Jolts

by Fernando Sdrigotti

  ‘He’s sleeping,’ says The Former Banker.

  ‘I’d forgotten about him with all this excitement,’ says The Former Banker’s Writer Wife. ‘Remind me to get him a copy of my chapbook,’ she says to her husband.

  ‘I will.’

  ‘What chapbook?’ asks The Common Unemployed Boyfriend.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ says The Former Banker’s Writer Wife. ‘I think she likes him,’ she says whispering.

  ‘You THINK?’ asks The Former Banker.

  ‘Yeah, it’s pretty obvious,’ says The Common Unemployed Boyfriend.

  ‘Don’t be mean, guys,’ says The Former Banker’s Writer Wife.

  ‘Anyway…’ says The Common Unemployed Boyfriend and he pulls a face.

  ‘What?’ asks The Former Banker.

  ‘Nothing…’ says The Common Unemployed Boyfriend.

  ‘Oh, come on!’ says The Former Banker Writer’s Wife.

  ‘Nice lad…’ says The Common Unemployed Boyfriend.

  ‘Say it!’ says The Former Banker’s Writer Wife.

  ‘Nothing!’ says The Common Unemployed Boyfriend. ‘Nice lad: that’s it…’

  They laugh — they understand. The Landlady comes back running.

  ‘Here’s the trowel. Now: DO IT!’ she says giving the tool to The Common Unemployed Boyfriend.

  ‘I said I wouldn’t do the work…’

  ‘Please: my back is hurting,’ says The Former Banker’s Writer Wife.

  ‘Yes, please,’ says The Former Banker.

  ‘Come on! I’ll get you a beer and massage your shoulders,’ says The Landlady.

  ‘OK! I’ll do it,’ he says.

  ‘I love you, fatso,’ says The Landlady and blows a kiss in his direction.

  ‘I love you too,’ says The Common Unemployed Boyfriend and moves towards the tombstone. He kneels before it and crosses himself.

  ‘Be careful,’ says The Former Banker’s Writer Wife. ‘I mean: be gentle. We don’t want to destroy the corpse.’

  ‘I will.’

  They all gather around the kneeling man. The Common Unemployed Boyfriend sticks the trowel into the earth and shovels for the first time — the typical shovelling sound but in trowel scale: thinner.

  ‘Spooky,’ says The Former Banker.

  ‘Ha,’ says The Landlady.

  ‘Shhhh, dears,’ says The Former Banker’s Writer Wife.

  ‘Yeah guys, shut your mouth,’ says The Common Unemployed Boyfriend.

  He digs, shovelling carefully and piling up the earth on one side. A hole the size of a football suddenly materialises just before the tombstone. Everyone is silent and expectant except me. One shovel after another and soon he has dug about ten inches.

  ‘It’s buried quite deep,’ says The Common Unemployed Boyfriend, all covered in dirt.

  ‘Keep digging,’ orders The Former Banker’s Writer Wife.

  ‘Go deeper,’ says The Landlady.

  ‘Do it,’ says The Former Banker.

  ‘OK,’ he says and he keeps digging, deeper and deeper. The mound on the side grows. When he has dug an arm’s length deep he stops.

  ‘There’s nothing in here, guys. I give up,’ he says.

  ‘What do you mean you "give up"?’ asks The Former Banker’s Writer Wife.

  ‘Exactly that: I give up.’

  ‘Don’t spoil the party…’ says The Former Banker.

  ‘Dig it yourself, mate!’

  ‘Do you think I can’t do it?’

  ‘I don’t care, mate. It was your missus’ idea. Dig it yourself,’ he says and breaks off and disappears towards the kitchen.

  ‘I think he’s cross,’ says The Landlady.

  ‘He’s just lazy,’ says The Former Banker’s Writer Wife. ‘Why don’t we wake him up and get him to finish the hole?’ she asks the other two, pointing at me.

  ‘He’s too drunk,’ says The Landlady. ‘Let him sober up.’

  ‘Is he THAT drunk?’

  ‘Either that or he’s very tired. He’s been off for an hour. And he’s snoring,’ says The Former Banker.

  ‘Would you finish digging then?’ she asks her husband.

  ‘It’s quite deep already. I think we should call it off,’ says The Former Banker.

