Boy Who Made It Rain (15 page)

Ping! Ping! Ping!

Did s'thing hap at skool?

Did something happen at school? Of course something happened at school! Why the need to ask? I have no friends up here, have I? School is the only place where I indulge myself in the chat of others, if permitted that is. You'd hardly find me wandering the streets with a gaggle of mates now, would you? That school has no harmony with individualism, you are not allowed to be different, or NOT like football. Or NOT have bigoted tendencies. It's like Chinese Communism in action.

Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!

Don't Answer.

Ping! Ping! Ping!

Pik up ur fon!

I don't want you to hear my voice crackle with anger and interpret it as an emotional defeat. That I was close to tears. That you ‘could hear it in my voice.' You'd tell Cora how you could almost feel the wetness of my cheeks. How you could taste the salt. The simple reason is that I don't want to talk. Today is not a talking day, it's a day for solace and reflection.

Ping! Ping! Ping!

Stop being an arsehole!!!

You are such a shower of offensive oafs up here. What gives you lot the right to comment on everything with a barrage of expletives? Or rebut with insulting invectives? It demonstrates a lack of vocabulary and an inability of expression. A less than appealing Glaswegian affectation. I think in this context though arsehole is an inappropriate word to use.

Ping! Ping! Ping!

I heard about McEvoy…Cunt!

Who's a cunt? McEvoy or myself? Me or him? Clem or Fran? This is ambiguous, Rosie. Notwithstanding, it's an effective and appropriate use of the curse. Possibly the strongest and most powerful in the English language. The word that brings about the most amount of disapproving gasps from people. Using that word can, in an instance, turn someone horribly against you.

I have often thought about that McEvoy cunt and tried to rationalise his actions, tried to look at it from his point of reference. To see things through similar eyes, to endeavour to understand: to see through those very eyes that tell me he is afraid of his future, of imminent unemployment, of leaving the security of school after fourteen years, of departing days that have been full of structure (and guidance), of having somewhere significant to go everyday, of getting to leave his unhappy home without being press ganged into ‘finding a job.'

I have tried to understand his frustration because those around him wear the latest high street fashions, go on foreign holidays, discuss their futures, have lasting relationships; jealous because his family couldn't afford to buy him anything, to treat him or his siblings to any of the trappings his peers receive, sad because Fran's parents blame their own children for taking away their own youthfulness and stripping them of any happiness they themselves could have garnered from life. Consequently these parents have rejected and neglected poor Fran. They have chosen to settle for a life of poverty and state handouts. Maybe it's more simplified than that, he could have one of those abbreviated illnesses: OCD or ADHD or ODD or CUNT. Maybe he has autism, Asperger's syndrome or some other form of cognitive chaos that has yet to be discovered and/or diagnosed. Maybe he just forgets to take his Ritalin on a daily basis. I have looked through these eyes and tried to examine why he does what he does, why he says what he says, why he carries a knife on him at all times, but no matter how hard and for how long I look the answer is always the same: McEvoy is a cunt. A first class, top of the range fucking cunting cunt.

Or maybe he just needs a hug.

Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!

Don't Answer.

Ping! Ping! Ping!

Luv U!!

Ah, Jesus Rosie, you are pulling out all the stops now. This has never been discussed between us, at least without any level of seriousness behind it; it's an off-limits subject. I think this is a reaction to me saying I wanted to go to Brighton, isn't it? This isn't real love. It can't be. Can't you see this for what it is? Think about it, you'll be able to regale friends at university, at work, in the future, your husband and your children of your first big crush…or love, if you want to call it that. Look around and see all the lives that have been destroyed by these waves of first loves, the multitudes who have become trapped because of these first loves. The ones who'll have crooked necks from years of looking back, who'll have crooked minds with what they find there: regret and wonder.

Ping! Ping! Ping!

No mor credit…U no wer I am.

That is the problem with society; no one has any credit, or is given any credit. Peers give no credit to endeavour or merit. They berate you at every turn. So don't worry, Rosie, none of us has any credit. It's not a thing you excel in up here. Perhaps I am being too harsh, not conciliatory enough, but stuff it, stuff it all.

