As I have stated, Brian’s other organs are under attack from this condition. How long his kidneys can continue to function normally is open to speculation and we are trying to match new organs of this kind to him and we obviously have dialysis standing by.
One ray of light is that since his admission to the hospital his condition has stabilised somewhat. We can only hope, for Brian’s sake, that this is the case.
27
Going Under
FOR THE FIRST time, as he contemplated his predicament, Brian Kibby was feeling real fear: stark and unremitting. The extent of his trembling panic was such that he almost felt as if his essence would shake free from his body. At first he had been too depressed at his condition to be really scared. Danny Skinner, this irrational dislike he had of him, it had been a distraction. Now he was alone, contemplating little other than his immediate fate, as his hair stabbed the back of his neck like needles.
Kibby looked across at the other men on his ward. They weren’t like him. They were old, many of them so obviously chronic alcoholics. They generally came in two packages: either painfully thin and wizened, resembling outsize stick insects, or all bloated like jaundiced whales. And he was in here with them. Why had he, a previously fit, wholesome young man, who had led a blameless life, been singled out for this curse? Kibby lamented in sorry bitterness.
Why? And it was a curse, that mad old woman was right! But who would put a curse on me? Why would anybody want to put a curse on me?
His desperate thoughts were interrupted as Mr Boyce came round to explain the procedure for his proposed surgery. Raw despair got the better of Brian Kibby and his discoloured hand fastened on to the surgeon’s cuff as he pleaded, — Why, Doctor, why me?
Raymond Boyce touched the back of Kibby’s hand lightly, but even that was enough to shame him into withdrawing his grip. — Brian, you must try to be strong, he said firmly. — For the sake of your mother and sister, Boyce added, more irritated than he let on at being referred to as a doctor. As a senior surgeon, he was technically a ‘mister’.
— How? How can I be strong? I’ve done nowt, Brian Kibby moaned in abject misery. — I’m twenty-one years old and my life’s over already. I’m a virgin, Doctor, a virgin at twenty-one! Even before all this I was very shy with girls . . .
Shaking off a tingle in his cheeks, the surgeon puffed himself up and said, — One can never say what’s around the corner in this life. You can’t give up!
As Boyce departed Kibby thought of Lucy and specifically pulling the straps of that green dress from her shoulders.
Fuck Elder Clinton and Elder Allen and their stupid pamphlet . . . I’m dying here, I’m fucking dying! I don’t want to die a virgin . . . that old crone, I should have given her it . . . but there’s somebody else who should have got it . . .
And in the febrile but vivid eye of his mind, there was just Lucy and him, walking through the hills, her wearing that green dress and heels and carrying a large backpack, which she was struggling with . . .
The racking, bludgeoning cough of an old drunk cut through the stale, recycled air of the ward.
Shut up, you old cunt, shut up and die, it’s just me and Lucy on the hills . . .
. . . and she was sweating with the effort in the sun. Beads of perspiration stuck on her forehead. Heatherhill was –
No.
Not Heatherhill.
— Fuck off, Angus, take a hyp hike somewhere else, Kibby sneered arrogantly, dispatching Heatherhill, who skulked off like a beaten dog, vanishing over the horizon. He turned to the sweating Lucy. — Two’s company, eh, bitch?
— Brian . . . Lucy started.
— But they tell me you like the conveyor-belt stuff. Maybe after I’ve finished Heatherhill and Radden and Fat Gerald can come and get their fill. That’s what you want, isn’t it? A line-up for the boys?
Her eyes and mouth went wide again as Kibby’s hand reached out to the straps of the dress, which conveniently sat outside the ones of her backpack. He pulled them down, and as she was wearing no bra, her tits sprang out towards him. Kibby grabbed them roughly for a bit before shifting his weight and pushing into her, at the same time sticking his leg behind her. Gravity and the rucksack did the rest, and she fell backwards on to the damp grass. Her long legs kicked out, but that only helped ride her dress up. She wasn’t wearing any knickers.
— And as I go, I love to sing, my rucksack on my back, Kibby smiled as he unbuttoned his trousers and –
Ooooohhhh . . . oooooohhhhhhhh . . .