  ‘Damn you guys! You’re so fucking useless,’ his wife says. ‘I’ll dig it myself!’ The Landlady follows the conversation with interest and a broad smile on her face.

  ‘Wait!’ says The Former Banker. ‘Have you got a proper shovel? And a torch?’ he asks.

  ‘I’ve got a folding shovel. Not sure about the torch,’ says The Landlady.

  ‘I didn’t know you were so much into gardening,’ says The Former Banker’s Writer Wife.

  ‘Get it. And get some matches and some old newspapers,’ he says.

  ‘Right,’ The Landlady says and runs back into the kitchen.

  ‘I’m sorry that I called you useless,’ says The Former Banker’s Writer Wife.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he says sulking.

  ‘I mean it: I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘But I really want to see Fonzie…’

  ‘It’s fine, honey.’

  ‘And I’m a bit drunk too…’

  He doesn’t reply. The Landlady comes back.

  ‘Hey! I found a torch! I’ve brought newspapers and matches just in case.’

  ‘Great,’ says The Former Banker’s Writer Wife.

  ‘Let me see the torch,’ says The Former Banker. He inspects it with care, from every side. Then he presses a button and the torch flashes with a strong light. He accidentally points it at me but I’m unbothered. ‘Nice,’ he says. ‘OK… I need one of you to hold the torch behind me while I dig.’

  ‘I can do that,’ says The Landlady.

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Anything else?’ asks his wife.

  ‘For the moment that’s all. Get me that shovel and let’s get going. I don’t want to miss Match of the Day.’ He unfolds the shovel and then kneels before the hole dug by The Common Unemployed Boyfriend. The Landlady gets behind him and points with the torch while his wife watches from the side. He starts digging, shovelling, with might and intent, piling the earth on the side, one movement after the other, getting deeper into the ground. Soon the hole is over twenty inches deep. ‘This shit is buried deep, for real,’ he says.

  ‘Don’t give up, darling,’ says his wife.

  Digging.

  Digging.

  Digging.

  Thirty, thirty-five, forty, forty-five. Fifty inches. The shovel is getting too short and he’s almost falling into the hole.

  Digging. Digging. And a knock.

  ‘Gotcha!’ he says.

  ‘What is it? WHAT IS IT?’

  ‘I can’t see anything,’ says The Landlady.

  ‘Pass me the torch,’ he says. He points the torch down. ‘It looks like a wooden box.’

  ‘A mini-coffin!’ shouts The Landlady.

  ‘Get it out!’ says The Former Banker’s Writer Wife.

  He leans into the hole and gets his whole torso in to dig around the box.

  ‘You’ll put this in the wash when we get home,’ he tells his wife.

  ‘I always do it anyway!’ she replies.

  ‘Don’t fight, dears,’ says The Landlady.

  Knock, knock.

  He struggles for a while. Then he throws the shovel out of the hole and leans deeper. He pulls a muddied wooden box out and lays it on the ground. ‘YES!’ says his wife. The three of them stare in silence.

  ‘Hmmm,’ says The Former Banker.

  ‘How do we open it?’ asks The Landlady.

  ‘Let me see,’ he says.

  ‘Come on! Come on! Open it!’

  ‘It looks solid.’

  ‘What do you mean solid?’

  ‘Yeah, solid. It looks like oak and it’s nailed. Or even welded… I can’t see any joints… I don’t think it’s meant to be opened.’

  ‘Break it with the shovel!’ says his wife.

  ‘It’s Fonzie’s coffin
!’ he says.

  ‘Fuck Fonzie. We can bury him in a shoebox. Have you got a shoebox?’ she asks The Landlady.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do it.’

  ‘OK,’ he says. He hits the box with the shovel. The box is sturdy and doesn’t give in. He bangs the box harder. Harder. Harder. Harder. Harder. I wake up and look around and see a huge hole, a big pile of dirt, a shovel, a torch and people looking at a wooden box. I think for a couple of seconds that they will bury me alive. Then I nod off again. ‘I can’t break it,’ says the Former Banker.

  ‘Can’t you bang it harder?’ asks his wife.

  ‘The shovel is too light. I can’t break it. Have you got a saw?’

  ‘Nope,’ says the landlady.

  ‘I can’t believe it…’ says The Former Banker’s Writer Wife.

  ‘A hammer?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve got a hammer,’ she says and runs back to the kitchen.

