Jack, the Lad
Every day Jackie’s alarm wakes him up to a randomly selected song from The Charlatans’ Wonderland album. Today it’s Judas and the scratchy synth-laden intro has sounded six or seven times before he gives acknowledgement to anything other than the snooze button. The last time he looked at the clock it was 5.41. Now it’s barely half 7. It’s been another predominantly sleepless night at The Playhouse on New Street.
Jackie has decided, against his doctor’s advice, to go cold turkey from his insomnia medication. He has been prescribed various anti-anxiety tablets because the doctor is convinced he’s a night worrier. His appointments are generally short. A few embarrassing questions, such as ‘Are you tearful?’ are negotiated before another hastily chosen prescription is executed. The doctor’s right, of course. He is a night worrier. He hasn’t been going to bed late, but the second his head hits the pillow, every action and conversation of the last few weeks race through his mind presented in a manner which suggests how he could have done or said something better.
He selects his attire for the day before showering and meticulously lays out each item on top of his now-made bed. He opts for a charcoal suit and a crisp white shirt. It’s always a crisp, white shirt. As soon as any of his work shirts begin to lose their crispness or their whiteness they are duly replaced. Jackie considers that the smarter, or more professional, he looks at work, the more he can get away without actually doing any. A black and white polka-dot tie is married up with a pair of black and white hooped socks. His outfit is completed with black leather Patrick Cox loafers, as opposed to the Nicholas Deakons lace-ups. It’s always black leather shoes. There are few more distressing sights than a dickhead in a dark suit with brown shoes.
Jackie takes the bus to work. The weather had already dictated that he wouldn’t be cycling. The wire to his headphones lies underneath his shirt, connecting to the phone in his left trouser pocket, but although the headphones are in his ears, there is no music playing. This way Jackie can listen into other people’s conversations on the bus without being bothered by anyone. He does this to convince himself that other people’s lives are at least as bad as his. It works.
The office is entered at ten past eight. Jackie exchanges adequate pleasantries, but doesn’t remove his headphones until 8.29, by which time he has been out for two cigarettes. Over the course of the next four and a half hours, Jackie engages himself in less than two hours of what can accurately be described as actual work. The rest of his morning has been made up of a great deal of internet browsing, three flirtatious and victorious games of e-mail hangman with girls in town who he’s probably never going to do anything with – not again, anyway – and the composition of a poem inspired by his latest bout of sleeplessness. ‘Rhythm’ is such a great hangman word.
He calls the poem ‘Guilt’, but it’s a working title, and lays it out in the form of a love sonnet. How ironic!
For once a knave, a slave I’ll always be
To thoughts of guilt at my dishonesty.
Folk will always want to bring to light
Rememb’rance of the things I did that night.
With no escape from sin I long to be
In truce, at one, with my solemnity.
Though I lay awake each night with deep regret
The world will not forgive, no more forget.
And if I turn to God with my lament
I’m simply told to pray and to repent,
But still, though I entreat, I keep on hurtin’,
It seems I must continue with this burden
And so another quand’ry’s posed because it
Means my life goes on like this. Or does it?
Before his lunch break Jackie receives three electronic invitations. Two of the girls invite him to join them for lunch, which he politely declines. He’s always polite. No matter the general perception of his treatment of the women in his life, he’s never bereft of politeness and generosity. To be found lacking in either, Jackie believes, would be doing an unjust disservice to his mother, who instilled these values in the endless, but effective coaching of his early childhood. ‘Politeness costs nothing,’ she would say. Respect for his mother was of paramount importance to Jackie, who idolised her for the selfless sacrifices she made in bringing him and his younger brother up on her own. She was coming into town, so she and Sid would be his lunch dates for today. The other invitation, to be a last-minute replacement in a five-a-side kick-about at 6.30, is accepted.
They take up the terrace at Gino’s, a pompous restaurant waited by once attractive ladies, now weighed down by make-up and self-importance, but the family’s humility sees that they order the three least pretentious dishes on the menu. The restaurant was Sid’s choice. It’s always Sid’s choice. The fussiest member of the family, he always orders steak au poivre when eating out. It doesn’t matter whether the steak is entrecote, fillet or sirloin, it’s the quality of the pepper sauce which will decide, a) whether they can eat here again next week and b) whether this hour will pass tolerably for all three of them. Although Sid is now twenty-one he has never lost the propensity to throw a good tantrum, and as the food arrives Jackie and Clare shoot each other a nervous look as they prepare for the type of tirade that once brought the house down when his labels weren’t properly cut out of his clothes. Thankfully, Sid is impressed and the hour passes peacefully. As they part ways, Clare offers the same advice she always leaves them with.
‘Be good. And if you can’t be good, be careful.’ She knew Jackie wouldn’t be good. She hoped he’d be careful.
‘She’s a walking bloody cliché, that woman,’ thought Jackie, but he wouldn’t change her for the world.
