The Guts

  What a day.

  He watched Lochlainn fiddling away.

  —D’yeh suffer yourself, Lochlainn?

  —Sorry?

  —The erectile dysfunction.

  —No, said Lochlainn.

  —No, said Jimmy.—Me neither.

  He sipped.

  —Jesus.

  He tried it again. He’d never tasted anything like it. That was the chemo – he’d read about it, before he’d stopped reading. How his taste might become heightened.

  He sipped again. It exploded – it just exploded – upwards, straight into his brain. He shook. Coffee tastes amazin. X He fired the text off to Aoife. She’d like that.

  He looked around. Everything else was normal. The Brazilian young one behind the counter still looked nice, but not as nice as she should have looked, being from Brazil. But she was the same young one – that was the point. Everything was the same. It was just taste; it was exact, scientific. He wasn’t going mad.

  Aoife’s text arrived. Great. X. And another one. Will u be wanting cancer trousers when you get home? He fired one back. Fck off.

  Barry’s phone was off. But Brenda answered him immediately.

  —We’re not paying for the studio.

  Jimmy could hear kids – girls – shouting, behind Brenda.

  —Who’s winning?

  —We are, bitch. My girls are pussy-whipping Mount Anville.

  She wasn’t whispering.

  —Great, said Jimmy.—Ra ra ra.

  —We’re not paying.

  —I wouldn’t expect you to, Connie.

  —It wasn’t my fault, said Brenda.—Hey, fat girl! Try chasing the ball!

  —It was nobody’s fault, said Jimmy.

  —Bloody Barry, said Brenda.—So fucking important. Good block, honey!

  —I think it’s saveable, said Jimmy.

  —We’re not paying.

  —No one’s askin’ you to pay, said Jimmy.—I’m happy to cover it. That’s what I do.

  —Yeah, yeah. Suck my cock.

  —Here’s what I’m thinkin’, Connie, said Jimmy.—I’m goin’ to run it past some people and see wha’ they think. Some market research, but nothin’ too formal.

  He’d play it to the kids – the older pair – when he got home. And Aoife – she’d love it.

  —You’re serious? said Brenda.

  —Yeah, said Jimmy.—I am.

  —Yessss!

  —Did we score there?

  —Yes!

  —Ah great.

  He didn’t tell Noeleen. He kept the song in his pocket. He wanted to live with it for a day.

  —How was it? she asked.

  She knew it was chemo day.

  —Grand, he said.

  —That all?

  —Yeah, he said.—It was fine.

  He kept going. Ocean was waiting in the meeting corner. She looked too young sitting there.

  —Hi.

  —Hi.

  He sat. He stood.

  —Back in a minute.

  He walked to his desk. He looked at nothing on his screen. He went back. He sat.

  —Listen, he said.—Before we start.

  She looked even younger. Bambi’s sister.

  —I owe you an apology, he said.—Sorry.

  —Thank you.

  —No, he said.—I’m sorry. So. Did Noeleen mention anythin’ to yeh?

  —Yes, she said.—It’s so cool.

  —Great. So.

  He wished he had a cup or something, anything he could hide behind.

  —Where do we start?

  —We-ellll, she said.

  She looked at the iPad on her lap.

  —I, like – okay. I did some brainstorming of my own, with some of my girlfriends.

  She looked at him, and did the huge-eyes thing.

  —I’m sorry, she said.—Was that okay?

  —Yeah, yeah. Grand. No – go on.

  —Soooo. Here’s what we came up with. My girlfriends are Irish, by the way. Just in case – I’m sorry. You know, not an invading force of American postgrad chicks kind of thing.

  He felt useless, superfluous. But it was great, like being shown the insides of a clock or something – how everything turned.

  He leaned forward, and she showed him the list. The archives, the collections. It was brilliant. And the other stuff too, the Irish links. The friend with the uncle in the UCD Folklore Department; the dad who was going through bankruptcy proceedings with another man, who was president – or whatever – of the John McCormack Appreciation Society; the mother with the friend who played golf with the bishop.

  He pointed at friend.

  —Why the italics?

  —They fuck.

  —Oh. Grand, go on.