  She comes back with a hammer. The Former Banker starts banging on the box.

  Hammering.

  Hammering.

  Hammering.

  ‘It’s not fucking giving!’ says The Former Banker.

  ‘Oh god! You are such a pansy!’

  ‘Shut up! Try cranking this open yourself with these shit tools!’

  ‘They’re from Argos,’ says The Landlady apologetically.

  ‘Don’t worry, dear. It’s not the tools: it’s him. He’s a big fucking pansy.’

  ‘Try yourself…’ says The Former Banker, extending the hammer to his wife.

  ‘That’s a man’s job. I’m not even going to hold that hammer…’

  ‘God! I wish I hadn’t married an alcoholic!’ he says looking up to the night sky.

  ‘He’s going all melodramatic now!’ says his wife. The Landlady follows the situation, once more with bemusement.

  ‘Well… If you won’t try yourself then that’s it! I’m going home. Bye dear, sorry my wife is a cunt,’ he says, turns and walks away.

  ‘Bye…’ says The Landlady.

  ‘Can you believe this? Can you believe the shit I have to put up with? Can you?’

  ‘Take it easy…’

  ‘No, really… This is the last nail in the coffin, ironically… He’s fucking useless. A failure. I wish I had married the other one.’

  ‘Which other one?’

  ‘Come on! The other one! You remember the other one! Don’t you?’

  ‘The Ginger Accountant?’

  ‘Yes, The Ginger Accountant!’

  ‘I thought he had ginger pubes and bad breath.’

  ‘Yes, he did. But you can get used to that. What you can never get used to is living with a big, fat, useless, fucking pansy.’

  ‘He grilled the sausages…’

  ‘Even a kid can do that!’

  ‘Yeah, that’s true.’

  ‘Shall we wakey-wakey him? I mean… he might be able to open it…’ says The Former Banker’s Writer Wife, of course talking about me.

  ‘Let him sleep. He’s too drunk. Shall I try myself?’

  ‘No way, dear! You know what? Forget about it. Fuck Fonzie!’ she says and kicks the box back inside the hole. ‘Sorry we messed up your garden, dear.’

  ‘Don’t worry! It was fun!’

  ‘Yeah it was, wasn’t it? God, I don’t want to go home now… Don’t want to see that pathetic manchild for the rest of today…’

  ‘Shall we finish the wine then?’

  ‘Sure! Let’s do that.’

  ‘Let’s go inside.’

  ‘OK.’

  The Landlady glances towards me.

  ‘What shall we do with him?’ she asks.

  ‘Oh, leave him here! It’ll help him sober up,’ The Former Banker’s Writer Wife says, while both of them walk up the stairs towards the kitchen.

  ‘It’s a bit cold out there…’ The Landlady says and closes the kitchen door.

  ‘Don’t worry! Have you got cards?’ She sits on a chair.

  ‘I think so… Let me get the wine first…’

  ‘Great! Fancy playing some poker?’

  ‘I don’t know how.’

  ‘I’ll teach you!’

  ‘Fab!’

  ‘Shall we play for money?’

  ‘Teach me first!’

  ‘You’re right. By the way…’ she takes her hand to her temple.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I almost forgot my chapbook!’

  ‘Oh, yes!’

  ‘Got fifteen pounds? You can ask him for the money when he wakes up.’

  ‘Sure.’

  _________

  The night sets in over Victoria Park Village. Swine-flavoured darkness, little gardens, thin gardens, claustrophobic gardens in narrow yet expensive houses, of constantly swelling prices, regardless of the crisis, the exoduses (different exoduses), this insular piece of dirt lost in the sea sinking, sinking, sinking into the North Atlantic, the North Sea. Sinking with all of us.

