If it is your life

by James Kelman

  Points north. I stopped talking, for I had been talking, not to an imaginary listener but to myself, hands clasped behind my head. Not a time for reflection. That too had passed.

  The grey ceiling. Trails across it. These trails were silvery. Snails climb walls and cross ceilings. A snail with sturdy suction soles. The world be its oyster. No dungeons in snailworld.

  justice for one

  They were marching already when I fought my way to the meeting point up the hill. Now there were voices all around, and of every kind. I was blundering about not understanding what I was to do. How did they know and I did not?

  Somebody tried to sell me something or give me something I was unsure which. Somebody else asked me a question. I was not sure about that either. I could not decipher what they wanted to know or even understand what they said. Was it even myself they were talking to? I heard someone saying: Shit he’s drunk out his skull.

  Me? I was not drunk, not drunk out my skull. Shit man I was not drunk at all. What the hell were they on about? I asked them but they paid no attention. They had made up their mind.

  This is what people do, especially in this part of the world. A woman said, We’re going this way.

  What way? I said but the woman had gone, whoever she was.

  A typical life experience. Women go away: it could be the title of a Spanish movie. Probably it is already.

  On all sides folk were walking past. They moved quickly. Some were coming so close I felt a draught from their body, going to bang into me. Somebody said, The army are there and they are waiting for us.

  I shouted, I beg your pardon!

  Take your hand off my arm, cried a man.

  Sorry mate, it is so damn dark and all that smelling smelly shit; what is that smell? said another man, somebody with a hoarse voice. He had quite a kindly voice, and he added, Better get out of here … And then he grasped my wrist.

  Hey, I said, dont do that. Whereabouts are they anyway?

  Down the hill.

  Are there many?

  I dont know friend, somebody said there were hundreds.

  For God sake!

  I know. And coming in our direction! Then the hoarse man smiled. He actually smiled.

  Did you say our direction? I said.

  He only smiled at me. He was no longer holding my wrist, and I had that sense he was about to vanish from in front of my eyes. I wanted to keep him here, just like hold him back, not let him escape, he was escaping. How come I couldnt escape but he can! That was me, that is what I was thinking. Jesus, our direction, how come?

  Instead of answering he glanced at another marcher, another woman; this one had a band wrapped round her forehead and some hair falling over its sides; her cheeks were smudged and the blood was there. He jerked his thumb in my direction, shaking his head in a gesture to her, about me, as if I was somebody to avoid. But I was only wanting to know why they were marching from that direction. I shouted: How come? Surely that’s the question.

  What do you mean? muttered the woman. I dont like the way you are saying that.

  But if they’re marching from that direction! I said. Then I stopped and shrugged. She did not care.

  I could see another couple of people looking at me; they too were suspicious. I shook my head at them, as if I was just seeing them for the first time.

  It was dreadful. But what could I do except walk on. This is what I did, yes, I kept walking. Of course I did. So that was it. Much was explained, even to predictability. One of the folk watching stopped directly in front of me. Another woman. There were many women, yet I could not pass her without making a nonsensical comment. I stopped walking to do it. The earth is good. I said it into myself though perhaps my lips moved. I wondered about myself. It was a surprise I had any self-respect at all. I asked the woman what was wrong, if something was wrong and she replied. You will not get far.

  Sure I will.

  Not the way we’re going. She put her hands onto my wrists and tugged me forwards.

  What the hell are you doing? I said.

  She smiled. My attention was attracted to her shoulders. It was not a time for physical attraction. Her shoulders were beautiful. At the point where the machine gun opens up on you, on you, your attention is drawn to the curve of a woman, a woman’s shoulders. My God, almost I was crying.

  Saddened by something. I saw it in her. This was a thought she had had, and in connection with myself. But not sex, it could never have been sex, to have been with me, lying with me, it could never have been that. Shit man. No. Never. She was pointing in the same direction the crowd had marched. Okay. That is the way ahead, she said, that is a proper march.