  It was all there, on one page of an iPad. A roomful of Southside girls had given Ocean everything she needed.

  He was getting an iPad. They were fuckin’ brilliant.

  —This is great, he said.—Thanks very much.

  —My pleasure.

  —It’s so fuckin’ Irish but, isn’t it?

  —How so?

  —Someone knows someone.

  —Yes, she said.—Very. But hey, it’s an awesome project, so I’m willing to go native.

  —Grand, he said.—These will give us the expected sounds. They’ll be great but – official. Expected. You with me, Ocean?

  —Yes.

  He pointed at the iPad.

  —Middle-class Ireland will give us the sounds of middle-class Ireland. The country they created and then fucked up. You don’t mind me sayin’ this?

  —No, she said.—It’s cool.

  —Grand, he said.—Good. So where’ll we find the surprises?

  He met Marvin in the hall.

  —How’re things?

  —Grand, said Marvin.—How was the – ?

  —Not too bad, said Jimmy.—Nothin’ to it really.

  —Cool.

  Marvin was moving to the stairs.

  —How’s the band?

  —Grand, said Marvin.

  —Great, said Jimmy.—I must hear yis some time.

  —Cool.

  —What’s for dinner?

  —Don’t know.

  He watched Marvin disappear up the stairs – his head, then his shoulders, bent a bit as if he was too big for the house. There was music on in the kitchen. Fuckin’ hell, it was Steely Dan. It must have been for him. That was lovely.

  —’Home at Last’, from Aja, 1977. Where’s the dog?

  —Hi, said Aoife.—She’s taken her back.

  —Your sister?

  —Caoimhe, yes, Jimmy. On a trial basis.

  —The dog – ?

  —Yes, said Aoife.

  She wasn’t looking at him. She was stabbing some big potatoes.

  —Sorry, she said.—How was it? I mean, you said in the texts —

  —No, it was grand, said Jimmy.—I’m great. But she took the dog?

  —Yeah.

  —On a trial basis?

  —Yes.

  —What does that mean?

  —I’m not sure, said Aoife.—She used the term, not me. But you know Caoimhe.

  —What’re we havin’, by the way?

  —Chicken.

  —Lovely. Go on.

  —No, nothing. Just, you know the way she is. She always assumes you know what she’s talking about. Anyway, they’re back together.

  —Her and the dog.

  —And Tom.

  Tom was the husband.

  —On a trial basis as well, yeah?

  —I think so, said Aoife.

  Jimmy looked down at the corner.

  —She took the basket as well.

  —Yes.

  —How’re the kids about it?

  —Well, actually, said Aoife.—There now, it’s lovely.

  —Lovely?

  —They’re more worried about how you’d react, said Aoife. —They know you love Cindy.

  —I hate Cindy.

  —Yeah, yea
h, we know.

  —Stupid fuckin’ name.

  —We know that too, said Aoife.—We all heard you calling her Imelda.

  For fuck sake.

  —Imelda May, he said.

  —We guessed.

  —That’s ‘Josie’ now, by the way. Steely Dan.

  —I know, said Aoife.—We can get another one.

  —A dog?

  —Yes.

  —No way, said Jimmy.

  His phone hopped and rescued him. When had he called the dog Imelda? Why had he called the fuckin’ dog Imelda? It must have been just after he’d got back from the hospital, when he was still a bit out of his tree. That made some kind of sense. Nothing else did.

  —Des?

  —Jimmy, hi.

  —How’s it goin’?

  —Not too bad. How are you?

  —Grand, grand.

  —Did you start the chemo today, or when – ?

  —Today.

  —Jesus. I can phone back —

  —No, it’s grand. So far, anyway.

  The line went bad; Des’s voice slid away.

  —I didn’t catch that, Des, sorry. I lost yeh there.

  —The trumpet, said Des.

  —Yeah, I got one.

  The day was beginning to catch up with him. He could feel it in his eyes – behind his eyes.

  —I know, said Des.—You told me.

  —Grand.

  —D’you have a teacher yet?

  —Not yet, no, said Jimmy.—I need one.

  —Yeah, you asked me if I knew anyone. And I said No.

  —Gotcha, said Jimmy.—I remember now.

