Gurriers (36 page)

“Thanks very much.” I barely more than whispered from my throbbing red face as I slid into the spot vacated by “Daymo”.

Joe, having shed his outer layer about the selected seat, made his way to the blackboard to list his and Vinno’s names after Ray and Gerry’s. “Shy Boy are you playin’ pool?”

“Sure Joe, cheers.”

“Here, Shy Boy, skin up!” Ray threw a lump of hash onto the table, as I struggled to take my jacket off while sitting down, too shy to stand up again to do it.

“Wha’?”

“Get a joint together, man!”

“Here?”

“Yeah, you’ll be cool once ya keep i’ down. Here, use this.” He threw his signature book on the table. Despite being freed from the restraints of my jacket I sat motionless staring dumbly at the hash and the signature book on the table in front of me,
unsure of what to do. Ray persisted. “Look, man, ye open up the book, get the joint made there, an’ if anyone comes jus’ close the book, coverin’ yer makin’s, an’ carry on in a calm conversation wi’ us, yer buddies, who’ve been feedin’ you wi’ joints so far!”

The element of narcotic debt thrown in wasn’t wasted on me. I had smoked some and made none up to now. I knew that it was my duty to contribute to the making (and buying) if I was to smoke with these boys. I was just nervous to do it in a strange place.

“I - er – haven’t any skins.”

Two packets hit the table from different directions just as Vinno arrived with a tray. On the tray were five pints of Guinness.

“Vinno, I wanted lager.” I said, almost glad to have the distraction. That didn’t last long.

“I asked you if ye wanted a pint. There’s a pint!” He banged a pint on the table in front of me beside the signature book.

“He’s fuckin’ dodgin’ makin’ a joint as well, Vinno.”

“No I’m not!”

“I even gave him me signature book to cover himself in case Jimmy came up!”

“Yeah, ye’d want to get wi’ the fuckin’ programme, Shy Boy!” Gerry’s expertise at spitting venom was the final amount of peer pressure.

I began sticking skins together beside the drink that I didn’t want, ignoring the various alarm bells that were going off in my head. I was participating in drug abuse in public surrounded by all sorts of dangerous characters, and with a drive home afterwards ahead of me also. There was something else too that I couldn’t put my finger on, a little seasoning of the way I felt as I screamed toward the chemist to make a gobshite out of myself and earn my nickname earlier in the week, an alarm centered on my colleagues’ intentions.

Having dished out the pints, Vinno put the tray standing on its side against the rail beside pool table number one (the closest
to us) before sitting down beside Joe.

“Alrie Daymo…lads, next one down grabs the tray, yeah?” He picked up his pint and raised it in a parabolic arc to include all in his blessing. “Cheers boys.”

“Cheers Vinno.”

I was the last to raise my glass, moving my fingers away from the hash and grabbing my pint. It had been a long time since I had made a joint and I was struggling somewhat.

Vinno offered some advice. “It’s all in the spread, man. Jus’ imagine yer makin’ a swiss roll.”

“Push ‘im down the hill!!” Ray contributed.

Vinno paused just long enough for the reactions to subside. “Ye want a neat little rectangle o’ tobacco there. Then burn in, roll and smoke to enjoy! Wha’s the fuckin’ face for? That’s not poison yer drinkin’ – it’s a lovely fuckin’ pint! If you don’t want i’ someone else‘ll drink i’, fuckin’ lager wimp!”

“Fuck’s sake, Shy Boy.”

“Can’t skin up, can’t drink, slow as fuck – what’s he fuckin’ drinkin’ wi’ us for?”

I could actually feel tears welling up in my eyes, despite frantic condolences that I was catapulting around my head that this was just their way and that I was being tested.

I took a deep breath before replying, “It’s years since I skinned up an’ it’ll take me a while to get used to Guinness, Gerry, but if you think you have the right to call me slow we can go down this second and get onto the bikes and you can put your money where your fuckin’ mouth is. We’ll see who’s fuckin’slow!”

“Ooh! Doesn’t like to be called slow! I think we have a hero in our midst, boys.”

Gerry had gone from nasty to amused.

