SS Glasgow Castle 6 Chapter Six

It's now exactly a year since I called my wife a nasty little b.i.t.c.h. I'm living in a rented room, one of many (eight) in a sprawling mansion originally built for a meat magnate at the beginning of this century (there are also two small, one bedroom flats tucked into the front corners of the house). The grimy tiles in the huge communal kitchen are painted with portraits of what had made the magnate's wealth: smiling cattle, joyful chicken, and contented pigs. Presumably, the meat was good.

Eventually, it bought him a two-storey house with a spindly turret adorning each roof corner, an oak staircase, and gas lighting in each of its sixteen rooms. The gas piping has been buried in the brickwork, so ripping it out would have been lots of trouble. Instead, a later owner turned each gas light into a lamp after feeding wires through the embedded pipes. The result is that pressing an ear against the thin bra.s.s pipe below the lamp allows one to spy efficiently. Predictably, it's a very quiet house.

My room measures six paces by five. I have a bed, a bookcase, a table, and two chairs. I also have a narrow wardrobe by the door; its shape, size, and unique odour suggests it has been used, at one time, for storing mops and brooms. I keep most of my clothes in my two suitcases.

When I arrived here for the first time, my clothes caused a minor sensation. I came to see the advertised room, but the caretaker couple (elderly East Indians; the house is owned by a retired shadow in sunny Florida) insisted on showing me one of the flats (the caretakers live in the other). They were very disappointed when I turned it down. Their hopes had been raised by my designer togs. In here, everyone over forty wears Zellers and K-Mart; everyone under thirty - Salvation Army and Goodwill. Between thirty and forty there's only me, me and my fading, shrinking a.s.sortment of designer gear.

For neighbours, I have an old guy that appears to be dying of tuberculosis (as you face my door, to the left), and one of the three communal toilets (to the right). As you can imagine, I was horrified by the neighbourhood to the right. However, my fears turned out to be groundless. The occupants of the house conduct their bodily business next door with a great delicacy – one could say secrecy. They creep to the door on soundless feet – the top hinge gives a faint squeak – there is a soft, barely audible thump as the door closes, then a moist click as the latch is slipped. You have to be actively listening for sounds from that quarter to actually hear anything.

Throughout my residence, I've heard only a single distressingly loud fart. And I suspect that once someone threw up – not because of the a.s.sociated noise, but from the smell when I went in there to do some business of my own. Of course, whenever I do go there myself I creep like a trained commando, and operate the latch as if I were setting a delayed fuse. I don't want anyone thinking I'm a supporter of loud self-expression in the toilet. I live next door, after all.

Life has a way of being brutally just; the noiseless can came with a tubercular geezer on the other side. He limits himself to four or five fits a day and maybe two at night, which isn't that bad.

But – let's face it, let's be brave now – things are bad.

It all began on a better note, though not an especially happy one. I moved out of my world-cla.s.s, suburban home in the first week of February. Donna and I spent most of the preceding month on discussions, during which we more or less established we didn't care for each other as much as we used to. There was no hate or anger, or anything like that. On the contrary, I felt about as emotional as a mildly unsuccessful undertaker, and Donna had always been good at being coldly efficient.

Everyday life was a cycle of going through certain motions. Of course, I didn't even bother to look for work. It's no use when you feel like that. If people are to hire you, you have to make them feel good first. They want to hear good cheer and hope on the other end of the line, not a guy sounding like a depressed actor in a Russian drama. You can't make people feel good when your manner suggests that grandpa has just hanged himself in the barn.

My manner was well suited to the conversations I had with Donna, though; hers was much the same. We agreed despondently that our busy professional lives prevented us from getting to really know each other, but somehow neither she nor I showed much enthusiasm for the process of mutual re-discovery. We agreed on several more issues in the same vein; eventually, we also agreed we should separate, and see what transpired. Somehow, it went without saying I would be the one to move out.

Donna graciously released me from the obligation of paying the house bills; she said she would rent a room out to a car-owning, university-going cousin of hers (she had about a dozen cousins, and I didn't bother to delve into the details). The nearest college or university was so far away Donna's cousin would be spending a fortune on gas, but maybe Donna's cousin had the ambition to live in a world-cla.s.s area.

As it turned out, finding a place for myself was surprisingly easy. I dug up an old real estate agency card that had been tossing around in a drawer for several years, and dialled the number. I was connected to no other than Frank Mahoney, him of the beery laugh and the whiskered nostrils. The shock made me honest about the reasons behind my call, and an overjoyed Mahoney found me a very nice, inexpensive studio within forty eight hours. I wondered whether he'd wait another forty eight hours before he called Donna.
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Mahoney's unexpected efficiency resulted in my moving out much sooner than I thought I would. I packed in a state of slight stupor, mechanically selecting only things I was sure to use over the coming twelve months. They came to embarra.s.singly little; the only large items were my drawing board and my computer. I couldn't very well take chairs from the dining set, my half of the double bed, and so on. After I saw the studio that was to become my new home, I visited IKEA and a couple of antique shops (on my continent, anything older than fifty years is cla.s.sified as an antique, people included), and bought everything I needed relatively cheaply.