The buzzing and pings stopped. I was still in HMV leafing through CDs that I had no interest in either buying or probing. It was the mechanics, the routine of doing something, being valuable, feeling that I belonged, that kept the fingers flicking. I missed the correspondence from Rosie. I missed the attention. We all need it.

Wandering the streets was a bit like living in a new reality. For the first time I got to see a different side to Glasgow. I examined the people closely. I trailed some of them as they started their day, following them as they entered their places of work looking as though they were carting around the world's woes on their shoulders.

I played games with many of them throughout the day, detective games, discovered where many of them go for lunch, listening into their conversations: I was sitting in a bookshop café drinking their expensive, bucket-sized coffee, trying to decipher
B.S. Johnson's
words but the rambling fool who was sitting to my left and some scatty girls, who were sitting to my right, wouldn't allow me this basic pleasure. The fool was cracking on to a female friend (?) about some ‘science research project' and ‘future employment projections' of such a thing. The friend meanwhile appeared wholeheartedly disinterested. I found myself eavesdropping. Remarkably interested. I thought to myself: I wonder if they are sleeping with each other? They touched hands. They probably are, I surmised. Then I thought: if I were that woman I'd definitely not go with the science guy. Too humdrum. I'd shag the woman though (only once however, I couldn't put up with her vacant look for too long). Perhaps she digs the sedate scientist types I wagered. I then shifted focus to the scatty girls. I thought: I wonder if they're sleeping with guys yet? etc. etc. These people brightened up the dreary streets of Glasgow for me.

Then I simply got bored. I had exhausted my iPod player, and got fed up with the selection. My finger was permanently pressed on the fast-forward button. I could listen to ten songs in five minutes with this counter-productive method. In the main I only kept them plugged into my ears to ward off unwanted interlopers, namely those young funky freaks who work in retail. Their enthusiasm being infectiously annoying and all that. All this ‘how are you today?' crap. These homogenous, minimum wagers have mastered the blatantly obvious too. I mean, I'm in a shop, browsing rails and rails of overpriced clone clothes and out of the corner of my eye one of the groovy gang is hovering behind me resplendent with their spiky hair, skinny jeans, and a
Ramones
t-shirt asking me if I'm ‘out shopping today?' Then next comes the killer tag for me, ‘Do you need a hand with anything?' How difficult can it be to look at clothes? It doesn't take any effort that would require assistance. I am sure of that.

‘Yes, in fact, I do need some help. Could you shift my eyes three millimetres to the left for me please?'

‘No problem.'

‘And could you adjust my feet for me as well?'

‘Not a problem.'

‘And what's this I'm looking at'?

‘Well, that would be a t-shirt.'

‘A t-shirt? And what do you do with that, then?'

IDIOTS.

I'm not sure if this is purely a Glaswegian trait or a retail pandemic.

It took me two full days of trawling the streets to come to my senses. Well, actually, it was after visiting the art supply shop that made me realise how utterly ridiculous I was being. A few weeks previously Rosie had brought me to the same art supply shop. I helped her buy some oil paints, some small canvasses, a
Miró
calendar and a scalpel knife. My helpful input was in fact the calendar. I remember being happy with Rosie at that time; we had gone there as part of Rosie's tour of Glasgow, the official tour that had been promised to me for weeks. In exchange for guitar lessons. After the art store she showed me the wonderful art gallery, which sat beneath the imposing university. Big brother watching over his younger sibling, it was a magnificent sight. Both trying to outdo each other for dominance and beauty. One an architectural delight, the other a Gothic monolith. I think she was secretly hoping that their aura would seep into my pores and, the university at least, entice me into its seat of learning. We zigzagged in and out of the student body and felt strangely grown up among them.

