Gurriers (4 page)

I stayed in bed until eleven, glad not to have to face Eoin and Marie. They had been only too glad to put me up and had been great about it so far, but I couldn’t help feeling like an invader in their lovely home. I dragged my sorry arse out of bed and slogged through the routines of cleaning, feeding and dressing myself slowly, almost reluctantly, as if I’d just be better off lying in bed feeling sorry for myself today. This made things harder for me, as moping always does, and I felt as if I
had been through a proper ordeal by the time I was ready to go at five past twelve. It was another ten minutes then unlocking and heating the engine of the bike (I religiously let my bike tick over with the choke on for a full five minutes after starting it each morning – an act which greatly improves the lifetime of the engine) and off with me through the myriad of new and half built houses that had been consistently sprawling from the back of the Foxhunter pub in Lucan for the previous decade or so.

One thought occupied my mind as I joined the traffic on the last stretch of the N4, which were heading into town: “Where the hell is Lad Lane in Dublin 2?”

I made my way to Stephen’s Green, found out that Lad Lane was a right hand turn under an archway off Baggot Street as you head away from the Green, found the archway, and then drove up and down the half mile lane three full times looking for Lightning House, the base of Lightning Couriers, without finding it. My blood was beginning to boil and I could feel panic setting in on the third journey towards Baggot Street at 12.55 pm.

Lunchtime meant one o’clock and I didn’t want my potential
future employer’s first impressions of me to be apologising for being late. As it was, I wasn’t too sure if I was cut out to be one of these couriers, they all seemed very rough to me. Then I saw a bashed up little motorbike that had been coming towards me turn right and disappear into a pedestrian gate, which was set
in a large wooden gate leading onto Lad Lane. It seemed to be no more than the back garden entrance to one of the big houses on Fitzwilliam Square, but when I stopped to look in I saw a good sized two storey mews building with a motley collection of scruffy old motorbikes strewn loosely around the general area of the door. I had just found Lightning House.

I manoeuvred my bike through the gap with little difficulty and parked it closer to the three cars that came into view rather than the other motorbikes that occupied the tarmac. It was as if those other bikes could contaminate mine and turn it into an unclean and abused working machine like them. They were covered in matt black paint or with camouflage paint jobs (in
matt colours, of course), ripped saddles, broken or loose (if any) mirrors, snapped levers, stickers all over them with oil leaks all over the place. Bungees on practically every one of these machines performed various necessary functions – from kick-start return to brake pedal to holding saddles on to holding fairings on to actually holding the front pegs on the Honda CG125 that I had seen pull in before me (how uncomfortable that thing must have been to drive, terrified to put any weight on your feet). My bike definitely looked safer beside the cars.

To say that I was nervous would be an understatement as I made my way towards the open door, not helped one little bit by the loud roar of raucous laughter that burst out from inside. Somebody was in the process of telling a joke.

“And the Gizzard just stood there scratchin’ ‘is head.”

More laughter followed.

“I’ll scratch me fuckin’ head over that fuckin’ pizza, ye bollix,” came back from somewhere beyond the original voice. More laugher ensued.

I took a deep breath and strode into the offices of Lightning Express for the first time.

The first room I walked into was the canteen. It was a big musty room with a dingy old carpet and walls that used to be white in varying stages of chronic tobacco staining from a weak yellow up to a sickly light brown. A bare light bulb dangled
from a filthy straggle of cord that was completely choked with dust clumps. To my right there was a door into a room in which I could see a figure in a business suit remove a tea bag from a cup and place it in a bin beside a sink. Further down this wall on the other side of a large laminated map of Dublin there was a hatch, approximately three feet square, through which I could hear the muffled noises of distant frenzy. There was another door facing me on the back wall beside a large window through which I could see what looked like a normal busy office with a lot of activity going on. An assortment of chairs - ranging from stark black stackable plastic chairs up to dilapidated office
chairs that had begun life eons ago as smart office furniture -were strewn around a beat up old table in no particular order.