He felt his sticky waste pump into his pyjamas, seeping through into the hospital sheets and the mattress.
Fuck the hospital sheets.
28
AA
AN ASTHMATIC EAST European clerk, moving ponderously, shows me to my room. As the door opens it confirms my suspicions that this is a big mistake and I won’t last a few days without drink or drugs down here. It’s ten foot by ten, with a pish-smelling threadbare carpet, a sink, a set of sloping drawers and a bed with a wafer-thin mattress that creaks on urine-rusted bedsprings.
But this minging, rat-infested dive is the cheapest hotel I can find. It’s on 6th Street just off Market, so at least it’s central, albeit in an area full of flophouses and cheap liquor stores.
I lie down and sleep takes me off. It’s trippy but in a nasty way: loads of crap, mundane dreams of missing buses, trying to find toilets and decipher sports results from newspapers written in hieroglyphic scroll.
But the next day I’m brighter and up early out of this grothole, walking the streets of San Francisco. Loads of alkies, junkies and crazy people are hanging out around here, desperate to make eye contact, to drag you into their dramas, no doubt with a view of levying an extrication fee. Caelum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt. Fuck that parade; I’ve enough of my own shit going on to countenance interest in jakey affairs.
I head down to the Mission district for breakfast in a crêperie. Then it’s along to Castro, then up to Haight-Ashbury, before going back down Lower Haight, where I stop at a British-style pub for some pasty and chips. Then, mindful of Kibby’s needs, I leave it and head over to an American diner where I eat some grilled chicken with salad minus the dressing.
I’m browsing in a second-hand bookstore where I find a rare pamphlet copy of Arnulf Overlands’ early poems in English. I’d lap this stuff up in Edinburgh; spend loads of moribund evenings with a bottle of whisky reading the bastards, reciting them over and over until I propelled myself out into the night, the clubs, with big plans for every fucker. Here, though, in the Californian sun, I see them for what they are: quite stirring, völkisch verses, pro-German in a post-Versailles, ‘we wuz robbed’ kind of way. Strange to think of poor Overlands ending up in a Nazi concentration camp. It may not make much sense here, but it will do back home where some other depressive will pay big bucks for it. The dingul sells it to me for three dollars: it could do a wee turn on eBay.
Enlivened by my decent fortune, I find an Internet café-restaurant called the Click Ass. It’s a Japanese place and although the Scot in me craves the tempura because of its deep-fried qualities, I settle for the protein hit of the sashimi. The girl serving looks tranquil with collar-length black hair and glasses, her body long and slender. Guys always go on about lassies’ curves, and they do rule, but what I like is good lines on a girl; a straight back, like an old-school amateur boxer. Going with a Japanese lassie, how good would that be? I smile at her and her face is as beautiful as a painting but unfortunately as immobile.
When I check my email it’s all spam and disconcertingly I realise that it’s hardly any time since I left Edinburgh although with the flight and time zones it feels like ages. I look up the San Francisco AA meetings online. There are pages of them, going on all over town, every day! I select one from the Marina, because it seemed a posh neighbourhood, and set off down there. I just couldn’t face hearing the stories of the Tenderloin jakeys. I could get that shite back in Junction Street.
&nb
sp; At least my wanderings have given me some sense of the city and its people. San Franciscans seem to fall roughly into three categories. There’s the rich (practically always white) with their leisure time, nice diets, gym memberships and personal trainers, who are generally slim and fit. Then you’ve got the poor (usually Latino or black) who tend to be grossly fat as they can only afford to buy the cheap, highly addictive and calorie-rich TV dinners and fast food from the chains. The third bunch are the homeless, mostly black but with some whites and Latinos (though not too many), who, again, are usually very thin, because they can’t even afford the shit that the poor eat.
