how to engage, I could not engage. I tried and I could not. I saw her eyes, man man man, her eyes, her eyes, the smile there, my God and that life. Yet if I had raised my head I could not have avoided the stage, and the actors there and if one, even one were to peer in my direction, poor bastard.
Was it only me? Surely not! Impossible! I concentrated on my shoes, poor things, the wrinkled leather, scuffed. The shoes next to mine were silver with lilac trim, and heels of perhaps two inches. Those shoes had their own existence. I whispered through gritted teeth. What did I whisper? What in God’s name did I whisper? These were Christine’s shoes; had marched onto her feet. I was in the shoe shop when the phenomenon occurred. That expensive shop we visit annually for the January sales. I had experienced a most peculiar sensation. This was in Glasgow remember. The strangest most peculiar sensation the strangest, and I told her, Quick! I cried, Quick! Yer shoes. Get them off!
I was laughing and she chuckled. She always trusted me.
No sooner done than the new pair enveloped her twice over. These shoes appeared the epitome of feminine frippery yet
they were tough tough tough. Oh man! These shoes! Tough wee bastards man I knew them inside out with their lilac trim and silver fulsomeness, fuck! these two-inch heels. I breathed deeply. I knew I was smiling. Her beautiful feet. The warmth too. Christine gave to me a warmth. What was happening beyond! I gave nothing for that, nothing. Never.
I am not a masochist. Yet there I was. I grasp the concept where ye put all of yer trust in one other human being. It can only be one, only ever one. I can see that. I can. If something goes wrong does not enter the equation. I see it. Not the other nonsense it is nonsense and not real at all but a masturbatory pastime of sorts, hoods on yer head and getting dragged along the pavement, bow wow, lick me lick me, where’s the apple?
I raised my head. The poor actors. A fine troupe too. I would have argued the point. But oh God almighty my inner world was more startingly dramatic than that performance. This level of quality was quite outrageous. Glasgow had a reputation, once upon a time. I stared at my shoes again. Concentrated the stare. Two human beings on stage.
Yes, I saw that. What else?
Not a thing. Sorry, I could not make head nor tail of it and shall not apologise. Never mind their relationship, whatever that might have been, a situation maybe. Folk say that. There was a situation between them. It is what the cops say giving their evidence. Let’s have your report, says the Chief. Well Chief there was a situation.
A situation? Good or bad?
I do not know sir I aint filed my report. Well see that you do officer.
Christine glanced at me. I smiled as though interested generally, but why had she withdrawn her hand. I had been holding her hand and that hand now was gone from my grasp. I was to think something but what? What was I supposed to think. That was my question. I made art but did I know it? No. Fuck. What a realisation!
Perhaps it was art. Perhaps it was me. Perhaps I was outwith my perceptions. My perceptions, it would appear, amount to shit.
But what was the point? There did seem to be ‘a point’. If so was that it? If yes, fine, I accept that. I know little about theatre, art and performance other than what I have learned in its practice. Generally a context exists. In this case it did not. This is the crucial element, the absence of context. One is left floundering: Oh where am I!! if there is no context.
Slice of art, slice of life. People are supposed to think that way in its presence. I doubt anybody does. It seems daft. If human beings are involved how can there not be a context, even if it is one’s parents? One’s parents allow a context, and a primary context at that.
For all one might resent the very idea as a massive attack on privacy! I resented it strongly. I saw it as opportunism. You may discuss this with the older generation. Not to me. Do not drag me into it. Under no et ceteras.
I had lowered my head. Amusing to witness. Hiding my head. How long had I been hiding my head?
Oh Christine Christine this is the moment. We must leave leave leave. I am raising my head, raising it, from the floor. My head has been on the floor, it lolled by your shoes.
How can our parents be dragged into it, never mind the older generation, whoever they might be. Strange ancestors. They knew who they were but not in history. They are who they were and helped make us the persons we have become. Listen to the breeze, the swish of the leaves: Oh so this is why I am me; my great grandmother was a seamstress in a wee village northwest of Donegal town and my great grandfather was from the depth of south Ayrshire who joined the Foreign Legion thus establishing his own place, making of himself a statement. That is the way I saw it.
Of course that is the whole point of the aesthetic so-called situation if one might call it that, that a context does not exist. I know that; I know it now and knew it then and that was how come I concentrated my stare so long, thinking ‘What if the one acting the aggressor’s role takes a dislike to one in a personal capacity?’ This would result in getting hurt; perhaps tortured, depending which side of the border.
Then if one is the perpetrator, the person doing it, if one is the aggressor, and it is all in that typically semi-pleasant manner, what one might call ‘unctuous’. It dawns on one finally that this is for real and it is frightening.
