‘What are you doing?’ he asks, catching the hand, roughly, as it moves from its former position and down lower – towards his stomach.
‘I have absolutely no idea,’ she answers.
‘So we’re sitting on this bench together, just me and Sinclair, both kind of dumbstruck by what it’s taken to get us there, basically; I mean all the crazy misunderstandings, the bad luck, the huge row with my mum, the spiked drink, the broken heel, the false alarm, the missed exam …’ Jen bites her lip, her eyes gently misting over as she recollects. ‘And it’s pretty much the most romantic moment of my entire life so far …’
The boy nods, obligingly. He is sitting, alone and – he had somewhat naively presumed – inconspicuously, at a small, corner table in the bar at the Thistle. He is enjoying a solitary glass of Coke as he reads a thick, paperback copy of David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest (which currently lies open, but face-down, at his elbow).
‘I mean just try and picture how incredible this is – uh – what did you say your name was again?’
‘Israel.’
Jen stares at him, incredulous, for a heartbeat.
‘Okay. Well it’s like something from a romantic comedy, Israel,’ she continues (determined not to be thrown off her stride at this critical juncture in the story), ‘just so absolutely perfect, so ridiculously beautiful and touching and …’ Words fail her. ‘I’m like – I swear to God – I’m actually tearing up even thinking about it!’
Jen grabs the boy’s napkin, dabs the corner of her eye, then passes it straight back to him.
‘D’you think I’m incredibly sexy, by the way?’ she wonders, throwing back her shoulders and pouting, provocatively.
‘Sure.’ He nods, non-committal.
‘Thanks!’ She giggles.
‘By most European standards,’ he qualifies.
Jen stops giggling (and is about to respond, tartly), then spots a tiny, sticky deposit on the otherwise pristine table top and commences scratching it off with her nail.
‘So he’s leaning in to kiss me,’ she continues, buffing the table to a shine with her cuff, ‘and I’m swooning. I’m holding my breath, waiting, aching, for the first, soft sensation of his lips against mine …’
She glances over to her left, scowling. A customer is waiting to be served at the empty bar.
‘Hold that thought … okay?’
She dashes off to serve him. The boy returns to his book.
‘So anyway’ – Jen’s back, in a flash, to complete her story – ‘he’s moving in to kiss me. My heart is just … well it’s just melting. It’s pure liquid honey. But at the same time it’s beating so fast, so insanely fast, it feels like it might actually explode out of my chest. It literally is exploding – ka-boom! Ka-boom! Ka-boom!’
The customer returns to the counter with a quibble over the order. Jen promptly dashes off, trilling her apologies. Israel returns to his book, with a sigh.
‘Where were we?’
He’s slower to put his book down this time, but does so, with an obliging smile, after completing his paragraph.
‘Uh … You were sitting on a park bench with your boyfriend in several inches of snow …’
‘Exactly! So he’s moving in for our first ever real kiss and it’s completely amazing, like this ridiculous Hallmark moment; something we’ll be telling our grand-kids about, thirty years from now – and then totally out of the blue this ludicrous, little dog comes running towards us across the park. I say it’s ludicrous because it’s a really funny-looking, little thing – half pekinese, half chihuahua …’
‘A pee-huahua,’ he volunteers.
‘A chi-kinese,’ she suggests.
‘A chi-pee-huahua.’ He grins, checking the knot on his tie then adjusting his heavy spectacles.
‘The point is,’ she interrupts, ‘that it dashes towards us and then stops, abruptly, directly in front of the bench we’re sitting on, before commencing this bizarre, little dance. Sort of crouching on its back legs and then turning in a circle, grunting. Kind of like a miniature jockey riding an invisible horse …’
‘Uh-oh!’ the kid says.
‘It’s doing a poo’ – Jen nods – ‘but it’s constipated. So it’s just pushing and pushing. Twirling around. This really intense expression on its mashed-up little face …’
‘Not a scenario especially conducive to romance,’ Israel sympathizes, portentously.
‘I mean what are the odds, eh?!’ Jen’s indignant. ‘The park’s totally whited-out! Two inches of snow! It’s all but deserted, and then this evil, little dog turns up and starts its agonized pirouetting.’
