A COLD SON OF A BITCH
‘yet why not say what happened’
Robert Lowell
John looked from the kitchen window, the sink he stood by was like the interior of a
well worn tea pot or the inside of his lungs sucking on yet another cigarette.
The street light threw a subtle pastel glow on the still housing estate, the red rusted
Volkswagen beetle stood like a monument to his life. He told himself, ‘ill have to get
stuck in and fix that car tomorrow’. He dropped a sleeping pill and rinsed it down
with a cold swig of tea and ‘ill have to clean this place’ he told himself
climbing the stairs. He dreamed the usual sixty year old dream of young ladies
running naked through summer meadows. When he woke it was those abstract
images of memory that disturbed him and lingered like a blunt saw through his aching
heart. It’s a suffering fucking hell he told himself throwing cold water over his face
as if extinguishing the image in the mirror and the reality of his bald head and pointed
features. The stench of his loss lingered with every step he took down those steps
where once walked the wife and mother of his dreams. He could almost see her
walking down those stairs to meet the day with that irish strength that pushed the sore
reality to the ground. Im a loser he told himself a stupid bastard remembering being
an infant in a basket found on a front door, a single droplet of salted tear fell from
his hard Belfast exterior he brushed the tear aside like the murdering bullet from an
armalite rifle. As he ejected the stale teabags from the teapot he thought I have to go
doctors today and get that dla form filled in and get a mobility allowance and have a
new car instead of that almost unrepairable rusted old banger. He remembered how
the car looked in the nights subtle pastel glow, and said god you’re a bastard you and
your cold light of morning.
He sat in the doctors waiting room trying to remember good times like his first born
or his wedding day but this annoying ugly kid kept shoving leaflets in his face about
cancer of the bollox and depression. Just as he was about to smack the kid up the
head he heard the broken english voice of the Pakistani doctor call his name on the
tanoi like a conductor on a bus. As the doctor filled in a section of the dla form and
wrote some prescriptions for depression angina headaches and the general feeling
that life is a sick load of balls. John was calling him a black bastard in his mind
because he asked him exaggerate his findings on the form and received instead
a lecture on the ethics of medicine. John was a bigot he didn’t know how to be
anything else, he hated blacks, pakis, Chinese as well as all those beautiful
women he could not have and especially that bitch that left him after thirty one years
and six children. He walked home through the maze of housing estates with his bag
of pills for every ill but the aching black hole in his heart. Going past the derelict
houses full of grafitti he remembered the night the police man called.
The shadow of black cap was cast off and fell through the hall like the black cloud of
Depression, ‘your daughters have been searching for you’ screeched, crashing with a
families laughter. Those words rang through his mind like the word bastard the winds
of a harsh winter reminding him that life can be a cold son of a bitch. He passed the
old decrepid bettle without an engine with out much hope of ever pumping fluid
through its rotten pipes. He opened the front door and half expected his wife to pass
him and his children playing music and busying around the house, instead he was met
by the grey stench of loneliness. He stood by the sink steadying himself as those
words pounded through his head he washed down paracetamol and an anti depressant.
His head pounded filled with anxiety he staggered into the living room and threw
himself on the sofa putting his feet up on the coffee table between the carbareatur .
And the innards of a TV he was trying to fix. He then stood up over the hearth and
placed a little blue tablet below his tongue and his heart rate began to fall and he was
able to catch his breath and relax. He climbed the stairs and threw himself on the
single bed this is my bed I must lie in it he told himself and looked through the ceiling
through the grey sky through the galaxy of stars burning in the darkness of his sight
crumpled up into a little boy and cried himself to sleep. He woke with the
hope of a thirty year old man he debt, he bounded out of bed to tackle the unbeatable
day, ‘you cant beat a good cry’, he told himself throwing water about his worn
features. He brushed the hair from the nape of his neck to cover his bald patch and
brought it to a point on his forehead. He sang walking down the stairs a song he sang
to his children when they cried, ‘you don’t have to be a baaa aaby to cry’.
Opening a cupboard in the hall he dragged a filthy pair of overalls from a pile of
clothes on the floor and stepped into them tucked his hair into a tweed cap and lifted
the toolbox. The morning was a little cool but the sun was coming up strong above
the grey housing estate, ‘ this is gonna be a good day’, he thought sucking in the
almost fresh air. Opening the passanger door of the car creaking like a great sigh
reaching in he delved between unsecured seating busted wings and an exhaust
hauling a jack from the debris. He took the cross shaped wheel brace and placed it on
one of the four nuts, before taking hold he stooped and spat on his hands taking hold
he gripped the brace and turned with all his might and tried to budge the nut as if it
was his last task on earth. He cursed the car and gave it everything he had, all a sixty
year old worn heart could muster. A heart like a prune without syrup dried and left in
the searing desert of hurt to long,’ ya red bastard, ya german fucker, ya useless heap
of shit, he mumbled as the sweat broke on his brow. He rested a while leaning
against his dream and took a cigarette from his top pocket lit and sucked, he licked the
beads of sweat that fell across his lips he ran his tongue across his lips once more they
were cold and grey he licked once more unsure and tasted death.
On the morning of his funeral a letter drifted through the letter box, one of his pal-
bearing four sons opened it and it read, we are pleased to inform you that you have
been awarded motability.
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