The meeting is taking place in what looks like an old public building, like it should be a library but there are no books. It’s some kind of community centre. It’s older than most constructions in the area but looks well maintained. I head along what feels like a concrete-floored hall, unusual for San Fran as the buildings are generally wooden for the earthquakes. It’s lined on either side with potted plants. Going through two swing doors I come into a wood-panelled hall full of people with their chairs in a semicircle. One guy, who looks Middle Eastern, with dark hair and eyes and a noon shadow, nods at me and to some of the free seats. The others barely register my presence.
The place is full of obviously well-to-do types, younger executives and the like, all Waspish. The chairman guy is the most ethnic-looking person there. I take a seat in between this suited gadge and this lassie, who’s about my age. I notice that she’s wearing a red-and-white T-shirt without a bra. It has the word GALVANIZE emblazoned on it. She has a prominent nose, which pokes out from this long, black, curly hair. On closer inspection she looks sort of Mediterranean, or maybe even Latin. The guy is a nondescript yuppie; short hair, dark-blue suit, glasses, polished black shoes. I would be phenomenally shocked if he and I ever exchanged a meaningful word in our lifetimes.
People get up and spin out the usual hard-luck stories, which I find hard to follow due to a thickness in my ears, although I hear this girl hiss the occasional ‘bullshit’ or ‘get real’ under her breath. Being a Leith boy and raised by a punk rock mother, I’m inordinately impressed by that kind of behaviour. During the coffee break, I note that she’s alone so I approach her. — You don’t seem too impressed by this, I smile.
She looks at me for a bit, raises her coffee to her lips and shrugs. — It’s cheaper than rehab, that’s all you can say, but you have to put up with all the fundamentalist bullshit.
— What do you mean?
— This holy stuff, but also this life abstinence shit. I mean, yeah, well, I admit things got out of hand drinkwise with me. But I will drink again at some point, once I get it under control. One drink is not a matter of life and death.
— Aye it is, I tell her.
— Oh that is so gross, she says, and I can see that she has a slightly square but pleasing face, and I like her green eyes and tight slash of a mouth.— You really fucking want Jesus in your life that much?
I have a vision of Kibby on the cross. Then I think about that porn video of Traynor’s, The Second Coming of Christ, probably because this lassie looks a bit like the bird that played Mary Magdalene’s mate in thon threesome scene and I involuntarily giggle a bit. — I want alcohol out my life, I explain, straightening up.
— Well, just watch that you don’t get Jesus in the package: that’s the way it is with those freaks. Substitute one dependency for another.
Aye, they fair got Jesus right in the poor bastard’s package in that flick. That was where one of the crucifixion bolts went through! Sair yin! I pucker my lips and blow out air at the thought. — That would never do, I tell her.
— You gotta watch, she says, looking shiftily around.
I’m thinking that I need friends over here, and sober and female fits the bill nicely. — Listen; speaking of dependencies, I shake the styrofoam cup, — this coffee is garbage. How do you fancy going for a proper one somewhere when the show is over?
She raises her eyebrows and looks challengingly at me. — Are you hitting on me?
— Eh, I’m from Scotland. We don’t really do that there . . . I mean, members of the opposite sex can get on socially in my culture without any other agenda, I lie.
She contemplates this bullshit for a moment and says, — Okay, that would be cool. She smiles and I get a wee flutter in my stomach. Ya beauty! — Your accent is pretty neat. I’ve never been to Skatlin, she tells me.
— Beautiful country, well worth a visit, I contend in a smug flush of patriotic pride, as the meeting resumes. — I’m Danny, by the way.
— Dorothy, she says, as we take our seats for round two.
The stories still seem as disturbing, but Dorothy and I make faces at each other occasionally, usually in response to some of the more banal comments coming from the floor. I’m only vaguely aware of what’s going on in the rest of room until there’s a pop in my ear, followed by a warm and wet sensation, like I’m bleeding. When my hand goes to the source I feel a hot gunk leaking on to my fingers. My heart rattles in my chest in panic, as I fear that my brains are melting, but it’s only earwax. I rub it surreptitiously under the chair. Excusing myself, I go to the toilet where I wash my ear and the side of my face till the waxy smell is gone. I take a piss and it’s the same colour and consistency as the wax.
Meltdown!
