They were going to get into the Russia game as well for nothing at the end of the month. That was definitely something to look forward to; it would be a much better match.
— Definitely, said Bimbo.
They were on the DART home.
— I don’t know, said Jimmy Sr. — I’d say tha’ glasnost shite has made them soft, d’yeh know tha’. They don’t have to worry abou’ bein’ sent to the salt mines if they lose any more.
— We’ll see, said Bimbo.
So they filled their time no problem. Sometimes that was all they did; fill it — they just fucked around doing nothing till they could go home for their dinner or their tea. That wasn’t so good. And sometimes Jimmy Sr could tell that Bimbo had the blues. And sometimes as well he had the blues himself. But they were good for each other, him and Bimbo.
And now — today — all Bimbo’s practice had paid off; he’d won the pitch and putt. And instead of winning a poxy voucher for the butchers or something he’d won a trophy, a huge one with a golfer on top of it; not cheap looking either, like a lot of them were. No, it was very nice, and Bimbo was fuckin’ delighted; he was fuckin’ glowing.
They’d had a few pints to celebrate and now they were going out to the van to get a few chips and a bit of cod, because they were too late for their tea and too hungry to wait for Maggie and Veronica to rustle up something for them.
— Are yeh righ’? said Jimmy Sr.
Bimbo was collecting his clubs and his trophy, trying to work out the handiest way to carry them all.
— Here, said Jimmy Sr. — Give us them.
He took the clubs from Bimbo. He was fuckin’ starving.
— Seeyis now, said Bimbo.
He was saying goodbye to everyone.
— Will yeh come on! said Jimmy Sr. — For Jaysis sake.
They went out into the carpark. It was still bright; it was only eight o’clock. The sky was red over where the sun was.
— Isn’t tha’ lovely? said Bimbo.
— I’m havin’ a burger as well, Jimmy Sr told him.
But the van wasn’t there.
— Ah fuck it!
And then they remembered that the van hadn’t been there in a long time; months in fact. They only missed it now when they wanted it.
They headed over the Green to the real chipper.
— Prob‘ly just as well really, said Bimbo. — You never know wha’ you were gettin‘, out o’ tha’ van. — It’s funny though—
He was having problems keeping up with Jimmy Sr.
— Tha’ van was a little gold mine, he said.
Jimmy Sr agreed with him.
— Yeah, he said.
— Maybe he’s sick, said Bimbo.
He nearly went through a puddle.
— Or maybe he’s dead.
— Good, said Jimmy Sr.
— A little gold mine that place was, Bimbo said again.
— It can’t have been tha’ much of a gold mine if it’s not there annymore, said Jimmy Sr.
— Maybe, yeah, said Bimbo. — I’d say he’s just sick or dead.
— I’ll be dead in a minute meself if I don’t get a bit o’ grub into me, said Jimmy Sr. — Come here, Bimbo, he said. — You’ll have to be careful yeh don’t get complacent just cos you’ve won once. I’m not bein’ snotty now—
— I know tha’.
— It happens a lot o’ fellas. They stop workin’ at their game, just cos they’ve won one poxy trophy; no offence.
— Don’t worry, Bimbo assured him. — It’s not goin’ to happen to me.
— Good man. — We wouldn’t want a job now, wha’. We’re too busy.
Bimbo smiled back at him.
There were bad times as well, of course. Of course there were. Poor oul’ Bimbo got the blues a bit, the way he used to himself before he got the hang of it, being a man of leisure. He — Bimbo — got the Independent every morning. It was supposed to be the best paper for jobs, and he went straight to the back pages. He hadn’t a hope in shite of getting a job out of it, he knew it himself; they knew nobody who’d ever got a job out of a paper. But he still got it and went down the columns with his finger and got ink on it and then on his face, and then got depressed when there was nothing for him. God love him, Jimmy Sr had to stop him from writing away for a job in McDonalds; there was a huge ad for them in Saturday’s paper.
Jimmy Sr called for him. They were playing against each other in this week’s pitch and putt. And he was at the kitchen table starting to write the letter.
Jimmy Sr read the ad.
— You’re not serious, he said when he was finished. Bimbo finished writing his address.
— You’re not fuckin’ serious, said Jimmy Sr.
— I knew yeh’d say tha’, said Bimbo.
He kept his eyes on the paper but he wasn’t writing anything. His address was the only thing on the paper so far.
— Wha’ d’yeh think you’re at? Jimmy Sr asked him. — Well?
He took care to make sure that what he said sounded just right, not too hard and not too sarcastic.
— I’m just writin‘, said Bimbo. — To see wha’ they say, like.
— They won’t want you, said Jimmy Sr. — They’re lookin’ for young ones an’ young fellas tha’ they can treat like shite an’ exploit. Not grown up men like you, like us.
— I know, said Bimbo. — I know tha’—
— They wouldn’t have a uniform to fit yeh.
Bimbo had something he wanted to finish saying.
— I want to see wha’ they say, yeh know. Wha’ they write back.
— They won’t bother writin’ back, said Jimmy Sr.
— They might, said Bimbo.
— Jaysis, Bimbo; for fuck sake. You’re a fuckin’ baker.
— There now, said Bimbo.
He pointed his biro at the paper.
— If I put tha’ in the letter, that I’m a baker, they might be impressed — I don’t know — not impressed; they might just think that I’ve experience an’—you’d never know.
— Ah Bimbo.
— I’m only writin’ to them.
He stood up.
— I’m only writin’ to them. — I’ll do it later.
Bimbo won; he won the pitch and putt.
— Yeh cunt yeh, said Jimmy Sr.
They didn’t have a pint after; it was a bit early. They just went home.
Jimmy Sr knew Bimbo; if he was offered one of those jobs he’d take it. — It’s a start, he’d say; and he wouldn’t give a shite who saw him in his polyester uniform. He’d even wear the fuckin’ thing to work and home, not a bother on him. And Veronica would ask him why he couldn’t get a job like Bimbo — but that wasn’t the reason he wanted Bimbo to cop on to himself. Veronica knew that if Jimmy Sr ever got offered proper work he’d jump at it, even if it was less than the dole. He couldn’t let a friend of his-his best friend-allow himself to sink that low. A man like Bimbo would never recover from having to stand at a counter, wearing a uniform that didn’t fit him and serving drunk cunts and snot-nosed kids burgers and chips. They weren’t even proper chips.
They were at Bimbo’s gate.
— You’re not goin’ to write tha’ letter to McDonalds, said Jimmy Sr. — Are yeh?
— Ah—
— You’d just be wastin’ the fuckin’ stamp, for fuck sake.
— No, said Bimbo. — I don’t think I’ll bother.
— Good man, said Jimmy Sr. — See yeh later.
— See yeh, said Bimbo.
Jimmy Sr went on, to his own house. He wondered would the front room be free this afternoon. Darren was doing a lot of studying for the Leaving, and Jimmy Sr wasn’t going to get in his way. Liverpool were playing Chelsea on RTE. Maybe Darren would be going out, meeting his mot.