Rachel's Holiday
Page 125
‘What do you recommend?’ Chris twinkled up at her.
‘I recommend that you go somewhere else, actually,’ she said. ‘We get staff meals here and I swear to God, they’d have to pay you to eat them. It’s all right if you like living on the edge. I had a burrito earlier and it was a near-death experience. But if you’re not feeling suicidal, try somewhere else. There’s a lovely Cal-Ital place over the road, go there!’
I was almost on my feet, but Chris laughed and said ‘Ah no, as we’re here we might as well stay.’
So I resentfully ordered refried beans, served with refried beans.
‘And a side order of refried beans?’ Helen suggested, her pen poised.
‘Ah, go on,’ I said gloomily. ‘What harm can it do?’
‘OK,’ she said, moving away. ‘Mutches grassy arse, amoebas.
‘Oh yeah.’ She was back. ‘What do you want to drink? I can steal you some tequila because it’s so cheap and disgusting they don’t care if we nick some of it. The only thing is, you might go blind. Sorry about that, but if I’m caught nicking any more beers, I’m for it.’
‘Er, no, Helen, that’s all right,’ I said, wanting to die with shame. ‘But I’ll just have a diet coke.’
She stared at me as if seeing a vision. ‘Diet COKE? Just diet coke? No, lookit, the tequila isn’t that bad, it might just bring on a mild bout of schizophrenia, but it passes.’
‘Thanks, Helen,’ I murmured. ‘But diet coke is fine.’
‘OK,’ she said in confusion. ‘Yourself?’ she said to Chris.
‘The same for me,’ he said quietly.
‘But why?’ she demanded. ‘You’re DRUG ADDICTS, but you’re not ALCOHOLICS.’
Heads turned from as far away as the Cal-Ital place over the road.
‘Well?’ Everybody’s faces queried. ‘Why won’t you have a drink? What harm can a drink do? After all, it’s not as if you’re an ALCOHOLIC.’
But it wasn’t the time to stand on my chair and explain to them about the dangers of cross-addiction.
‘Really, Helen.’ Chris went all masterful. ‘Thanks for the offer of the tequila, but no thanks.’
She went away and Chris and I sat in silence. I felt very, very depressed. I could only presume that he did too.
Eventually, I became ashamed of our silence. It contrasted too harshly with the raucous screeches and drunken shouts of all the people around us. I felt as though everyone else in the whole world was having fun, except me and my coke-drinking friend.
I hated him, I hated me, I hated not being drunk. Or coked-up, ideally.
I’m far too young to be marginalized in this horrible way, I thought bitterly.
I’d spent all my life feeling left-out, and now I really was.
Desperately, in a doomed attempt to be normal, I forced a conversation with Chris. It fooled no one, particularly not me.
The entire place was uninhibited, free, young, lively, colourful. Except for our table. In my mind’s eye, the picture changed from day-glo colours into sepia when it came to me and Chris, from carnival music and laughter into slow-moving silence. We were out of step, we didn’t belong, a frame from a gloomy, East European, arthouse film in the midst of Bugs Bunny Goes to Acapulco.
Much later our food arrived and we both faked delight.
We pushed the refried beans around our plates and the askew table rocked and swayed like a ship on the high seas. I leant my elbow on it and Chris’s coke wobbled and spilled. Then Chris lifted the salt and the lurch that followed sent my fork tumbling to the floor. Then I lifted my elbow so that I could rummage around on the floor looking for it, seeing as Chris wasn’t going to, the lazy bastard, and his plate slid almost off the table.
A very long time later, after we’d been offered and had refused some ice cream – refried-bean flavour, of course – the horrible ordeal ended and we were allowed to leave.
Chris left an outrageously large tip for Helen and was all smiles as we passed her on the way out.
She was preparing tequila slammers for what looked like an outing of prison officers. She banged glasses of tequila and Seven-up on the table and half-heartedly urged ‘Underlay, underlay’ as the screws knocked them back.
I could hardly look at her. Jealousy had corroded a hole where my stomach used to be. Even though it wasn’t her fault she was born both beautiful and over-confident. But I couldn’t help feeling that it was all very unfair. What about me? Why didn’t I get anything?
63
When we escaped into the warm evening, Chris suddenly seemed to notice me again. He slung an arm around my shoulders, in casual, friendly fashion, and we strolled through the streets.
I couldn’t help feeling glad. Maybe he did like me after all.
‘How did you get into town?’ he asked.
‘Dart.’
‘I’ll drive you home,’ he said. And something in me warmed with gladness. I liked what he said and the way he said it, I felt taken care of.
‘Unless you want to come back to my place first for coffee,’ he suggested, with a side-long glance that I couldn’t fathom.
‘Er… OK,’ I stammered. ‘Fine. Where are you parked?’