Disturbed, I go back inside, but at least I can now hear what’s going on. Then, after the serenity prayer, we head outside together. It looks like I’ve a new friend, which is fine by me!
— Do you have a car? she asks.
— No, I just got here yesterday. I’m staying at a divey hotel on 6th Street, I tell her, possibly unwisely.
— God, that is as divey as it gets, she says, lighting a cigarette. — I’m just over here, she points across the street towards a smart, white convertible. — Let’s get out of this neighbourhood.
We climb into the motor and set off, Dorothy’s hooked nose poking out in profile from that shaggy mass of black hair.
I clock all these bars on 16th Street as we head into the Mission district. Every one of them seems to beckon a warm invite. Thank fuck I have another recovering alcoholic on-side. — Parking in this town is crazy, she says, with an air of intense concentration and she’s into this space as soon as somebody pulls out. I’ve never seen a bird reverse like that before.
As we get out the car we’re stopped by Socialist Workers Party people protesting about the war in Iraq. I didn’t even know that they had revolutionary socialists in America. — Bush is the axis of evil, a small, thin girl wails at us. A guy by her side earnestly thrusts a leaflet into my hand.
— I like Bush, I tell them, waiting for their faces to pucker in distaste before hitting them with the punchline, — it’s just that cunt in the White House I can’t stand.
Dorothy shakes her head and pulls me away from the bemused paper sellers. — You can’t say that here, she says as we head down the street.
— Aye I can. I know San Francisco is a liberal town but there must still be some people who like Bush. I mean, I don’t, I hate all politicians. They’re aw cunts.
— No . . . you used that word again.
Apparently it seems to be more offensive to use that word over here than it is to buy a handgun. I decide that I’ve committed enough faux pas for one day and will try and keep my fucking big gob shut.
We go into the coffee shop. It’s dark, with big hardwood floors and is finished with a collection of easy chairs and low tables, giving it a ramshackle but slightly decadent aspect. — Nice place, I say.
— Yeah, Gavin and I . . . my ex, used to come here when we stayed in this neighbourhood.
I thought I could smell rebound. No doubt I’m giving off the same whiff myself. Well, not quite with Kay cause at least me and Shannon used each other as buffers. In fact, I’ve got through quite a few buffers lately. I’m looking at Dorothy thinking that it seems so strange just sitting drinking coffee with somebody. With a lassie. Outside
of work! Impossible to contemplate in Edinburgh, at least at this stage of the relationship. The coffee has a pleasing aroma and a strong, bitter taste.
Later, we go for something to eat, in a Mexican restaurant on Valencia called Puerto Allegrie. It’s very busy and the food is great. Dorothy tells me that her surname is Cominsky and that she’s Polish on her father’s side and Guatemalan on her mother’s. — What about you?
— Eh, as far as I know it’s bog-standard Scottish. If there’s anything else in there it’s probably nothing more exotic than Irish or English. We don’t really bother about ethnic backgrounds in Scotland. Our own, anyway. Incomers, like asylum seekers, we tend to give a hard time for being different.
I think of Kibby, and people like him. We do give them a hard time for being different; especially if we’re depressive, alcoholic, self-loathing bullies. But the crucial point is that we’re other things as well. We can be better.
God, it is so fucking weird sitting with a girl and no drink or drugs to disinhibit. Dorothy and I are at angles to each other in these seats, no table between us. But it also feels good to have a clear head. And how long has it been since I’ve not had that streak of rancid alcohol fire inside, searing me from gullet to gut?
— You look thoughtful, she says.
— So do you.
— I’ll tell you what I’m thinking if you do the same first.
— Okay, I say, reasoning that I know where this is going, — I was thinking that if we had been in a bar and had had a couple of drinks to unwind then I probably would have tried to kiss you.
— That’s nice, she says, and leans slightly into me. I don’t need any more of an invitation and close the rest of the gap as we snog for a while. I’m thinking, fuck me, that was easy. All the times that I’ve had to get half pished and shell out for about six Bacardis to get to this stage! What a fuckin waste. When we come up for air I ask, — What were you thinking about?