  Yes but that is also how the crowd is advancing. Do you wish me to follow the crowd. Is that an elitist thing to say?

  She was gazing at me.

  Do you think it is?

  She thought I was mad. You do, I said, I can see you do. It is a terribly elitist thing to say.

  Now she avoided eye-contact. Just keep walking straight, she said, and stay to the rear.

  I shall miss the action.

  Is that not what you want? The difference is you will not go wrong.

  Oh.

  Yes.

  So that is the difference?

  Yes.

  I said, But how do you know what I want?

  But I looked at her shoulders when I said it, and I did that so she would notice. It was almost disgusting. I think it was disgusting.

  She shook her head. Perhaps she was ashamed of me.

  I smiled. You think you know me but you dont. You dont even know when I am being sarcastic.

  She turned her back to me, and resumed walking. I managed not to go after her, nor to call after her. There are times for being funny, this was not one of them. I saw a man spit on the road. It was in regard to me! He was spitting against me!

  Shit. What had I done to deserve that. Talking to the woman with the beautiful shoulders. Perhaps he thought it demeaning, that it demeaned us all. He also walked away. Then the chanting began:

  Justice for one justice for all.

  I looked for the woman but she too had gone.

  So many people, they just started chanting, and these slogans. There was nothing wrong with these slogans. I tried to say the words aloud and succeeded. I was pleased. I said the words again. I was laughing, just how I could say them, just as good as anyone.

  We all were marching. Armed forces march and so do people. We marched over the brow of the hill. I knew the terrain.

  I listened to the slogans and knew them as fair. These were good words, except the way I said them they sounded different, they sounded as though different, as if in some way singular, they became words to actually decipher, as opposed to a slogan, the sort that one marches to. I tried to pick up that latter rhythm, the way everyone else had it. Justice for one justice for all. Great rhythms, great slogans but could I do it? Or was I only emulating the passion of these other people? As a boy I missed the beat – I always missed the beat. Now here it was again, half a line behind, I was half a line behind, behind everyone else.

  Justice for one justice for all. Nothing wrong in that. I walked briskly on, one foot in front of the other. A peculiar sensation overtook me. I could no longer see things clearly. People and objects blurred, was that a building or was it a jumbo aircraft? Where the hell was I was this a city street or was it a country lane? was that a herd of animals or what, what was it? Over now some yards distant somebody was – her, it was her again, it was that woman, one of the women, it was one of the women, which one was she? She was watching me. Hey! I waved to her but she ignored the wave; she was still watching me, and then not.

  Beyond here were things. And what things! Things that were guaranteed to scare me. Some folk were heroes. This woman was one of them. Obviously she was. And the man who seemed her companion. I saw him too. Both were heroes. It could not be denied. Their actions were heroic. Mine were not. The very idea! I smiled. Beyond the current conglom
eration I could not perceive one entity, not one single entity, not one, not that.

  It was where they were walking, it was down a hill, it is where they were going. And everybody shouting different things, slogans and laughter, somebody, trying to start a new chant, people were. And now the army were into view. Everybody knew it, there was a shiver now and some folk threw down cigarettes and trampled them and others again opened their packets and got out another and snatched at them with their lighters.

  If it was for men was it for women! I asked the first person next to me, a middle-aged woman in her forties or maybe fifties.

  I beg your pardon?

  Is it for men, or is is it meant to be women as well? I’m not keen on women being here.

  I dont know what you are talking about.

  But what does it all mean? I said. I never ever work it out, I was never able to.

  What did you say? The woman seemed irritated.

  Dont take it too seriously, I said.

  A couple of younger fellows rushed past now, arms laden with stones. That meant the army right enough, there would be a pitched battle. That was how it went. History showed us this. It did not require demonstration upon demonstration and does not entail actual changes in how we live our life. I had to go with them, I shouted and ran ahead.

