Textbook

You don’t need textbooks and degrees to see she’s fucked. It’s all over her face. Burnt into it. She sits opposite you, legs open, sliding down in her chair.

Does she want to talk about her feelings? What does she want to talk about? How does the weather make her feel?

No.

Nothing.

Shit.

The words come out of her like boxers blood, spitting and gritted. You cross and uncross yourself, let the book fall beside you like it doesn’t matter. She’s talking, you think. It’s good she’s talking. That’s progress. Your smile must give you away because she stops, clams her mouth up like a dogs arse. One of your bollocks starts to itch, and you squeeze your legs together to try and catch it.

What about you?

She asks, folding her arms over her belly.

Why don’t you tell me about your wife?

You smile, spread your hands out.

I don’t think that’s relevant,

You hear yourself say.

We’re here to talk about you. 

You hate Summer. That feeling of sweat pooling in your lower back, smell of other people. The itch gets stronger and you wonder what her mouth would do if you scratched it on the corner of your desk, like a dog. A fly lands on your hand. You flick it off.  It lands on your head. You shake it off. It migrates to the other end of the room, moving in slow, boxy squares. Round and round and round, it’s drilling hum lapping into the extractor fan, the hum of silence that isn’t quite. You scratch your nose.

My wife is…..small

You open, bringing her in.

She likes bread. Making cakes. Dogs.

She makes a noise down her throat, lets her hair fall down the back of the chair. The movement sends out waves of something you can’t identify, something spiced and warm, but not sickly. Some sort of perfume.

You pick your book up, stretch it across your lap. Itch your bollock. Her mouth doesn’t move but her eyes are on you, so strong that they squeeze the water out of you. Your breath feels stuck, blocked down in your windpipe like a piece of food that won’t budge.

It’s time

You say, coughing it up.

Time. Time’s up.

Nothing in her moves. You feel wedged in, like when you used to climb into the airing cupboard and read books with the heat.

Time’s UP!

Is that really your voice out there? So pitchy and panicked? You want to scoop it out of the air and put it back in, but you can’t. You stand too quick, and hold yourself against the sick coming up from your belly. The room smells like a burp.

She stands up too, kicks her chair back. Swings her bag over her shoulder and smiles.

See you next week.

Maybe it’s you that’s fucked.

Dina M

Nirvana, Aberystwyth SY23

August 1982, a week in Aberystwyth beckoned, Dexys were at number one in the charts with Come on Eileen, the weather was wonderful, there was everything to look forward to. Except there wasn’t. Even as a nine year old there was some trepidation about this sojourn; my father had recently spent a couple of months in traction following a serious break of both the tibia and fibula. He had lost a sizeable amount of muscle mass and perhaps more importantly, given the week ahead, was no longer inured to the demands of three children.

Mum had struggled with the three of us whilst Dad was confined to his hospital bed and during his extended convalescence. The holiday in Aberystwyth was intended to be a welcome break for all concerned.

The holiday was always going to have something of a hotchpotch feel about it. In those days we didn’t have a car; dad had always either cycled or motor-cyled to and from work and mum managed to transport the weekly grocery shopping home on the bus. Carless, we faced an arduous, meandering bus journey through tiny Welsh towns and villages on roads ill-suited to what in 1982 constituted luxury coach travel. As young kids we had all suffered with travel sickness, maybe our carless-ness and lack of travel left us with no opportunity to become used to such exotic adventures, anyway following breakfast the usual dose of phenergan was administered to each of us prior to leaving the house. Phenergan, for those of you lucky enough to have avoided it, was an evil syrupy solution masquerading as a travel sickness remedy. It was readily spooned into us by my parents whenever we were about to embark on travel measurable in miles rather than feet. This foul substance had the same effect on me that it always did; I promptly vomited a sort of rice krispie and syrup smoothie on the kitchen worktop. Great preparation for the journey ahead.

We convened on the roadside near our house and awaited the tardy transportation. With our luggage and essentials piled up we resembled John Steinbeck’s Oakies and we would later face similar hostility, being regarded as interlopers. Anyway, the weather was lovely and we settled down aboard the bus to breeze through the wonderful Welsh countryside. Although Wales is pretty sparsely populated we stopped at every hamlet, town and conurbation we encountered. Droves of pensioners would board taking an age to find their seats as they insisted on greeting each and every other passenger. Whilst ordinarily this journey takes the most conservative of drivers about an hour and a half, this coach trip would occupy the entire day.