‘A stray, perhaps?’ Israel ruminates.
‘I love animals,’ Jen informs him, ‘I love animals, but I really wanna jam my pointy, stiletto-ed heel up this constipated, little blighter’s arse and kick him straight into the Wednesday afternoon of the following week.’
‘Wednesday afternoons are always hideous,’ Israel heartily concurs (back in Jamaica, from whence he hails, he enjoys extra maths tutoring after school on Wednesdays).
‘And it’s hardly like I’m the only one who’s noticed,’ Jen grumbles. ‘Sinclair’s forgotten all about the kiss and is gazing at the thing, bug-eyed, totally mesmerized …’
‘Ah, the irresistible allure of nature in the raw,’ Israel opines, with a sardonic smirk.
‘Anyhow,’ she continues, shooting him a dark look, ‘we’re just sitting there – the moment completely ruined – gazing, in astonishment, at this hairy, little freak, when a woman turns up, out of breath, clutching on to its leash – just some dumpy, middle-aged woman; I’ve no idea who she is. But instead of grabbing the dog by the collar and hauling it off, full of apologies – much as you might expect – she stands a few feet away from it – completely ignoring us – and just observes its crazy antics in a reverential silence …’
‘What a breach!’ Israel exclaims – almost sincerely.
‘So now we’re all just stuck there, like a bunch of idiots, waiting for this blasted dog to perform!’ Jen’s cheeks pinken at the memory. ‘But it doesn’t. So after a minute or two I begin to lose patience and say, “Excuse me, might it be possible to … you know …”
‘I indicate towards the dog.
‘“Pardon?” She stares at me, gormlessly. So I say, “Would it be possible to maybe … you know …” I make this sweeping gesture with my arm, i.e. “your runty, constipated, little dog is single-handedly destroying my mental, spiritual and emotional equilibrium right now.” But still she doesn’t follow me. She goes, “I’m sorry, is something bothering you?”
‘So I go, “Yeah …” and I’m pretty, bloody incensed by this point, I go, “Don’t you think it might be a nice idea to try and exercise some control over when and where your dog does his business?”
‘The woman just looks at me like I’m insane. She says, “How can I be expected to control when he poops? Can you control when you poop?”
‘My God!’ Jen gawps. ‘The cheek of it! I mean I’m in the middle of this romantic …’ Words fail her.
‘Tryst,’ Israel fills in.
‘Precisely, a tryst. I’m right in the middle of my first, romantic tryst with Sinclair and now I have this hare-brained, vindictive cow-bag trying to open a public forum on the intricacies of my bowel movements! I mean she doesn’t even say “business”, she says “poop”! Talk about a passion killer!’
Jen interrupts her narrative for a second and gazes at the boy, concerned. ‘You do know that girls poo, don’t you? Even extraordinarily beautiful ones like moi?’
‘Sure.’ He nods, wearily. ‘I read Martin Amis’s Rachel Papers in my final year at primary school …’ He pauses. ‘Not as part of the syllabus, obviously.’
‘Good. Because I love dogs,’ Jen continues (not really listening). ‘I’m training to be a vet – well, I’m hoping to become a vet if I can salvage my A-levels. So I’m like: “Duh! I’m training to be a vet! Of course I know that!” Meanwhile the dog’s
just twirling away in front of us and now there’s this thin string of dog poo suspended from his rear end with tiny chunks of poo hung on it – strung on it – like poo beads on a poo necklace …’
Israel visibly recoils at the necklace image.
‘Yeah!’ Jen nods, vindicated. ‘I know! Revolting! And naturally the dog is still squatting there, incapacitated, its arse jockeying around in the air, incapable of moving until the poo finally detaches itself.’
‘A critical impasse,’ Israel primly volunteers.
‘Exactly.’ Jen chuckles, pointing. ‘One of those. So I go to the woman: “What’s wrong with the poor creature? What the hell have you been feeding him?”
‘The owner circles her dog a couple of times, inspecting him closely. “It’s probably just hair,” she says, finally. “He picks it up off the carpet. This happens to all dogs. It’s nothing unusual.”’