  I am as Putty

  Things had been desperate for the last couple of days but I had to be at the Agency for 11 o’clock. The usual crackdown. That is what they call it, officialdom. Fucking officialdom man I hate it, I detest it with a vehemence, total vehemence. And I had to prepare. It is up to you how you approach the whole thing but if you dont try you dont succeed. A good thing was the woman that worked there. She had her own little place. An office I think, quite comfy as I recall, a desk and chairs, and just so warm, maybe too warm. You felt like telling her to turn down the heating system. But in a lot of these quasi-government places the heating gets controlled by a central body and you dont have any power to turn it down because they keep the fucking temperature the same all over.

  These bureaucrats man they would do it everywhere if they could get away with it. Imagine they ruled the world, you would get the same temperature in Greenland as the Mali desert.

  She was a bureaucrat too, the woman that worked there. No point denying it.

  At 9 o’clock I entered the mall and into a large department store. I was starving but the choice was mine.

  It was dead quiet. Monday morning I suppose. In the gents’ outfitter section I squandered the remaining cash on an individual underwear pack comprising socks, boxers and tee-shirt. Preparation requires that. In the mensroom they had paper towels: excellent; that is what I hoped. Nobody was around so off came the shirt for a wash; I soaped and rinsed the armpits, doused the head with warm water, had a shave. Then to hell with it, whipped off the socks and washed my feet in the basin, squeezing the soap through the old toes, oh man, such fucking heavenly bliss man what a sensation, what a truly amazing sensation. One felt like a Lordship. Yes your Lordship?

  One’s toes, there is a good fellow.

  I dried them with the paper towels which were not ideal, but so what man so what. It wouldnt be my fault if matters turned sour, were the world of work and sweat to look unfavourably upon one. Responsibility was mine!

  The skin was damp when I pulled on the new socks but they felt so damn comfortable that I thought of wearing them alone. I could tie together the laces of the boots and carry them round my neck.

  Ah but the trusty old socks, boo hoo, they were finished now, the time had come to bid farewell. They had been through thick and thin together them two but I had to make the hard decision. Farewell old fellows. I stuffed them behind the pipe behind the lavatory bowl. Hey! Maybe I could wash the bollocks? Now that was a thing. The washhand basin in the public area. Could I risk it but that was the question, if somebody came in, they would think – well, I do not know what they would think. Ach, ye only live twice. No doubt they would phone the trusty old bobbies; that is what foreigners do, given it was me that was the foreigner.

  The washhand basin was a bad idea if not out the question. I checked the cisterns in the cubicle. This was the place for a wash. The water from there is used to flush the bowl but is good clean water. Not clean enough for drinking except if you boil it but good enough for the genitalia. If the cistern is the right height from the floor – roughly hip height – then you can even dip them, just depending. Not today though, too risky. An intuition was strong upon me and I sensed a need: caution. Mondays are quiet but one may feel ‘a presence’ on such a day. Maybe it is in-store training and you are the Guinea Pig. You dont know you are, you are just a customer browsing about and doing what you do but all the time you are being surveilled, unbeknownst, a crowd of store employees are observing your every movement.

  So dont tempt the luck. This is the essence of the human condition, we always fucking tempt the luck. Why not leave? There is a time to walk away. It isnt quitting it is walking away; to walk away is not to quit. It is a different thing. I was clean enough, just leave it at that

  The mensroom had been a hundred per cent spotless when I entered, it was spotless when I left, even more spotless given the soapy-water spillage. Also myself; theretofore I was a soiled creature, now I was wholesomely clean, 95 per cent at least, the genitalia would have made it a hundred per cent and nobody can improve on a hundred per cent, not even God.

  Some would argue that I am the property of – and thus belong to – ‘my’ Maker but I dont accept that He is my Maker, even if He does exist and whether or not I believe in that ‘existence’. I reserve that right and regard it as inviolable.