Aeration aboard the luxury coach only stretched as far as ineffective vents in the overhead luggage rack, this was the early eighties after all and the vents were weaker than a mouse’s dying breath. As our mobile greenhouse trundled coastwards the heat became ever more uncomfortable; solution, open the window. My father might as well have desecrated the resting place of Owain Glyndwr judging by the reaction this elicited. Our dwindling popularity meant that the sight of Aberystwyth was a vision of paradise, not something Aberystwyth is commonly likened to.

The joy was to be short lived.

The problem with rural bus timetables is infrequency, you have to travel when you’re able rather than when might be convenient. This bus service only operated on Fridays but the caravan we were to stay in was available from Saturday to Saturday. The frail, old lady who owned the caravan had offered to book us into a bed and breakfast for a night until the caravan had been vacated. This resulted in the double excitement for me of not only holidaying in a caravan but also having my maiden experience of a bed and breakfast.

Bed and Breakfast. The least one should rightly expect of a bed and breakfast would be a bed and a breakfast; it’s not bed or breakfast, you would imagine that the minimum criteria is pretty easy to establish even to the most backward proprietor. Not so.

In the room was one bed, a tired looking double struggling to contain its loosely coiled springs. A selection of threadbare armchairs would have to suffice for my older sister and I. Even the tenderness of my years couldn’t cloud the image of this fleapit. My mother, fastidiously clean to the point of mania started splashing Dettol around like an arsonist armed with a jerry can of petrol. The fumes stung my eyes, passers by must have thought than an impromptu field hospital had been set up. I sensed my parents displeasure.

Having arrived quite late in the day, finding somewhere else to stay wasn’t really feasible. Fish and chips in the room in front of a television boasting all three channels, we could make the best of it, I was finding it all hugely exciting.

Tim Mac

He'd died grim, uncle Gordon and I hadn't been to see him.  Didn't have the bottle, but our John went up.  He's older than me and a lot harder.  Went to the hospital twice in three days.  The second time he went, he thought they'd fixed Gordon up and sent him home.  Had to ask the nurse if he'd been discharged, because he didn’t recognise the bloke in the bed.  She said no, that’s him, he's in the same bed as he's been in since he arrived.  John said that when you run a dog for three miles or more, it just pants and fights for breath.  Said that's what uncle Gordon looked like.  And that’s when he knew he’d had enough.

Outside the crem, I stood with the old man.  Saying nothing, while the old lady methodically read every single bloody note on ever single bloody bunch of bloody flowers.  Across the car park, a body of men gathered.  Huddled together in the cold breeze.  Coughing.  You'd have called it as a reunion of a disreputable 1970s army unit.  Broken noses, brown teeth.  Tragically bad mauve shirts and comically wide black ties.  One or two I recognised.  Bill Foreman, Noel Kennedy, Ernie Rudd.  Noel ripping the end off a tipped cigarette and smoking it the other way round.  Combovers, grey suits, red blotchy skin. 

Then you realise.  That if you needed a pipeline welding, or an 18 foot bar top polishing, or someone to fix a 60 ton excavator, or install a boiler in a conference centre, or lay 500 bricks in a day, whistling, this is where you'd find him.  I ground my teeth together, nodded at cousin Phil, noted his wife.  Looked back at the old man.  Still saying nothing.

It was only later, when the tales were being told and the beer and whiskey kicked in that, crying like a baby, I collapsed into the arms of several bewildered family members.  Funerals, to me, are like railroad officials with promises on sheets of paper, confronting hillbillies in short stories.  They always get you in the end.

Martin C

I Guess The Old Boy Had A Sense Of Humour After All.

The old man had been very wealthy., everybody who lived in this building was very wealthy, old money mostly but some new money too, it's all money. Money can buy you anything in this life but you can't cheat death no matter how rich you are.

He was gone now, dead and buried, the staff all let go. The chef, the nurse, the cleaner, the housekeeper, the driver all looking for the next wealthy family or individual to pamper. Letters of recommendation clutched in their hands no doubt, maybe even a mention in the will?

The apartment lay bare, the family had sold it quickly; even in slow times an apartment in a Candela building didn't stay on the market long. His executor handed the keys over to the building superintendent with a letter, legal of course, informing him of the change in ownership. The new owners will have gone before the board, their lives dissected, their wealth investigated, their charitable donations accessed, their characters examined. It's not enough just to have money in some buildings...