It gave me a big boost, buying new furniture, partly because I hadn't liked the world-cla.s.s furniture that I owned with Donna. For instance, we had this big dining table topped with heavy gla.s.s. You've no idea what an array of bare human legs can do to the food. You can't look at the plate without flinching.

I also had a bit of money, too. I had a few thousand stashed away in government bonds, plus a few grand more that I received upon terminating my company pension plan. Add the dole money, and I had a guaranteed minimum of eight months' painless existence even if I hadn't managed to find a single gig.

The building I moved into contained studios inhabited by relatively young, relatively independent professionals and artists. There was this silent consensus hanging in the conditioned air: since we live here, we're independent, intelligent, and interesting. All this made me think I'd weather the sad developments in my personal life without too much pain. I even fancied I was on the verge of starting a new life. What b.o.l.l.o.c.ks! It's one life apiece, no returns, refunds, rainchecks, or repeat orders.

I gave myself a month to settle in before looking for work. But before the month was up, the crisis struck. I spent the next few weeks wallowing in depression. I constantly felt on the edge of breaking out in tears, and several times I did. It made me feel even worse, although in the meantime I'd purchased and read a book which claimed crying would make me feel better.

I found I couldn't really talk to anyone. Losing your job and then your marriage effectively banned looking for human sympathy. I mean, you've just lost your job and your spouse, and now you're there snivelling and pawing a sleeve.

What eventually cured me, of course, was talking to Donna. It was a Thursday evening, and there was a party going on in the studio next door to mine. There even had been an invitation slipped under my door, which I promptly tossed in the trash. It reminded me, unnecessarily, that it was St. Valentine's. Every shop and store in the city had been sporting the appropriate decorations for the previous three weeks – even the nearby butcher, with paper red hearts suspended over b.l.o.o.d.y red flesh waiting to be bought and eaten.

I felt compelled to call Donna. If I didn't call her, it would be the equivalent to demonstrating I didn't care about her; sometimes, emotions a.s.sume this curious logic. I went out and bought booze – two bottles of wine, some beer, and a mickey of vodka. I didn't expect her rushing over in response to my call; I was partly inspired by the festivities next door, and partly by a nameless fear.

I got home, had a beer, and a quick slug of fairly warm vodka right before picking up the phone. I dialled my old number carefully clearing my mind of everything. Needless effort; she wasn't in.

I had another beer and tried again, with the same result. And again. And again.

By the time I managed to speak to Donna, I was already on the wine. She was displeased, then pleased, then displeased again. Overall, she was displeased. After that, I proceeded to drink all the booze I had. I woke up at five in the morning feeling half dead, but the crisis was over.

I gave myself a couple more days, as it was the weekend anyway. Then, come Monday morning, I called Stuart Jerome Stuart. As I mentioned earlier, Stuart Jerome Stuart was a personnel agent specializing in the turbulent world of advertising, and had gotten me hired at Schutz et al in the first place. He was both a charmer and a terrible sn.o.b; he often wore a ghastly tartan tie that I checked on, and found to feature traditional Stuart tartan. Like all good Scots, they have their own pattern.

Stuart Jerome Stuart did not sound happy that winter Monday morning. He sounded particularly sober when he realised it was me, on the other end. However, we agreed to do lunch middle of the week.

The lunch started on an optimistic note: Stuart insisted it's on him, and kicked off the proceedings by ordering c.o.c.ktails; I had a humble b.l.o.o.d.y Mary. Then, he treated me to a precis of all the gossip currently making rounds. Things turned serious together with the coffee.

"I'll tell you this, Ossie," Stuart Jerome Stuart said, fingering his cup in a reflective manner, "Things are f.u.c.king bad. You know how I'm making money these days?"

"Shovelling snow?"

"Well there's a bit of that. Unavoidable. Clinches a deal, sometimes. No, but truly? I find young s.h.i.theads starving in little studios and printing houses and hire them away for as little as twenty a year to replace the guys that had been fired, the guys that used to make eighty a year. And the way things are going, I'd say that's how things are gonna stay for the next few months. Maybe by next Christmas..."

I remember feeling my jaw sag over the remains of my meal.

"You don't feel I qualify as a young s.h.i.thead?" I said. Stuart Jerome Stuart became horrified.

"My G.o.d, no. Don't even f.u.c.king think about it. n.o.body would ever hire you for that money anyway. They'd be too ashamed."

"Part-time? Contracts?" Stuart shook his clever, curly head.

"Just hang in there," he said, "And I'll get you something good. But not before Christmas. In the meantime, why don't you freelance? They're firing all these people but there's still work to be done, and some gets handed out. Just remember to be smiling confidently when you ask around."

"Yeah, I'll try," I said gloomily.

Stuart Jerome Stuart emitted a royal sigh.

"Look," he said, fingering his tie, "You know why I wear that?" The tartan didn't go too badly with the dark wool jacket he was wearing that day.

"Yeah, I do," I said, giving him the knowing eye.

"Right," he said. "f.u.c.king art director. But you know something? I'm half Jewish, half Greek." He grinned, and politely waited for me to finish laughing.

"You know what the moral is?" he asked. I shrugged helplessly.

"Appearances are important," said Stuart Jerome Stuart. And with this final pearl of wisdom, he slid back his chair.