Five of these chairs had lunching couriers in them with another courier standing beside the hatch studying the map. Nobody paid any attention to me as I entered the canteen. This didn’t do my nerves any good whatsoever because now I was condemned to initiate dialogue with one of these dirty, scruffy abrupt individuals who seemed to be so intent on lavishing vulgar insults on each other, as to not give a damn whether I lived or died, much less care about my appointment with this Aidan individual.

A small, round and particularly black faced individual at the table was continuing the line of amusement about “the Gizzard” scratching his head over a pizza belonging to a man named Ger.

“Shouldn’t be too bad as long as it’s not a vegetarian pizza, ‘cos you’d be sure to have a few live things hoppin’ out of that fuckin’ mop an’ landin’ on yer pizza, an’ tha’d count as meat, Ger!”

“ Ye’d find a wider range of life forms in those filthy ears of yours than in my hair, ye little fuckin’ maggot!” The Gizzard’s retort identifying him as the one with the big nose in the jacket that was about ten years old and seemed to be held together with strips of black duct tape.

“There’s no fucker goin’ to be comin’ near this fuckin’ pizza wi’ any fuckin’ life forms, yis shower o’ cunts! Now fuck off,
the fuckin’ lot of yez an’ let me eat me bi’ o’ fuckin’ lunch in peace.”

Now I knew which one Ger was also – he was the little angry one with the scar on his face that looked as if he’d bite your nose off if you annoyed him.

“You fuckin’ started on me over that time ye hid me bike, ye stressed ou’ little fuck!” the Gizzard roared at Ger while facing him in a squaring off manner.

I did not like the look of this one little bit and had already measured the distance between me and the door as two big leaping steps with no obstacles in between just in case I had to high tail it out of there.

At this stage, I was beginning to think that the whole courier idea was a mistake as Ger got to his feet slowly and menacingly while snarling through gritted teeth.

“I didn’t try to put you off yer fuckin’ lunch tho’, did I? You smelly piece of shit.”

The Gizzard wasn’t backing down. “You pu’ everyone off their fuckin’ lunch all the time jus’ by fuckin’ walkin’ into the base, ye ugly little fuck!”

I, on the other hand, had started backing towards the door.

“You’re standin’ there as bold as brass wi’ tha’ fuckin’ monstrosity of a hooter pointin’ in front of ye like a fuckin’ weather vane for all to see an’ you have the sheer fuckin’ audacity to call me ugly. Look in the fuckin’ mirror, ye gobshite ye, an’ den call me fuckin’ names.”

“Right, that’s it!” As the Gizzard roared he leapt over the corner of the table between him and Ger, arms widely outstretched to be certain to get a hold of some part of him. Ger had been a little slow to react, so the Gizzard found purchase with both of his hands and managed to drag Ger over the corner of the table and automatically off balance. At this stage I had decided to just get the hell out of there, away from this place never to return and to forget forever any notions of becoming a courier and having to mix with these animals. This was not for me.

I was, however, mesmerised by the physical struggle and just eased myself out of range with my back to the wall and continued to look on as the Gizzard overpowered the wildly struggling Ger. I was terrified by what was going on in front of me and genuinely did fear for my safety; for all I knew, this was going to turn into an all out battle where I was liable to be attacked myself. Looking around the room to ascertain any threat of possible attack, I was surprised to see that none of the other couriers or the man in shirt sleeves seemed to be bothered by the struggle going on in front of them, seemingly more amused than threatened by what looked to me like a life or death struggle. What sort of people were these that could take something so dangerous and deadly in their stride? Definitely not my sort of people.

“Who’s the daddy?” the Gizzard shouted.

In the moments that I had been looking away, the Gizzard had manoeuvred Ger to be in front of him facing the same direction and had forced his torso flat on the table with his left hand while grabbing the waistband at the back of his leathers with the right one. As he roared, he mimicked sex with his victim, much to my surprise, and amazement.

“Squeal like a pig, boy!”

“Fu...ck off.” Ger’s words being broken by the effect of the elbows and back-heels he was wildly swinging at his assailant, who had little difficulty in dodging them.