The apartment was indeed empty but the building superintendent and I we knew what we were looking for. In a cedar lined closet we tapped out the hollow behind which a safe was hidden away.  I remember them putting it in more than 25 years ago, a company from the Lower East-side who specialized in quality safes. Though she measured no more than 30 inches in height, she was a heavy old girl. We pried her out with pinch bars and elbow grease and sweat from our brows. Once she was on the movers dolly it was simply a matter of navigating the passage way to the rear of the apartment and then down to the basement via the service elevator.

The locksmith who had the contract for the building wished, naturally, to keep the contract, and agreed to open the safe gratis. I poured the tea, we sat and watched him in action. Not so much a master at his craft more a capable jobber he none the less opened the safe within the hour. Alas to our dismay no riches were to be found, only a pair of false teeth and a sepia coloured piece of paper on which the combination to the safe had been scribbled many years ago.

JL

20 minute true story from Wales UK

Catrin and John met around Christmas 1989, a few months later they found themselves standing outside the office/fan club of rock band Queen in the Notting Hill area of London. As a long time member of the Queen Fan Club, it wasn't the first time that John had visited the club and had always had a great welcome from Jacky, who ran the venture.
This time John noticed a green Mercedes Benz about to be booked for illegal parking outside the office, when a young blonde lady appeared and promptly agreed to move the car, thus avoiding a penalty.
She jumped in the car and zoomed off. John thought the car belonged to Queed guitarist Brian May, so as the young lady returned by foot, he politely asked if Brian could sign an autograph for as they had travelled over 200 miles from South Wales to be there.
Astonishely the Queen employee offered for both to accompany her into the office and ask Brian themselves.
John boldly marched in without a care in the world whilst Catrin shyly followered with a rather blushed face, only to find the entire band sitting in a room engaged in a meeting with the production manager.
Completely 'star struct' they both were introduced to each member of the band who very politely responded by saying, "hello I'm Brian, John and Roger, but Freddie Mercury was recalled as introducing himself by saying "hello I'm Kim Bassenger, very pleased to meet you" prompting the whole room to laugh and the air of anticipation melted for Catrin & John. The band then engaged in a little small talk whilst they kindly signed their autographs on the rather outrageous "things to do today" headed notepad that John had recently purchased during a walk around Carnaby Street. This also prompted some innoendo by Mr Mercury who very sadly died just over a year later of AIDS. Powerful memories were firmly ingrained into the minds of both Catrin and John during that chance encounter, that will remain with them for the rest of their lives.


John Lewis

WHAT IT TAKES

There could be power in a day like this, he saw that.
He’d tried to dam the river of pride that ran through him, stared at the ground, swallowed hard. The wet pavements reflected street lights moving towards and past him as he moved with urgency. There would be power in this day.
Every injury was opening up as he crossed the street.
A bus flashed by, its interior lighting up the street. Three or four passengers staring ahead like automata, oblivious to all. He crossed the road behind it and thought for a second or two of the thousands of people who would be sitting at home tonight with their families or the others who would be doing things they loved, like reading, playing music, watching a film, holding a hand.
The pub was leaking light and music onto the street. A few customers stood outside smoking, still within reach of the smell of beer and humans, trying to keep a little of the inside alive on the outside. He walked through their smoke and talk and into the warmth and the wall of sound. 
Everywhere was shoulders and backs of heads, occasional profiles cracking with laughter. He couldn’t hear what they were laughing at; he didn’t really see them.
A gap opened up as someone pushed back from the bar with three pints of beer in his hands. He saw you through the gap.
He slipped by the pint-carrier, through the closing gap and walked up to the table where you were sat with your sister. 
The music changed to Percy Sledge singing Dark End Of The Street as he lifted the revolver from his pocket, placed the end of the barrel to your eye and squeezed the trigger. A beautiful red mist filled the air as your brains erupted through the back of your skull. As you slumped over to your side he took the time to spit in your sister’s face before continuing moving through the pub and leaving by the side door. 
This is what it takes to kill a man.

 

DG

I don't seen Tony Falshaw for years, then all of a sudden he's everywhere I look.  Turns out he's got divorced and moved into a flat somewhere the other side of the railway bridge.  Tells me about having both his hips done.  He's not a lot older than me and it makes me shudder to think.  Says that they don't even knock you out when they do it and that afterwards you encounter loads of new challenges in life.  Like going for a shit in comfort. 

Their Dale's not up to much, he says.  "Can't do owt with 'em these days, can you?"  There’s nothing resilient in him.  Resigned.  Beaten.  Then Tony says “What's your lad doing?"