  He didn’t.

  —But there is someone, said Des.

  —Great, said Jimmy.—Who?

  —Me.

  —D’you play the trumpet, Des?

  —No, said Des.—No, I’m joking. I do.

  —Great —

  —I did it when I was a kid, said Des.—But I stopped then, for years. But then when you asked me if I knew anyone – . I thought about it later and I dug it out. It was in my mother’s attic. And, well. I love it – it all came back.

  —Great.

  —So, said Des.—If you’re still interested –

  —No, yeah. Brilliant.

  —I’m not qualified or anything.

  —Who gives a shite?

  —It wasn’t too bad so?

  —No, said Jimmy.—No.

  —Great.

  —Not so far anyway.

  —Fingers crossed so.

  —Yeah, said Jimmy.—Yeah. When were yeh born?

  —Jesus, said his da.—1941. I think. Yeah, 1941. Why?

  —Was there much talk about the Eucharistic Congress when you were a kid?

  —God, yeah – Jesus. Big time.

  —Wha’ was it?

  —Big mass, all sorts of processions.

  —No pope.

  —No, said Jimmy Sr.—No. A raft o’ fuckin’ cardinals. My parents talked about it all the time. I think it was kind o’ like 1990, for their generation.

  —Wha’ d’yeh mean?

  —Well, 1990 was unbelievable – remember?

  —I do, yeah.

  —It was just the football to start with. But then, when it took off. The penalty shoot-out an’ tha’. The country was never the same again. It was the beginnin’ of the boom.

  —D’yeh think?

  —Yeah – I do. I mean, I had tha’ chipper van at the time. With Bimbo, d’you remember?

  —Yeah.

  —An’ it was a bit of a disaster, tha’. But I was never unemployed again – after Italia ’90. I wouldn’t let myself be. I was always doin’ somethin’, even before the buildin’ took off. Because – an’ this is true. We felt great about ourselves. For years after. An’ tha’ only changed a few years back. Now we’re useless cunts again.

  —Thanks for the analysis.

  —Fuck off. You asked.

  —An’ 1932 was like tha’, was it?

  —Yeah, said Jimmy’s da.—A bit. The country was only ten years old, remember. An’ dirt poor. Then, like, the man in the flat next door to my mother’s gets a radio – a big fuckin’ deal. An’ everyone bails in to hear it. She always spoke about hearin’ your man, John McCormack, singin’ live on the wireless. At the mass. Like he was Sinatra or – I don’t know – some huge star today. The Bublé fucker or someone. My father said it was like the whole world was listenin’ to somethin’ tha’ was happenin’ here in Dublin. An’ it probably was as well. Why did you ask?

  Jimmy told him.

  —An’ you came up with that idea, did yeh?

  —I did, said Jimmy.—Yeah.

  —It’s a winner.

  —D’yeh think?

  —Fuckin’ sure. If you do it properly.

  —I will.

  —Oh, I know, said his da.—D’you remember my cousin, Norman?

  —No, said Jimmy.—I don’t think so.

  —He’d be your cousin as well, I suppose. Second cousin, or first cousin twice removed or tha’ shite. Anyway, he has a huge collection of old 78s an’ stuff.

  —Great, said Jimmy.—From back that far?

  —I’d say so, yeah, said his da.—He wouldn’t throw out his shite, Norman. He’s a bit older than me as well. An’ he’s a real collector, yeh know. Goes to meetin’s an’ all. So I’d say he could help yeh.

  —Brilliant, said Jimmy.—Will yeh introduce me to him?

  —Does tha’ mean I have to go with yeh?

  —Just the once, said Jimmy.—Till I get me foot in the door.

  —Okay, said his da.

  —Come here, said Jimmy.

  He leaned to the side.

  —Don’t fart, said his da.—Not so soon after the chemo.

  —Fuck off, said Jimmy.—I’m just gettin’ my iPod out. Here we go.

  He untangled the earphones and handed them to his da.

  —Here, he said.—Yeh know where these go.

  He watched his da shove one into each ear, like he was trying to make them meet in the middle. Then he – Jimmy – turned on the iPod.

  —What the fuck is this?! his da roared.