  I respect the intellectual property of others but not beyond the point of reason, and reason is the product of common humanity. Thus far and no more. I would be damned if it went further. How far do people go anyway? And what about ‘damnation’? I cannot believe in ‘damnation’. It is a weird idea. Where would it happen? Christians have all these ‘places’. Especially Catholics. Purgatory. Imagine purgatory! All these unbaptized weans floating around. You would be dodging them all the time. It would be like a huge meteorite shattered in space and all these lumps of rock and dust flying about while you are hoofing it along the street. How the heck could you keep out its way? Not all of it. You would get hit by something, even if you crawled. At least one wee particle of rock. So maybe that was the damnation bit, if that was you for eternity having to dodge about the place avoiding bits of rubble or whatever, flying weans.

  The gratuities plate was empty! It was next to the entrance cubicle. That was where mensroom attendants kept them but I hadnt seen it when I skipped through.

  Empty. What do we say about that? There is nothing as empty as an empty gratuities plate.

  The public are a miserly bunch of scallywags. Some might argue that people do a job and deserve a wage and shouldnt have to exist on gratuities.

  Tips is another word. You have to get tipped.

  The attendant fellow did his job, he deserved a pay. If you do a job you deserve a pay. That is what I think too. But if people dont get enough of a pay, if your boss doesnt pay you enough, if he is a sneaky bastard, you have got to get money somewhere. If you dont have any you die or get put in prison.

  Unless somebody stole the gratuities. That is so unfair. That is one thing people should not do is thieve a guy’s gratuities.

  I quite fancied that job because you were out the way and had your own little cubby-hole. You could have your radio and your kettle and your microwave. That would be you. You wouldnt have to come out, you could just stay in there and not be bothered by fools and vagabonds. That would suit me, not having to cope with the brickbats of life. I bet you it suited a lot of guys. Although usually it was women did these jobs. Mensroom attendants. But it would suit a lot of women too, especially ones with abusive husbands, just getting away and being on their own. You could imagine the abusive husbands but if their wives were mensroom attendants. What sort of mischief are y
ou getting up to! Bump, and they would get battered again. So if you were a woman you would want to stay in your cubby-hole forever, for the rest of your life and beyond, hiding away from the entire world with your knitting and your darning, just getting on with things now you have peace; and you could do your work there, whatever it was, rearing the next generation, that is what women do.

  What do men do? I dont fucking know. Mind you, I would like to have been first person on that gratuities plate. Just laying the first coin. It reveals an honest bond between producer and consumer if it is possible to use that kind of language in the circumstances. Except if you have no cash. What do you do then? There is nothing you can do except leave a slip of paper to explain that you have no money and sincere apologies. I had a sandwich in my pocket.

  But I was amazed at how good I looked on the way back out the door. There was a huge mirror at the exit. In some mirrors you look so good you want to steal them. That happens with me. This was such a mirror mirror on the wall. That was that shave, the best of them all, and the general clean and tidy-up. Even my feet, if I took off the socks and held up my feet man they would fucking sparkle. A bright red, but that bright red is a healthy red. Sparkly feet, that is what they looked like.

  Except my toenails were of an extraordinary size and breadth. One time I was sleeping with a lady and during the night one of my big toes stabbed her on the leg. It gashed her and the wound bled. These are the kind of toenails I am talking about, real raggedy fuckers.

  Maybe the woman at the job Agency would loan me her scissors. She would have scissors. Most women have scissors. They prepare for emergencies. I dont know one guy that keeps scissors except on the edge of a complicated knife. Women are different. Viva. She was a sexy-looking dame and I liked her. Maybe the same age as me. She had that English accent that once heralded doom for the rest of the world. I knew she would repent of that authoritative position and become as putty in my hands.

  I will not say I was looking forward to seeing her. Women don frosty exteriors to keep you at bay. As a man you hope to break through the barrier. You quite fancy the battle but at the same time you think, Oh not again.