Ray started the singing, which everybody joined in at the chorus. “Where have all the good men gone? La la la la laa la. Where’s the street wise Hercules? La la laa laa la. I need a hero. I’m holdin’ out for a hero ‘til the end of time-”

“Shy Boy, sketch!” Joe’s warning made me look away from the pack of crooning hyenas towards the other end of the room.
There was the figure I had seen behind the bar walking sharply down the side of table two straight towards us.

Trying not to flinch or move any other part of my body, I sneakily used my left hand to close the signature book. The barman, despite pausing to pick up Vinno’s tray, was already at the table just as the book closed.

“Alrie, lads, what’s the story?”

“Alrie Jimmy,” chirped Ray innocently.

“You goin’ to behave tonie, Ray?”

“As well as I always do, man!”

“Shite!”

Laughing with the rest of them relaxed me a little. Jimmy seemed all right.

“Jimmy, he’s skinning up!”

Myself and Jimmy roared in unison, “What the fuck?” with my retort aimed at Gerry and Jimmy’s at me. I couldn’t believe that I was being ratted on. This just didn’t seem like these boys’ style at all.

“The joint is in the signature book, Jimmy.”

All I could do was stare in horror at Gerry.

“That’s fuckin’ Ship Stree’ there, man. D’ye know wha’s a’ the other end o’ tha’? Dublin Castle, wi’ the fuckin’ Garda headquarters; only abou’ a fuckin’ thousand guards stationed spit-tin’ distance from here an’ you si’ there fuckin’ skinnin’ up!”

“Sorry Jimmy.” was all I could say, still stunned.

“Good man yourself. Keep up the good work!”

“Wha’?”

“Ye can smoke what ye want here, man, an’ all these fuckers know i’! They’re oney pullin’ yer leg!”

Off he went, leaving my friends to revel in their mischief.

“You should’ve seen your face, Shy Boy!”

“Oh man! What a whitener, an’ he hasn’t even had a smoke ye’.”

“Yeah well, bad as yis are, I wasn’t expecting to be fuckin’ ratted on!” I glared at Gerry as I said this, but he just laughed even louder, slapping the table twice and then pointing at me.

“I suppose I might as well finish this,” I reopened the signature book.

“Here Shy Boy, ye don’t need the fuckin’ book anymore!” This statement prompted another round of guffaws.

“Ye can have it back when I’m finished, fatso. How the fuck did Jimmy know when to come up anyway?”

Vinno made an exaggerated whistling gesture and looked to the ceiling in fake innocence. It turned out that he had seen what Ray was up to with the signature book and had gestured to Jimmy when he placed the tray against the rails. Bastards! I vowed to myself that I would never ignore even the slightest hint of alarm bells around these jokers ever again.

The Prodigy’s “Breathe” had just begun to pump out of the speakers, as I leaned back to put fire to the finished product when the Gizzard arrived with somebody who had a cast on his lower right leg and another on his left hand that ran from his knuckles to about halfway between his wrist and his elbow. He held a helmet in his right hand – the same hand that was supporting him on his crutch that he used to walk awkwardly. Everybody greeted the injured man warmly, leaving me to deduce that he was one of us.

“Al! Good to see you, man. How’s the healin’ process with ye?”

“Gettin’ there, Vinno. Lots of pain but sure, we’ll survive.”

“Good man. Sit yourself down here. Shy Boy jus’ sparked up a pain killer tha’ he’ll pass on to you.”

“A pain killer made wi’ my fuckin’ hash!”

“Here, Ray,” I passed the lump back across the table to him. “You can make one for yourself; this man’s need is greater than yours.”

“Fuckin’ lovely tha’ is! This mus’ be fuckin’ skip Ray in the fuckin’ Persian rugs day!”

I took a long deliberate drag.

“No, it’s play pranks on Shy Boy day, Ray, and you’re just thick enough to pass your hash to the same person you’re playing the prank on.”

“Nice one, Shy Boy. We jus’ goh him wi’ the old skinnin’ up
trick. Jimmy played a stormer!”

“They got me wi’ tha’ as well. Bastards!” Al sympathised. “I had no idea that it was cool to smoke in here. I nearly shat myself when Gerry squealed.”

“Hadn’t got a clue. I’m new to this game!” I informed him, leaning back for another long drag.