I tell him Jack's got an apprenticeship at Mathers Engineering down Shawside.  Like a lot of people, he reacts as if I've told him Jack's got into Oxford University.  Forty years ago there'd have been two dozen of them down at Mathers.  And another thirty or more each going to the docks, the pits, on the sites.  Not now.  Not ever again. 

Tony says "He'll know Steve Barker then?"  He looks at me like it's something important. 

"I think he sees him here and there, but he’s not shop floor."  Tony waits for what seems like two hours and then says

“They make a lot of stuff for the American military at Mathers, don’t they?  Top end stuff.”

I hadn't got a clue.  I was just starting to get used to Jack coming in knackered every night with a faceful of soot and eating his tea like he'd never seen food before and hearing stories between mouthfuls, of burrs and drilling and drawings, and canteen tea like witch piss and magazines in the bogs and blokes called Eddie and Smackers and Mr Fresh.  Just assumed the metal he’d been polishing and shearing and cutting, was bits for gearboxes and pipelines and industry.  And maybe rotors and casings and blades.  But not military ones.

Tony doesn’t say anything else.  Just gives me a smile that says “Where’s your fucking left wing credibility now, you twat?”  Then he rubs his hip, widens his smile and limps off.  

Martin C 

English as a Second Language.

Arh great, just what I need. 8:00 a.m. Monday morning and Jesus turns up with a completely new crew.
"Jesus, what the fuck man? Where's the regular boys?"
"Hola John."
"Jesus..."
"Wha... These guys mucho better."

"Better for you maybe, maybe work for less but what the fuck do they know about demoing an apartment in a building like this?" We are stood outside an apartment build on Central Park West and 84th Street. Jesus is my demo guy, he is also a cheap fuck. A Peruvian who hires guys on an as needed basis for as little as he can get away with. He does all my demo, I pay him, he is legal, his men are his concern. Me, I'm a GC, a General Contractor. I specialize in high end apartment refurbs.  My average job is around $5m.  I've a lot of money tied up in business and I've worked hard to get where I am. Getting here was the easy part, it's staying here that's hard. I try do things by the book but it's not easy when the competition will cut every corner they can. I still use union electricians and plumbers, the HVAC guys are all licensed but when you're up against some of the low life's this business has attracted it's getting harder and harder to make a buck.

There's one guy, new on the scene, wears leather trousers for God's sake, he hires Chinese day laborers for everything. They will work for half the price of a Mexican. I don't know how he gets away with it but he does. Palms, obviously, are getting greased. I have one guy, Jim, he's from Trinidad ( you ever met anyone from Tobago? Me neither. It's always Trinidad) he did a few weeks with this guy, told me he had 35 guys doing demo, dragging cans out into the street. No dumpsters just dragging them. All these guys wearing sneakers, no boots, no helmets. Said half the guys came back the next week reinvented as carpenters and laying out the stud and sheet rock. Said he quit when two of them declared themselves electricians and kept shorting everything out. Bad enough working in those conditions; think about living in the apartment when it's done?

Demo is one of the areas I try compete but Jesus has really fucked me this time, these guys look fresh off the boat. This is tricky demo, I want a lot of the walls to remain, I don't want the water lines disturbing, I don't want all the electrics ripping out.

"Where'd you get these guys Jesus?"
"Take it easy my friend. These guys, good guys."
"These guys fucking cheap guys. Where's Hector, get fucking Hector here, he can read prints. I want fucking Hector here or you can fuck right off."
"Hector no work for me no more. Cordaro can read prints yes?"
"Cordaro? Which one's he? Guy's a fucking midget Jesus. Cordaro, you read prints?"
"Si."
"You do? Jesus stop nodding your fucking head."
"Cordaro where'd you work before? Speak English?"
"Si, poquito."
"Popquito? Where did you work last week?"
"Arh, arh, I dickwasher."
"Jesus, what the fuck? What the fuck's a dickwasher?"
"Si I Dickwasher!"
"Hey don't shout that too fucking loud pal."
"Si, Dickwasher?"
Jesus, get fucking Hector back here and the rest of the regular crew and get this fucking dickwasher out of here..."
"Si I Dickwasher!"
"Hey Cordaro? Where'd you was dicks?"
"John, John, John, he worked in the dinner...
"Washing dicks? Fancy place."
"Washing dishes."
"Arh dish washer?"
"Si, si, si, I Dickwasher."
"Jesus call fucking Hector."

JL