‘My grandmother used to weave rag-rugs out of tattered strips of old clothing,’ Israel volunteers; ‘her dog would pilfer the scrap-box and then for literally weeks afterwards his back end would play host to its own, little fireworks party of crap and fabric …’ He smiles fondly at the memory. ‘There was rarely ever a dull moment in Grandmother’s house.’
‘You have so much life experience!’ Jen gushes.
‘Thanks –’ he shrugs – ‘I don’t have my own phone or personal computer, but I keep my eyes peeled and I read a ludicrous amount.’
‘I like you,’ Jen says. ‘Let’s be Besties.’
She offers him her pinkie.
‘I’m not expecting to be in Luton for very long,’ Israel cautions her.
‘Gorgeous, attentive, sincere …’ Jen lists some of his many virtues on her hand, ‘and your vocabulary’s off the scale! Bags you’re on my team for Scrabble!’
The boy inspects her, warily.
‘Gosh! Isn’t it close in here today?’ Jen coyly fans her décolletage. ‘Aren’t you dreadfully itchy in that charming hand-knit?’
‘I hail from the tropics.’ The boy shrugs. ‘In “Yard”’ – he rolls his eyes, sardonically – ‘if you’re not sweating or itching then you’re probably decomposing.’
‘Great use of the vernacular!’ Jen squawks. ‘You’re brilliant! You’re a hoot! Did anyone ever tell you how hilarious you are?’
‘Uh, yes.’
He nods. ‘People tell me that all the time. Even when I’m being perfectly serious. I find it quite trying.’
She gazes at him, bewitched.
‘How old are you?’ she wonders.
‘I’m almost fourteen.’
‘D’you play a musical instrument?’
‘No. You?’
‘Trombone.’
She indicates a dry patch on her upper lip.
‘I’m not musical,’ Israel avows, ‘but one of my great-great-great-uncles on my mother’s side used to play brass with Francis Johnson. There’s a strong, brass tradition in our family. My Great-Aunt Hulda was a famous teacher in Freetown –’
‘Francis who?’ Jen interrupts.
‘He was one of the first really legendary black composers. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of him. That’s actually how my mum ended up meeting my dad. My dad originally played trumpet but he wanted to get into the keyed bugle. He took lessons from my great-aunt …’
‘I’m just crazy for Fela Kuti,’ Jen exclaims, excited. ‘I’m nutty about him – demented. Are you a fan?’
‘Uh … Like I say, I’m not very musical,’ Israel demurs, ‘I’m more of a literary bent.’
‘I love Fela Kuti!’ Jen gushes, undeterred. ‘My brother converted me. You know: the hot brass section, the skin-tight trousers, the pidgin English, the trashy cover-art, the nudity, the stomping, the face-paint. I’m totally into all that radical, seventies, horn-based, semi-psychedelic African shit.’
‘Good for you.’
Israel takes a sip of his Coke.
‘I’m a chameleon,’ Jen confesses, with a dramatic sigh. ‘This …’ – she describes her current, physical incarnation with a cursory swoop of her hand – ‘this isn’t who I am. This is merely a simulacrum, at best.’
‘We don’t have chameleons in Jamaica,’ Israel muses, ‘but we do have something called an Anole – a kind of lizard that changes colour when it’s stressed.’
‘Amazing. Did you ever think about getting contact lenses?’ Jen wonders.
‘I used them for a while,’ Israel confirms, ‘but I was very prone to eye infections.’
‘Like a sticky, white goo all over the eye?’
He winces, remembering.
‘You weren’t cleaning them properly!’ Jen’s ecstatic. ‘I had that problem myself! Now I use disposables – although they’re criminally expensive …’
‘I’m happy enough with my glasses.’ Israel adjusts his glasses, self-consciously.
‘I suppose there’s always corrective eye surgery,’ Jen suggests.
‘I suppose there is,’ he acknowledges.
‘Although sometimes it makes people’s eyes look all wonky.’
‘I’ve heard that.’ He nods.
‘Your dad wears glasses,’ Jen muses. ‘I saw you at reception together. You must’ve inherited the bad gene from his side of the family.’
‘He’s not my father,’ Israel mutters, glancing off sideways.
‘Oh.’
Jen promptly removes Israel’s glasses from his face and commences polishing them on her work blouse.