  But he kept the earphones in, and laughed once, and kept smiling for most of the two minutes and twenty-three seconds.

  Jimmy turned it off, and his da unplugged himself.

  —What was tha’?

  —The Halfbreds, they’re called.

  —There’s no way they’re from 1932.

  —No, said Jimmy.—It’s a different thing. A different project.

  —There’s no stoppin’ yeh.

  —You’re beginnin’ to be too nice, Da.

  —Okay, said Jimmy’s da.

  —They’re the Halfbreds.

  —They fuckin’ sound it.

  —A husband an’ wife combo. They’re old punks. From way back. But they recorded that one last week. An’ everyone loves it. Marv, young Jimmy, Aoife, all the gang at work. They all think it’s great.

  —Specially the endin’.

  —Tha’ wasn’t rehearsed.

  —You could tell, said Jimmy’s da.—Howth Junction, wha’.

  —Yeah.

  —Always my favourite Dart station.

  —Windy oul’ place.

  —Great view but.

  —Anyway, said Jimmy.—Everyone loves it. But d’you know how many will actually buy it?

  —Go on.

  —No one, said Jimmy.

  —Why’s tha’?

  —Would you buy it?

  —No.

  —Why not?

  —It’s shite.

  —You just said you loved it.

  —Yeah. Because it’s shite.

  —Ah, for fuck sake, listen. Nobody’s buyin’. The kids don’t think they have to.

  —They download it for nothin’.

  —Yeah, said Jimmy.—Exactly. My age group an’ a bit younger, we still buy. But they don’t buy much. An’ very little that’s new.

  —Make a video. r />
  —We’re goin’ to —

  —A good one, said his da.—Make us laugh. Get your woman from the Rubberbandits video.

  —You know the Rubberbandits?

  —Of course I know the fuckin’ Rubberbandits.

  The Rubberbandits were a pair of clever lads from Limerick who wore SuperValu bags over their heads, and rapped. Their song, ‘Horse Outside’, was the new national anthem. Jimmy hated them.

  —More than eight million YouTube hits, said Jimmy.

  —Twice as many as live in this poxy country, said his da.—It’s the way to go.

  —But only about nine thousand bought the song, said Jimmy.

  The misery in that statistic pleased him, all the noughts in the millions falling away – the state of the fuckin’ world.

  —Beats a kick in the bollix, said his da.—An’ listen. I remember when you were a kid. You sat on the floor in front of the telly when Top o’ the Pops was on – don’t fuckin’ deny it. An’ yeh held up a microphone and taped every song yeh liked, an’ played them all on your little cassette recorder. For nothin’.

  —That was —

  —No, it wasn’t different. There were thousands of yis, doin’ the same thing, all over Ireland and over in England. Robbin’ the artists. An’ the artists were still multi-fuckin’-millionaires.

  —You might be right.

  —I am right. I know more than yeh give me credit for.

  —I know, said Jimmy.—Sorry.

  —So, said his da.—Make a fuckin’ video an’ get the young one from the Rubberbandits one – with the dress an’ the eyebrow, yeh know her?

  —’Course.

  —Or someone like her, said his da.—Shoot it at Howth Junction station. On the platform. Northbound or southbound, I don’t mind. An’ when your man there sings, She’s showin’ me Howth Junction, just get her to point at the sign an’ raise her eyebrow, the way she does for the Rubberbandits. Then stick it up on YouTube an’ see wha’ happens. An’ don’t worry, I’ll phone Norman for yeh.

  Des was sitting on the bed.

  —Sorry there’s nowhere else, said Jimmy.

  —It’s fine, said Des.

  —I didn’t realise the house would be full, said Jimmy.—There’s usually an empty room at the weekends.

  —Jimmy, said Des.—You’re just looking for excuses not to start. Go on.

  —Am I standing right?

  —It’s not a photo shoot.

  —Fuck off, Des. The hernia.

  —What hernia?

  —If my stance is wrong, I could give myself a hernia. I saw it on YouTube.

  —You’re fine, said Des.

  He looked behind him, like he was checking the distance to the pillows. If he lay back there on the bed, Jimmy would sack him, or fuck the trumpet at him. He was already a shite teacher.