“We sure do have a lively one here, boys. I’m goin’ to have you good, boy!”

“Go on, the Gizzard!” chirped the courier at the map.

“Only in…your...wet…est dreams, you fag...got!” Ger was still struggling wildly, but seemed to be tiring. Seeing that they were only messing and not actually attempting to murder each other did calm my nerves and amusement took the place of fear as I gazed on. The Gizzard had decided he had had enough and spun his victim through 180 degrees (now he was facing me) and pushed him hard. I barely managed to side-step out of the way as he careered past me and hit the wall with a crunch just beside the door to the kitchen, narrowly missing the shirt sleeved figure that was by now in the doorway, armed with a steaming hot cup of tea.

“Easy on there, lads, this is a Ralph Lauren shirt! Wreck the base if yez want, but mind the threads.”

“You shut up, sales boy an’ ge’ ou’ an’ get some fuckin’ accounts for us so we might have some fuckin’ chance to make a decent fuckin’ wage.” roared the small round individual. This torrent of abuse shocked me, as I had naturally assumed that the man in business attire had been a boss of some sort.

“Never sell during lunch, Ray. That’s counterproductive.”

Now I had a name for the little scruff.

“Counter bleedin’ wha’?” The courier at the map seemed to want to have a go at the salesman.

“Counterproductive, doin’ more harm than good by bein’ unprofessional...these people don’t do business during lunch and they don’t appreciate it if a salesman tries to.”

“What’s your excuse for the rest of the day?” This was the first statement from a slim built courier who had been eating a sandwich at the table up to now. The voice didn’t seem to suit the man, being a lot bigger and deeper than one would expect from such a slight individual. His face also had a lot of black on it. I remember wondering how some of them seemed to be a lot blacker in the face than others.

“That’s not fair, Naoise; I’m a hard working rep’ that’s done loads of good for this company.”

I made a mental note of this name also.

“What’s the last account you got for us?”

“Didn’t BWG drop for me last week!”

“Never heard of them. Here, lads, anyone do any work for a crowd called BWG yet?”

Nobody answered the Gizzard’s question.

“Well, I don’t think they’ve actually used us yet, but they’re a great account: at least ten jobs a day. I’ll be ringing them after lunch.”

“That’s not worth a shite – ye’d want to get yer arse off your office chair an’ go down an’ see the fuckers in person. Then they might fuckin’ start givin’ us some business.”

This came from the final courier to speak who had remained
at the table throughout the entire commotion. All of the couriers were now united in criticism of their sales rep, who buckled under the pressure. Mumbling something along the lines of “might just do that”, he scurried past me and the hatch and into the safe confines of the office area, followed by several jeering calls along the lines of “useless fuck” and “What do ye get fuckin’ paid for anyway?”

My resolve not to become a courier, which had weakened considerably upon knowing that Ger and the Gizzard had only been messing with each other, was stronger than ever having witnessed such barbaric pack-like antagonism of somebody who, in my opinion, was only trying to do his job. I decided to
slip away quietly and go back to the job that I had trained for and experienced at and never to let the notion of being a courier cross my mind again.

“I haven’t forgotten abou’ me bleedin’ ruined lunch ya bollix ye – I’ll be gettin’ ye back for that one!” Ger was standing smack bang between me and the door delivering his malice to the Gizzard and when I turned to make my exit (just as he was speaking), I found myself face to face looking down at him with only inches between us. This had the exact opposite effect that I needed at that particular time. It got me noticed.

“And what’s your story, clean boy?”

These were the first words ever spoken to me by a courier (much to my amusement these days) and they scared the shit out of me. He still had the scowl on his face from spitting venom at the Gizzard and his voice kept the same volume level which was pretty terrifying at this proximity to him. There was also the fact that I was now the centre of attention of this pack of vicious animals and could well suffer the same fate as that poor salesman that I had just seen been ripped to shreds. There was genuine fear in my voice when I eventually managed to stammer my reply.