The early part of his afternoon, he spends dissecting his poem. He was annoyed that the sestet was so much weaker than the opening octave, but even more annoyed with its content. Never particularly religious, he always seemed to adopt the role of the confessional Catholic towards the end of his poetry. Why did he always have to die? Why were they all called ‘Guilt’? All of his poems spoke of a certain incident, but there weren’t any in particular to which he was relating. Things were never as bad as he made them seem, but Jackie was responsive, and knew he was, to the delights of self-pity. He had the true melancholiac’s gift for self-denigration. He was fortunate enough to have been born with good looks, intelligence and no lack of talent, but couldn’t help depicting the struggles of a young man entirely uncomfortable in his own skin and his gradual relinquishment of bravado.
With what remains of his working afternoon, Jackie produces seven sets of accounts, even remaining until six, without claiming overtime, to atone for his morning’s profligacy, but this leaves him in a race against time to get to football. He doesn’t panic. In the daytime, he seldom does. A brisk walk home is accompanied by a text message telling him he’ll be picked up at twenty past six. He’s disappointed to find out he’ll be in the blue team, for no reason other than vanity. He looks better in white. Arriving home at 6.15, Jackie selects a plain navy long-sleeved cotton t-shirt and navy shorts and socks, disturbed by a single white Nike swoosh on each. Jackie loathes obtrusive branding. Abercrombie & Fitch makes him physically sick. For now, he selects plain white Forest Hills with navy soles for his footwear and carries a pair of Copa Mundial mouldies to express the traditionalist in him. He’s running a couple of minutes late.
He gets into the car to be greeted by chides of derision at his uselessness and unreliability. He has the back seat to himself, but realises that with the driver clad in blue and the other passenger in white, his team will be starting with three against four and probably losing on arrival. They are. While Jackie’s fitness has long deserted him, his touch remains. He plays with a panache and a swagger that portrays a consummate ease, preferring to lay on chances for his team-mates unless he can score in a manner which is ultimately humiliating to the opposing defenders and goalkeeper. The last goal of the game sees him roll the ball through the last defender’s legs before deftly chipping it over the head and flailing arms of the advancing goalie. The goal doesn’t count, of course. It was over-head-height. The blue team fall just shy of making up the three goal deficit racked up before the last car arrived, but victory for Jackie comes in shaking hands at the end and seeing in their eyes that they were impressed.
The players shout their goodbyes across the car park while Ledley sits impatiently in the driver’s seat waiting for David and Jackie to finish their shared cigarette. Before departing, David reaches into the glove compartment and returns each phone to its rightful owner.
‘Well… what we got then? How many?’ asks Jackie, confidently.
‘Nothing,’ replies Ledley, unsurprisingly. ‘Dave?’
‘Two messages and two missed calls.’
‘Ripped,’ quips Jackie, smugly. ‘Try five texts and three missed calls. The Milky Bars are on you!’
The rules of the game are simple. The owner of the phone which generated the littlest action over the course of the past hour pays for the food at the burger bar on the way home. He whose phone came second last in the standings must pay for the Lucozade. What the others don’t know is that Jackie sent ‘How was your day?’ to four of the girls in his phonebook on the drive up. He had his headphones in so they assumed he was scrolling through his music. All four had replied. Three of them had described their day in detail, returned the question and inquired as to what his plans might be for the evening, barely disguising the fact that they wished to play a part in them. Jackie responded to these messages individually by correcting their spelling and grammar. The fourth girl, Athene, had written only ‘FUCK YOU, JACKIE!’ and the fifth was from his mother explaining that she had tried to call, that it was nothing important and that he should give her a call back later, when he had the time.
He checks his missed calls on the way to the van before slipping his phone back in the zip pocket of his tracksuit bottoms. Sure enough, one is from his mother, but the other two are from an unknown number. This fills him with an equal measure of intrigue and trepidation. Jackie figures that any call from an unknown number is one he doesn’t want to receive. His friends know his system. If they are going to call him from an unknown number, such as a work line, they ring twice, hang up and ring again. He supposes that these missed calls allow for that situation, but Jackie’s initial reaction to his phone ringing is always one of fear, even if the call is expected. More often than not, phone calls come unexpectedly and even if it’s a close friend or family member, he usually lets it ring out and calls them back when he is more prepared. This never takes more than five minutes and is usually dealt with in one or two.
The phone rings again, but Jackie is busy carefully allocating equal amounts of mustard underneath and brown sauce on top of his cheeseburger as Cast’s Live The Dream belts out from his pocket:
Somebody’s after me, I can’t pretend to be
Something I know I’m not
And when they come for me, I’ll just let them be
‘Cause all that I need today, is all I need.
Back in the car Jackie learns that the missed call came once more from an unknown number, but this time it’s listed alone making it unlikely to have been from one of his friends. Now involved in more extensive text conversation than he would have wished with Thandie, Amelie and Justine, Jackie lets them know that he’s watching the game with the boys tonight. He has already resolved on calling Athene for company. Her message was the most interesting. It screamed vulnerability. As he exits the car, David and Ledley invite him for a few beers later.
‘Sorry, fellas. Weekends for the lads, weeknights for the girls.’