Then she took me to a fantastically cheap music shop. Classic
Bowie, Waits
and
Dylan
for a fiver.
Northern Soul: Dance Floor Fillers
for three quid.
Bukowski
and
Beckett
books for two quid. I was in my heaven. She showed me how to get there from where I was living. A short bus ride and then hop on Glasgow's quaint circular underground system. Easy. After searching for bargains we rode our luck by trying to get served in a little Irish pub that had pictures of their country's most famous scribblers all over the walls. We succeeded in our quest for two creamy pints of Guinness. Both of us huddling in the corner delighted with ourselves, unable to tell each other that the Guinness was a bit like drinking rancid tar. This didn't deter us, we bought another two. Each.

The darkness had set in as we again walked past the art gallery and university on our way back to the less salubrious part of town. Our hands tightly clasped, our gait slightly askew, our voices loud and cheerful; our drinking binge made us a touch tipsy. Their red and yellow lights illuminated the sky above us, both standing majestically, alongside our own inebriated majesty. I couldn't decide which one I liked best. I think the university because it was so daunting and significant, however, saying that, the gallery had a stately aroma about it that drew you in. In any case it was the most romantic day I had had in my hitherto youthful life. That day a part of me was thinking that we were this perfect match; that we'd be together for a long long time to come. Marriage, kids, the works. That we were this team stuck inside our very own impenetrable bubble. Whereas another part of me was thinking while I'd remember this moment forever I'd be able to dazzle future girlfriends with my knowledge of the city on trips to Glasgow, regaling them with tales of my time spent here. Like me they'd feel the gooeyness of the moment. We made love for the first time that night.

My phone had been switched off for the best part of two days. I knew that it would be full of missed calls and texts from Rosie when I gave it life again. Over my lost two days (very John Lennon) I had run over a multitude of permutations in my mind. A series of
what would happen if?
questions arose. Too many questions and not enough answers. Not any answers. One thing I was certain about was that I would have to return to school. I needed those exams, if nothing else, to get me the hell out of this place. I couldn't allow McEvoy to hamper my dreams. I was determined to succeed in life even if that meant being accompanied by a ten-inch scar. Talent would prevail. I mulled over a number of choices I had at my disposal:

 

1. Tell a teacher. (The bullied are told from an early age to tell a teacher if they are systematically confronted by the class knob. While this appears to have had an enormous amount of success at primary school level, in my case we were not dealing with the odd name-calling, shove in the classroom, tugging of hair or infantile reduction of character. And, anyway, I couldn't tell a teacher because all the teachers were intimidated as well. The self-preservation society wanted to protect their cars and classroom harmony).

 

2. Tell a parent. (Great idea if the parents in question had a modicum of influence in the school or could harness enough support to make a difference. Great idea if the parents could expel the right amount of intimidation to the  scum at hand. Great idea if the victimised had parents who actually gave a toss about their offspring's education and well-being. Great idea if the parents protected their progeny proficiently enough against pernicious pricks. Great idea if the parents didn't appear apathetic to all things their descendants said and did, such as smoke dope in their bedroom and trawl the internet for free porn sites).

 

3. Seek restorative justice. (Under controlled circumstances converse with the tormentor and ask him/her why they undertook the action(s) they did; try to understand it from their point of view, be empathetic and compassionate. In essence it could prove to be a cathartic experience for all concerned. After a round of weak tea and cheap biscuits and a game of therapeutic tennis everyone would concur with the findings that there were, in fact, two victims in all of this. How content the assemblage will be in the knowledge that everyone is suffering. Ground-breaking work. They'll conclude that everyone has to take respon-sibility for their own actions, that those involved are to share the blame; even the maltreated innocents, who have regularly had the daylights kicked out of them, are culpable. Liberal bullshit, which only functions in exonerating the tyrant. Restorative justice? No thanks).

 

4. Confront the scum. (A distinct possibility that could go one of both ways. Anyone of a nervous disposition shouldn't be privy to any potential conversation/ confrontation. A gamble on a grand scale. Although perhaps the scum will respect the balls (or bawz) of the prey and show them the hand of deference. It would be a bit like a submission on the scum's part. A scum capitulation. Joy. Victory. A stay of execution. Nevertheless it could lead to a swift kick in the balls (or bawz) due to the scum's perceived understanding that insolence has taken place. A direct threat to his alpha male status. There were no two ways about it, it was a tricky situation).