I’m a small-sized bloke so this kind of thing happens too often for comfort and I shrugged his hand off. He apologised, but smiled as he did so. I fucking hate people doing that, I told him, making a point of brushing my shoulder.
Aye, you’ve no changed!
Of course I’ve fucking changed. . I said, then I smiled: For a kick-off I’m baldy.
You were baldy the last time we saw you, said Sheila.
Was I?
Aye.
I just looked at her although I found it hard to believe. People have a habit of throwing things at you about your past in such a way that makes it seem like they’re making this great statement which unites all our experiences into one while at the same time they dont really give a fuck either way, about the reality, how things truly were, whether you were baldy or had a head like Samson and Delilah. You dont need this kind of thing even when it’s genuine and this definitely wasnt genuine. Plus these days I find it difficult getting enthusiastic when I meet old acquaintances. I dont know what it is, I just seem unable to connect properly, I can never smile at the proper places — it’s like a permanent condition of being browned off with life. And no wonder either, when you come to think about it, with cunts like this always interfering.
Soon the pair of them had started dragging me round the place. They led me to a display table where they picked up a huge big tome. And landed it on my forearms. I couldnt believe it. It was like an absentminded fit of idiocy. I tried to snatch a glance at the title but they led me off immediately, him propelling me by the shoulder. They started lifting other books from here and there, piling them on top of the first one at a fierce rate with this crazy fucker Alan insisting I dont say a word and each time I tried to he did this stupid finger-into-the-ears routine with big laughs at his missis, it was like a nightmare, me wondering if I was about to wake up or what. I gaped at him, unable to open my mouth for a couple of seconds. I managed to speak at last. I dont know what you’re fucking playing at, I said, but one thing I do know, I dont fucking want them.
Ah come on! he laughed.
What ye talking about come on?
They’ll be good for your home study.
My home study?
You need them, said Sheila.
Do I fuck need them what you talking about? Then I managed to spot a couple of their titles and it looked as if they were naval histories. Naval histories! I said, trying to keep my voice down, What you giving me them for? You think I’m a fucking naval historian? I mean look at this! For christ sake! RECOLLECTIONS OF A FIRST LORD OF THE ADMIRALTY. What would I want to read that for! And look at this yin. .
It was MISTER MIDSHIPMAN EASY. In the name of god, I mind my auld man and my big brother reading that when I was about five fucking years of age. And then I almost collapsed. What’s this! I said, trying to keep my voice down. It was two more books they were trying to land me with: big glossy efforts. Hollywood movie-star photographs. What the fuck’s going on! I said, this is definitely a nightmare. Katharine Hepburn and Humphrey Bogart. What yous up to?
Sheila replied, We’re no up to nothing.
Aye yous’re bloody up to something alright.
Alan sighed in an exaggeratedly amused way; as if we had always been great mates and he understood me from top to bottom. You’re a failed scholar, he said, a failed trades-union organiser, plus you’re a failed socialist.
Dont be fucking cheeky.
More important, he said, you’re skint, and we know you’re skint. We bumped into Willie Donnelly yesterday morning and he told us.
Willie Donnelly told you. .
And anyway James, Sheila was saying, if that lassie who works behind the counter knows what ye do for a hobby, she’ll give you a good discount.
What d’ye mean what I do for a hobby, what ye talking about now?
Are ye no still writing your wee stories with a working-class theme?
My wee stories with a working-class theme. . Do you mean my plays?
I thought it was wee stories.
Well you thought wrong cause it’s plays, and it’s fucking realism I’m into as well if it makes any difference.
It’ll no matter, said Alan with a wink. As long as she knows ye write something plus if you give her a nice smile.
Do you know who you’re talking about, I said, you’re talking about Sharon! Sharon. . I glanced quickly across at the counter to see if she had heard. Lovely Sharon! Beautiful lovely Sharon who wears that tight black T-shirt!
Fucking joke man you’re crazy, the pair of yous. I stared at him: You must be a headcase, and I’m no kidding ye. That’s Sharon you’re talking about. A nice smile! What do ye think this is at all a fucking charity shop man this is a fucking classy bookstore and she’s a fucking classy woman. Christ! A nice smile! Give her a nice smile! A lovely lassie like that! Look, in the first place I dont want the bloody things. There isni a second place.
Rubbish, says Sheila, who are ye trying to kid? Then she smiled at Alan: He thinks we dont know!
Alan grinned. And he added, So that’s okay then James. .
Okay? It’s not fucking okay. It’s not fucking okay at all. Come on, take these fucking books out my arms and let me go. Christ almighty yous’ve landed me with at least fifteen here so it’s going to cost a bloody small fortune.
Aye but they’re a surprise, said Alan, plus you’ll like them. I know you’ll like them, because you always did.
I always did?
You were aye the same, back when we were weans the gether.
You’re actually mixing me up with somebody else I think. Unless you’re just trying to annoy me.
He’s no trying to annoy you at all, said Sheila, poking me on the side of the arm, and I had to step forward to balance the books and stop them falling:
Heh watch it, I said, careful.
Well he’s no trying to annoy you.
That’s a matter of bloody opinion because I think he is. And I dont know either how you wanted to butt in there and poke me Sheila because it’s no got fuck all to do with you there, that last sentence, the statement I made to him because if it had been intended for you I would’ve fucking done it like that, I would’ve addressed myself like that, to you I mean.
Sheila grinned. You’ve definitely no changed!
I stared at her. I’ve totally changed. Totally. I kept on staring at her because one of these funny wee mental things had happened in my nut where the word totally was sounding like it had changed its meaning or something and if I had been working at the typewriter I’d have probably knocked over the fucking Tipp-Ex bottle — and what was the name of the guy that sang the ‘I Belong To Glasgow’ song? Because for some reason this is what I wanted to know at that precise moment. Then I was speaking:
Since yous two knew me, I was saying, since yous two knew me. .
Sheila was nodding, encouraging me to speak on.
I breathed oxygen into my lungs to get myself ordered. Not only have I went totally baldy, I says, I’m divorced. Mary chucked me in for another man.
Mary chucked you in for another man. . said Sheila in a loud whisper. My God!
Who did she chuck you in for? asked Alan.
After a moment I told him: That eedjit McCulloch.
McCulloch! He laughed out loud then shook his head to put a check on himself. He calmed down and frowned man-to-man. James James James. But that’s serious eh? And he winked to destroy any semblance of genuine sympathy.
I dont really know what ye mean, serious. And to be honest with ye, and you as well. . I said to Sheila, I dont know how come yous are calling me James all the time; friends call me Jimmy and family call me Jim. Ye know what I’m talking about?
The pair of them looked like they were bewildered. I carried on speaking. Aside from that, being divorced and all the rest of it, I’ve given up all habits of the flesh; that includes alcohol, cannabis, marijuana, masturbation as well. I’m probably heading towards that strange state Charles Dickens mentions once or twice to get himself out of plotting problems, internal combustion.