The idea alone, being a sadist, oh no, no sir, that is the most dreadful horrible sort of nightmare, twisting somebody’s arm so that it is painful beyond belief, wrapping both hands roundabout the higher wrist area of the other person’s forearm setting one hand against the other, twisting the skin in opposite directions and agony of the purest form. Does the skin snap open? Then too the eyes. In another drama the narrative conjectured a hair-raising experience involving the military medical corps and soldiers brought into the ward with foreign objects inserted into their penis for which they themselves were responsible.
I was listening to an old soldier in a bar down by the Wyndford, Maryhill pretending I was intrigued. I was not intrigued, I was sickened. His stories were sickening. This part of Glasgow was known as ‘Armytown’. He watched me while recounting the anecdotes. They left me aghast aghast aghast sinking fast fast fast, oh God I was sinking, gasping for air so not to be fainting right there and then, even conceiving of such such horrors, really, it is just too much. I cannot listen to stories from war zones, overseas containment struggles and these films smuggled out onto YouTube about some bastard’s big brother, a soldier fighting alongside the Yanks in some place, the middle east or something, Asia, who knows, dealing with something or other. One saw it from a few years ago but the likes of me I cannot remember too much about it. I was not able to watch it for long. I could not. Horror upon horror. This is sadism, this is masochism, this is the real thing. There is no negotiation here, not towards a deeper sexual gratification. This is horror.
And Christine too, I saw her watching news reports on trustworthy television channels. I needed to scream and scream scream. But she was fine. She sought tickets for the evening performance thereafter. In the foyer I saw art books on the bottom shelf of the little shopping area. Photographs of Vietnam, of Iraq, Kosovo, Somalia, photographs photographs. Brave camera men entering these most dangerous zones to bring us the images. Languishing on the bottom shelf, unread books, bringing us the images. The images. What are images?
What exists is not skin-deep. Images as images. Images. The colour of one’s skin is no image.
Nearer my God than thee.
The phrase had entered my head. I turned to Christine who was engrossed in the performance. I could not have asked her and did not ask her. I did not wish to ask her, not even to be seen by her, that she might have seen me. Why had she brought me here?
Who is this sad fellow?
Me!
Why did I bring him along! Wringing her hands! Why!
Except she was engrossed in the performance. I was alone.
Nevertheless.
But I could not stand it. I thought I could. Until I tried. I could not. Some seek an excuse. And if I say I can understand that, fair enough, but not that I might act in the same way in the same circumstances. Back to contexts, if it is that context it might happen to us all.
The worst torture
defined as torture
One peers into the mirror, in that studied fashion we have when shaving our upper lip. See the concentration. A woman can never. Not even Christine, in all her extraordinary humanity. It is achieved in the act. And once one sees oneself in the act it is gone. Anything other than that is a contradiction in terms. A male can only achieve it in the act of not seeing himself, if his concentration is authentic. Staring at yourself cannot work. The body becomes a problem. We cannot move beyond. I watch my shoes. My shoes do not have a life of their own but that is not to say that they do not exist. Yes they exist of course they exist of course they exist. Christine, I whispered.
What is it?
Nothing.
It will soon be over, she said, referring to the performance. I wished to stuff my fingers into my ears. I could not listen. I wished to gouge out my eyes, I could not see. In t
he manner of the scientist, how it would be
how it would be
Christine recognised this reality, when one rocks in one’s chair, one rocks in one’s chair, one rocks in one’s chair. So then frightening. Frightening. Because one is resisting the urge. Not for oneself but another. Because one can not do it alone. One requires another. So that is S&M, and how I too resisting the so-called performance when it came to that most crucial most fundamental point she turned and she touched my cheek and stared into my eyes, that I might whisper, Oh Christine we have to leave we have to leave I cannot abide it, I cannot abide it, oh please, please.
And all I then could do was stare to the floor and shake my head. It was not the time, it simply was not the time and I knew I would gain the understanding through this, the way it had to be, this form of enlightenment, watching the performing pair in that knowledge, alongside Christine and in such a manner, and too it being what it is. I was a member of an audience. This needs to be remembered. I could not watch. I could not watch
Whether to make the apology for that, setting it out clearly, what more could I do.
ITEMS
PRECARIOUS
I knew the judgement had been arrived at and this judgement was theirs. People have that right. This is the way life is. What is wrong with that? Nothing. Prerogatives exist and people take them. If certain prerogatives belong to those who consider themselves guardians of children then sobeit, we must ahem let it be without reaching for weapons of self-destruction. Every game cannot be won. The mother of my childs appreciates this fucking stuff. Or she would, certainly she would, if I so informed her. Bloody hell.