‘My ma says my real dad had twenty-twenty vision.’ Israel squints at her across the table. ‘She says he needed it for his work: he was a professional arsehole.’
‘I hear there’s great money in that,’ Jen wisecracks.
‘I hate him.’ Israel scowls.
‘Why not divorce him, then?’ Jen suggests, blithely.
‘He’s dead.’ Israel’s still scowling.
‘Doesn’t make any difference. You can always divorce his corpse.’
‘Divorce a parent?’ Israel’s intrigued by the notion.
‘Kids do it all the time nowadays. It’s totally the rage.’
Israel continues to ponder this concept.
‘We should research it on the net together after my shift,’ Jen suggests. ‘I have my own duplicate key to the office …’
She pulls a long, silver chain into view from under her blouse, on the end of which are two keys, a USB stick and a bottle-opener.
‘Won’t you need to get permission?’ Israel asks, concerned.
‘Hell no,’ Jen snorts, ‘I’m a law unto myself. I pop in there all the time to Google information about the guests.’
‘Did you Google information on us?’ Israel wonders, intrigued.
‘Absolutely. I know your stepfather owns a company that manufactures cat litter. He ran for mayor in some hicksville town in Kentucky on an Independent ticket but lost his deposit. His mother was one of the first, successful, female orthopaedic surgeons in the South – she took up the vocation after her favourite uncle broke his back exercising a horse in the run-up to the Derby –’
‘Completely off the mark.’ Israel beams. ‘My stepfather doesn’t manufacture anything. He’s allergic to cat hair. He’s a lecturer at Berkeley where he’s an acknowledged, worldwide authority on the works of Derek Walcott. He owns three, small sketches by Basquiat which he acquired – in exchange for a shirt and a coach ticket – after they got arrested doing graffiti together. He’s fully ambidextrous – like me – and his non-identical twin brother is currently serving a punitive prison sentence in Indonesia for smuggling endangered birds’ eggs.’
‘How vile!’
Jen pops his glasses back on to his nose again and then carefully adjusts them to her satisfaction. ‘So anyway, this evil little dog’s just squatting there’ – she hastily returns to her story (a couple of new customers have now entered the bar area) – ‘with this filthy, poo-necklace-thingummy dangling out of its arse, and we’re all just staring at it, waiting for it to drop, but nothing
happens …’
‘Sounds like it might need some assistance,’ Israel suggests, gently poking at the lone cube of ice in his Coke with a straw.
‘Exactly!’ Jen’s impressed. ‘You’re so sharp! So intuitive! Oh God – you’re not gay, are you?’
She grips the table in mock-horror.
‘If I wasn’t before, then I probably will be by the end of this anecdote,’ Israel sighs, camply.
‘“He’s going to need some assistance …”’ Jen relaxes her grip on the table (briefly mollified). ‘That’s precisely what his owner says. But after she’s said it she just stands there, eyeballing Sinclair, all expectant. “Don’t look at me!” Sinclair’s totally freaked-out. “I’m not going anywhere near it!”
‘“Well I can’t do anything,” the owner says, “I have a sensitive stomach.”’
‘A sensitive stomach?!’ Israel clucks.
‘The poor creature twirls and twirls,’ Jen continues, ‘until eventually I just can’t bear it any more. “Okay,” I say, “pass me a poo bag and I’ll try and get rid of it.”
‘“You’ll need to be extra-careful,” – the woman’s suddenly ultra-uptight and over-protective – “because long hairs can get twisted around the lower intestine and if you yank at them too violently you run the risk of disembowelling him through his anal cavity …”’
As Jen speaks the couple who’d formerly entered the bar (and who’d been quietly reading the bar-food blackboard) make a rapid exit.
‘I’m like: “Just give me a bloody poo bag!”’ She rolls her eyes, petulantly. ‘But of course she doesn’t have a poo bag, so now I’m scrabbling around in my school rucksack looking for a tissue or a spare piece of plastic. Eventually Sinclair finds an old Wagon Wheel wrapper in his pocket and I’m obliged to resort to using that. I crouch down in the snow, trying to protect my fingers as best I can, and reach towards the back end of the dog …
‘“Oh, there’s something you should probably know …” the woman tells me, almost as an afterthought.
The Yips Page 19