Athene is upset and neurotic. She’s babbling and difficult to understand, but Jackie persuades her to meet him for a drink to ‘talk about it.’ She agrees on the proviso that she won’t be staying overnight. Satisfied, Jackie places his phone on top of his bedside cabinet, selects Kings Of Leon’s Only By The Night on shuffle and jumps in the shower leaving the door ajar. Singing along, Jackie gets carried away with his own rendition in which he replaces the correct lyrics with any words he deems a good fit. The volume of his own voice drowns out the change when his phone starts to ring again somewhere between the start of Revelry and the end of Be Somebody.
Someone will always be more than I’ll ever be,
So then, I’ll be myself
And when they come for me, I’ll just let them be
‘Cause all that I need today, I need today.
As soon as he realises, Jackie turns off the shower and makes a dart for it, cracking his shin off the top of the bath and ultimately writhing on the bathroom floor. Needless to say, he misses the call again, but determines that it was a reasonable enough time to get out anyway. A text from Athene says she’ll be half an hour. The call is from an unknown number. A simple, casual retro look is assembled with blue jeans, a plain white t-shirt and white leather Converse All Stars. His socks and boxer shorts display a tartan check which roughly match the inside of the burgundy Baracuta he will complete the ensemble with later.
Resting the jacket on the arm of the sofa, Jackie sits down to watch the television while he waits for Athene to arrive. There are another ten minutes before the start of the second half so Jackie flicks between channels trying to find something tolerable enough to pass the time. He counts eleven different reality shows about fat children and settles on watching the adverts interspersed by occasional and flimsy first-half analysis. Davina McCall berates her mother for having grey hair and Jackie reaches into the drawer of his coffee table to produce a small exercise book: The Hate List. Not to be confused with a hit list, five pages of the book are now filled with anything or anyone he feels worthy of his hatred. The list is made up for the most part by television personalities such as presenters and ‘comedians’, while there is also room for phrases like ‘Man up’ and ‘The Big Smoke’. The rest of the list consists of former football players, mostly those who have gone on to a career in punditry, but also many who played for Rangers F.C. and, of course, ‘fashion’ houses akin to Lambretta and Hackett for the idiot masses. The general public is also listed.
This one advert wasn’t the sole reason for Miss McCall’s inclusion. It was simply the straw that broke the camel’s back. The problem with television presenters and comedians is that once they express an ounce of promise or credibility, they are then signed up by a television channel who feel compelled to bombard you with them until they run out of material or redeemable personality. She takes her place alongside such luminaries as Piers Morgan, Noel Fielding, Alex Zane and Rufus Hound. Ten minutes into the second half Jackie hears the rattling of Athene’s Volkswagen Beetle in the drive. He adds the name of commentator Craig Burley to the list, places the book back in the drawer, puts on his jacket and heads outside to greet her. They walk a few hundred yards to Jackie’s local, The Craic House.
Over the course of the next hour, Athene tells Jackie that she knows about the other girls, that she won’t be just another number in his phonebook and insists once more that she won’t be staying over. Jackie evades all ultimatums and leading questions with great skill and expertise, using charm and flattery to avert the danger. To be fair to Athene, she is the only girl in his life with whom he would consider an exclusive relationship, but he knew that she had work clothes in her car the second she agreed to a second glass of Pinot. Offering a movie and another bottle, the couple return to the apartment where Jackie proposes Richard Ayoade’s Submarine or Vincent Gallo’s Buffalo ’66. Athene chooses Submarine and falls asleep on Jackie’s chest less than halfway through the film. Jackie watches to the end before gently waking her and retiring to bed.
Post-inevitable-coitus and Athene returns almost immediately to slumber. After battling through the shame, disgust and self-resentment that always accompany the five minutes directly after intercourse, Jackie is alone with his thoughts. Why didn’t he put a bit more effort in at work today? Did he have to respond so facetiously to the girls’ text messages? How long was he going to keep stringing Athene along? Why didn’t he return the call of his mother? Who was ringing from that unknown number? The phone rings.
Somebody’s after me, I can’t pretend to be
Something I know I’m not
And when they come for me, I’ll just let them be
‘Cause all that I need today, is all I need.
Someone will always be more than I’ll ever be,
So then, I’ll be myself
And when they come for me, I’ll just let them be
‘Cause all that I need today, I need today.
Every day Jack’s alarm wakes him up to a randomly selected song from Cast’s Mother Nature Calls album. Today it’s Live The Dream and the plucky acoustic intro has sounded six or seven times before he gives acknowledgement to anything other than the snooze button. He has slept for eight hours – a new record.
Jack goes second in the shower before dressing without method. His mother and brother are still dead. It’s been four years since the accident and the leg injury he sustained still prevents him from playing football, but the tragedy has taught him to be more accepting. He is no longer consumed by life’s trivialities. Nor does he keep a hate list. He barely watches TV. He works as a copy editor with a publishing firm. He drives there, dropping off his fiancée Athene at the Piazza, where she works as a window dresser for Abercrombie.
David Orr 2014.