“Yeah, they got me fresh also, nearly a year ago now, Vinno!”

“That’s not all, Al! Tell ‘im abou’ yer nickname, man!”

“Do I have to?”

“Alrie, I will. Bollicky Balls wro’e ou’ a note sayin’, ‘I am very shy, could you please put some condoms in a bag for me?’”

“No way! Ye poor bastard! Ye never copped on?”

“He fuckin’ radioed in to make sure he’d geh money back in the base an’ all – the gobshite!” Ray was still smarting about the joint being diverted. I stared at him with forced deliberation, as I passed the joint to Al, but smiled at his scowl after the fact. He just shook his head in dismay exaggerated to the point of being comic before busying himself putting skins together for a joint.

Daymo moved further down the seat to make room for the Gizzard.

“Cheers, Daymo. Actually, you hop in there, Al. Ye’ll be more comfortable.”

“Cheers Giz’.”

“Who’s gettin’ the pints, Giz’?” Vinno enquired as he sat on a stool he had somehow magicked from under the other table to sit beside the Gizzard at this one.

“Naoise. Charlie’s leavin’ the bike a’ home and then comin’ in. Shay has somethin’ wi’ one of the kids – he’s noh goin’ to make i’ Mick has some runnin’ around to do – as always – bu’ he’ll be here later. Dave an’ Five Al have a gig an’ Delores is a’ home gettin’ boned by her husband - the poor bastard!”

I turned to my new neighbour and asked the obvious question. “What happened?”

“Goin’ home from this fuckin’ place!”

My stomach wrenched itself into a knot. I was here drinking beer and smoking hash with the bike outside. What the hell was
I playing at? Al’s thoughtful pause – the one that always happens after making a statement about a stupid act – had reached the appropriate duration and he continued in an explanatory manner.

“I had five pints. I wasn’t drunk bu’ I shouldn’a’ been drivin’.”

Charlie was leaving his bike at home and I wondered to myself, why wasn’t I? Why were none of the others, come to mention it? It wasn’t as if Charlie had more sense than everybody else or anything!

“Jimmy asked me abou’ ten times to pu’ the bike in the yard bu’ I had loadsa shite to do tha’ Saturday an’ hadn’t goh the time to come in here to collect the bike, so I drove i’. I was grand – nearly made i’ all the way home an’ all bu’ came a cropper a’ the roundabou’ just around the corner from the gaff. Fuckin’ dog ran ou’ in front of me. Don’ geh me wrong, I know i’ was my own fault, an’ if I had’na been drinkin’ I would avoided hittin’ the deck, but there ye have i’.” The customary heavy sigh signalled the end of his tale of woe!

“Yard?”

“Yeah, all the boys usually lock up their bikes in the yard a’ the back if they’re stayin’ til the death – safe as houses there!”

So no need for drinking and driving, I thought. “Cool!”

As relief washed over me, I grabbed my pint and swigged two large celebratory swallows, just before the realisation that it was Guinness made my face contort once more. Actually, it didn’t taste too bad. Totally self-absorbed in having the burden of driving lifted off of me, I gave a little chuckle to myself before consuming another large swig.

Only after replacing the glass on the table did I notice that Al’s head was down, absorbed in the cast on his injured hand as he gently touched it with the good one. I was immediately aware of the waves of regret that the man was suffering, not in the least bit helped by my celebration. I scolded myself for being such a shithead.

“Sorry, Al, it’s just such a relief not to have to drive home. I didn’t know about the yard. First time here and all!”

“Don’t worry abou’ i’, man. Yer rie noh to drink and drive. I won’t be makin’ any o’ these for a while.” He took three rapid (and more than a little greedy) pulls on the joint before calling to Vinno to lean past the Gizzard and fetch the narcotic bounty.

“Vinno! Joint! Why don’t you throw another one together, Shy Boy, seein’ as ye don’ have to drive home an all!”

“I don’t have-”

I was cut short by Al’s right hand, containing a lump of hash, slapping onto the table. Of course I couldn’t refuse him, but as I took another swig of beer to ready myself for the joint rolling, it hit me like a thunderbolt that it was vitally important that I get the next round for my workmates. I had over half a pint left but the others had less, except Joe, who obviously intended to sip the one pint he was staying for.