  Still smoking — sometimes even burning — barbecues miles around. Disintegrating charcoal and cigarette butts, used matches and even chewing gum. Shrunk dehydrated sausages resting over rusty rails covered in pork fat and red peppers burnt to black, one per grill. Once or twice per half-mile a stray burger reduced to the size of a two-pound coin. Grilling paraphernalia turned dark with fire, fat, rust and general lack of use. Cancerous firestarters and half-full bags of damp carbon stones. Dismembered copies of broadsheets next to the barbecue — the World section burns faster, the Culture section burns last, celebrities’ faces resist burning until botox heats up and it melts from the paper to the meat, ‘Article 50’ and ‘financial markets’ and ‘pensions’ and ‘expats’ and ‘Brexit’ written on half-burned pages. Empty bottles and cans. Half-full glasses, broken glasses, glasses with strange mixes — beer and rosé, beer and cigarette butts, wine and water, beer and Coke, beer and some strange unidentifiable green matter, vomit, the vomit of someone who had one fruit salad too many, spunk maybe, and dessert wine. Wayfarers left in remote corners. Forgotten keys, forgotten fags, forgotten iPhones, smartphones, Blackberrys, lesser Androids, bluetooth speakers, different Siris shouting into the void, speaking to other Siris, orphaned Siris. And forgotten watches, wallets, tobacco bags, spliffs, digital cameras (simil Leica, expensive), three-wheeler baby buggies, babies, condoms and inebriated adult guests.

  _________

  Next to the grill.

  ‘Let’s go inside,’ she says.

  ‘What do you mean they’re all gone?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, they’ve been gone for hours,’ says The Landlady.

  ‘I swear they were all here, just a minute ago…’

  ‘I think you’ve had too much to drink. You must have dreamt it. You were dead to the world, dear.’

  ‘How embarrassing!’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry! You’re just drunk!’

  ‘You won’t invite me anymore.’

  ‘Come on! You just fell asleep! Let’s go inside — I’m really cold and it looks like it’ll rain. I’ll get you a coffee.’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Almost midnight.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘Do you have to go?’

  ‘No. But it’s late.’

  ‘Yes… Let’s go.’

  She helps me up and we walk into the kitchen. When we get to the kitchen I lean against the sink, open the tap and drink some water with my hands.

  ‘I feel like shit,’ I say.

  ‘You drank too much, too soon,’ she says and passes me an empty glass.

  ‘You too!’ I say shutting the tap off.

  ‘But I don’t feel like shit. Look: I’m ready to start partying again.’ Her hair is a bit messed up, she’s got mud on her dress and her eyes are a bit disoriented, but yes: she could probably start partying again. ‘Shall I make you a coffee? It’ll make you feel better.’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Have a seat.’

  I sit by the table and watch her move around the kitchen. I try to
follow her arse but my head is spinning.

  ‘I’m sorry I got drunk like this,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, stop it! Really…’ she replies without turning back from the kettle. ‘You’ll get better and better. You’ll master it. How long you’ve been here?’

  ‘Where? In London?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Fifteen years… Something like that.’

  ‘You should be trained by now…’

  ‘I think it was the weed…’

  ‘That’s true. You need to avoid mixing. Not good at all. Rule number one: don’t mix.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I mean it! Avoid at all costs! One thing at a time.’

  ‘OK… Anyway… Have you got a taxi number I can call? Actually, I’ll call myself an Uber.’

  ‘Do you want to leave?’

  ‘Not now, later.’

  ‘You can stay here if you want — there’s a sofa bed.’

  ‘Really? Wouldn’t you mind?’

  ‘Not at all. You already pay for my other mortgage. It’s the least I can do.’

  She gives me the cup of coffee and sits next to me.

  ‘I think I’ll take tomorrow off,’ I say.

  ‘I was thinking the same,’ she says.

  ‘Are you feeling unwell too?’

  ‘Not really. But I have to fix that mess in the garden.’

  ‘What mess?’

  ‘Don’t you remember?’

  ‘No… Do I have to remember? Was it me?’ I ask concerned.

  ‘No! It was us… It was fun! I’ll show you tomorrow morning,’ she says.

  ‘Great. I don’t want to get evicted,’ I say. She laughs. ‘Good coffee.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  Silence.

  ‘I liked your friends…’

  ‘They liked you too.’

  ‘Excellent!’

  I blow into the mug and look inside: the black coffee, some bubbles moving in a centrifugal motion — it makes me feel sick. I look at her and she smiles. She sits next to me, stares at me.

  ‘She left you a copy of her chapbook.’

  ‘That’s nice!’

  ‘It’s fifteen pounds. You can give it to me later. Or just add it to your rent.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I have a drink, blow into the mug, and drink again.

  ‘Do you really like my coffee?’

  ‘Yes! It’s a great cup of coffee.’

  ‘My tea is even better.’