Harley, the soft-tail custom. Halfway down the corridor, there’s an alcove with signs warning:
NO SMOKING .
Three patients trailing IVs were huddled there, smoking like troopers. You could barely see them through the blue haze.
Jeff said,
“Tell me we’re not sitting here.”
I sat.
Jeff sighed, asked,
“Can’t we go someplace private?”
The patient beside me had yellow skin, thin as mist, and when he inhaled, his cheekbones disappeared. I asked,
“Spare one, pal?”
He nodded, rummaged in his dressing gown, took out a crushed pack of Players, the old box with the sailor on the front. I didn’t think they made them any more. I took one, smoothed out the creases, tapped it on my wrist to shake the loose tobacco and put it in my mouth. The man produced a brass Zippo, lit me up. I stared at the lighter, said,
“I’d one of them once.”
He grunted, answered,
“It will see me out. I’ve cancer and no visitors.”
What do you reply…bummer?
I turned to Jeff, coughed as the nicotine hit, and he said,
“I can hear you’re enjoying that.”
“Yeah.”
Jeff leaned closer, said,
“If you need any back-up with…”
He indicated my injuries.
“I’m here for you.”
I looked at him in astonishment, said,
“You! You’re kidding! Since when did you do muscle?”
A note of derision in my voice and he caught it, said,
“I ride a Harley. You learn how to take care of things.”
I stubbed at the cig, said,
“Thanks, Jeff, but it’s over, it was a one-off.”
He wasn’t convinced. The lunch trollies were being prepared, and he put out his hand, we shook, and he added,
“You can’t go on living like this.”
I didn’t have an answer and watched as he walked away. Back at the ward, someone had stolen the grapes.
“Around me the world seemed to slip sideways and all the things in the room suddenly looked flat and sharply defined, like high resolution photos of themselves that were too intensely concentrated to recognize. I stood in a synaptic freeze and catalogued my idiocy.”
Matthew Stokoe, High Life
The guards came, interviewed me briefly. They at least had the grace to look ashamed as we went through the ritual. My song veered between “I don’t know” and “Don’t remember.” They chorused with “We’ll continue with our inquiries.”
I received get-well cards from Mrs Bailey, Janet, Cathy. The day before my release, I was in the alcove and sucking on a cigarette, looked up and there was Tim Coffey. I felt a shudder but he put out his hand. I asked,
“Where’s your hurley?”
He gave a knowing grin, said,
“I’m prepared to let bygones be bygones. What do you say, shake?”
My mouth had gone dry else I’d have spat on his outstretched hand.
He glanced at my leg, went,
“I hear you’ll have a limp. Jack the gimp, the kids will shout after you; little fuckers, they can be so cruel.”
In as level a voice as I could, I said,
“I’ll have a limp and you, you’ll have something to think about.”
It threw him slightly, but he moved his shoulders, adjusting his body weight, asked,
“And what would that be?”
“When I’m coming.”
There was no card from Ann. I watched the news. An oil spill at the docks, endangering the swans and the oyster beds. I heard someone call,
“Jack Taylor?”
Turned to face Fr Malachy, my mother’s friend. We had years of warfare. He surveyed my condition, said,
“The drink no doubt.”
“I haven’t had a drink for six months.”
“A likely story—you’ll never draw a sober breath.”
I stood, as you never want a man like him to have any advantage. The smell of stale cigarettes came off him in waves. He was wearing the black suit, dandruff on the shoulders, like a sinister jackdaw. The dog collar was grubby, and you wanted to stuff him in a washing machine, turn to mega cycle. I asked,
“They have you nurturing to the sick?”
He glanced around the ward, distaste writ large, said,
“Nobody wants
NO SMOKING .
Three patients trailing IVs were huddled there, smoking like troopers. You could barely see them through the blue haze.
Jeff said,
“Tell me we’re not sitting here.”
I sat.
Jeff sighed, asked,
“Can’t we go someplace private?”
The patient beside me had yellow skin, thin as mist, and when he inhaled, his cheekbones disappeared. I asked,
“Spare one, pal?”
He nodded, rummaged in his dressing gown, took out a crushed pack of Players, the old box with the sailor on the front. I didn’t think they made them any more. I took one, smoothed out the creases, tapped it on my wrist to shake the loose tobacco and put it in my mouth. The man produced a brass Zippo, lit me up. I stared at the lighter, said,
“I’d one of them once.”
He grunted, answered,
“It will see me out. I’ve cancer and no visitors.”
What do you reply…bummer?
I turned to Jeff, coughed as the nicotine hit, and he said,
“I can hear you’re enjoying that.”
“Yeah.”
Jeff leaned closer, said,
“If you need any back-up with…”
He indicated my injuries.
“I’m here for you.”
I looked at him in astonishment, said,
“You! You’re kidding! Since when did you do muscle?”
A note of derision in my voice and he caught it, said,
“I ride a Harley. You learn how to take care of things.”
I stubbed at the cig, said,
“Thanks, Jeff, but it’s over, it was a one-off.”
He wasn’t convinced. The lunch trollies were being prepared, and he put out his hand, we shook, and he added,
“You can’t go on living like this.”
I didn’t have an answer and watched as he walked away. Back at the ward, someone had stolen the grapes.
“Around me the world seemed to slip sideways and all the things in the room suddenly looked flat and sharply defined, like high resolution photos of themselves that were too intensely concentrated to recognize. I stood in a synaptic freeze and catalogued my idiocy.”
Matthew Stokoe, High Life
The guards came, interviewed me briefly. They at least had the grace to look ashamed as we went through the ritual. My song veered between “I don’t know” and “Don’t remember.” They chorused with “We’ll continue with our inquiries.”
I received get-well cards from Mrs Bailey, Janet, Cathy. The day before my release, I was in the alcove and sucking on a cigarette, looked up and there was Tim Coffey. I felt a shudder but he put out his hand. I asked,
“Where’s your hurley?”
He gave a knowing grin, said,
“I’m prepared to let bygones be bygones. What do you say, shake?”
My mouth had gone dry else I’d have spat on his outstretched hand.
He glanced at my leg, went,
“I hear you’ll have a limp. Jack the gimp, the kids will shout after you; little fuckers, they can be so cruel.”
In as level a voice as I could, I said,
“I’ll have a limp and you, you’ll have something to think about.”
It threw him slightly, but he moved his shoulders, adjusting his body weight, asked,
“And what would that be?”
“When I’m coming.”
There was no card from Ann. I watched the news. An oil spill at the docks, endangering the swans and the oyster beds. I heard someone call,
“Jack Taylor?”
Turned to face Fr Malachy, my mother’s friend. We had years of warfare. He surveyed my condition, said,
“The drink no doubt.”
“I haven’t had a drink for six months.”
“A likely story—you’ll never draw a sober breath.”
I stood, as you never want a man like him to have any advantage. The smell of stale cigarettes came off him in waves. He was wearing the black suit, dandruff on the shoulders, like a sinister jackdaw. The dog collar was grubby, and you wanted to stuff him in a washing machine, turn to mega cycle. I asked,
“They have you nurturing to the sick?”
He glanced around the ward, distaste writ large, said,
“Nobody wants
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