‘Stephen’s Green.’
So we strolled to Stephen’s Green, in harmony for the first time that night. And when we got to Stephen’s Green we discovered that the car had been stolen.
Whereupon Chris did the Dance of the Stolen Car. Which goes as follows. Walk four paces beside the empty place, then come to an abrupt halt. Walk four paces back in the other direction, again coming to an abrupt stop. Two paces in the original direction, stop, then back again. A frantic headspin to the left, a frantic headspin to the right, followed by frantic headspins in all directions, culminating in a full-body, three-hundred-and-sixty-degree pirouette. Another pirouette in the opposite direction. This is where facial directions become very important. Pop your eyes, wrinkle your forehead, let your mouth hang open. You may sing at this point. ‘But where…? I parked it here, I did, I definitely parked it here.’
Pause. More pacing, a lot more agitated this time. Up down, up down, up down. Faster, faster, faster.
Another pause for more singing, this time with arms outstretched. ‘Was it here I parked it…? Maybe it wasn’t… But I’m sure it was, I’m fucking certain.’
‘I recommend that you go somewhere else, actually,’ she said. ‘We get staff meals here and I swear to God, they’d have to pay you to eat them. It’s all right if you like living on the edge. I had a burrito earlier and it was a near-death experience. But if you’re not feeling suicidal, try somewhere else. There’s a lovely Cal-Ital place over the road, go there!’
I was almost on my feet, but Chris laughed and said ‘Ah no, as we’re here we might as well stay.’
So I resentfully ordered refried beans, served with refried beans.
‘And a side order of refried beans?’ Helen suggested, her pen poised.
‘Ah, go on,’ I said gloomily. ‘What harm can it do?’
‘OK,’ she said, moving away. ‘Mutches grassy arse, amoebas.
‘Oh yeah.’ She was back. ‘What do you want to drink? I can steal you some tequila because it’s so cheap and disgusting they don’t care if we nick some of it. The only thing is, you might go blind. Sorry about that, but if I’m caught nicking any more beers, I’m for it.’
‘Er, no, Helen, that’s all right,’ I said, wanting to die with shame. ‘But I’ll just have a diet coke.’
She stared at me as if seeing a vision. ‘Diet COKE? Just diet coke? No, lookit, the tequila isn’t that bad, it might just bring on a mild bout of schizophrenia, but it passes.’
‘Thanks, Helen,’ I murmured. ‘But diet coke is fine.’
‘OK,’ she said in confusion. ‘Yourself?’ she said to Chris.
‘The same for me,’ he said quietly.
‘But why?’ she demanded. ‘You’re DRUG ADDICTS, but you’re not ALCOHOLICS.’
Heads turned from as far away as the Cal-Ital place over the road.
‘Well?’ Everybody’s faces queried. ‘Why won’t you have a drink? What harm can a drink do? After all, it’s not as if you’re an ALCOHOLIC.’
But it wasn’t the time to stand on my chair and explain to them about the dangers of cross-addiction.
‘Really, Helen.’ Chris went all masterful. ‘Thanks for the offer of the tequila, but no thanks.’
She went away and Chris and I sat in silence. I felt very, very depressed. I could only presume that he did too.
Eventually, I became ashamed of our silence. It contrasted too harshly with the raucous screeches and drunken shouts of all the people around us. I felt as though everyone else in the whole world was having fun, except me and my coke-drinking friend.
I hated him, I hated me, I hated not being drunk. Or coked-up, ideally.
I’m far too young to be marginalized in this horrible way, I thought bitterly.
I’d spent all my life feeling left-out, and now I really was.
Desperately, in a doomed attempt to be normal, I forced a conversation with Chris. It fooled no one, particularly not me.
The entire place was uninhibited, free, young, lively, colourful. Except for our table. In my mind’s eye, the picture changed from day-glo colours into sepia when it came to me and Chris, from carnival music and laughter into slow-moving silence. We were out of step, we didn’t belong, a frame from a gloomy, East European, arthouse film in the midst of Bugs Bunny Goes to Acapulco.
Much later our food arrived and we both faked delight.
We pushed the refried beans around our plates and the askew table rocked and swayed like a ship on the high seas. I leant my elbow on it and Chris’s coke wobbled and spilled. Then Chris lifted the salt and the lurch that followed sent my fork tumbling to the floor. Then I lifted my elbow so that I could rummage around on the floor looking for it, seeing as Chris wasn’t going to, the lazy bastard, and his plate slid almost off the table.
A very long time later, after we’d been offered and had refused some ice cream – refried-bean flavour, of course – the horrible ordeal ended and we were allowed to leave.
Chris left an outrageously large tip for Helen and was all smiles as we passed her on the way out.
She was preparing tequila slammers for what looked like an outing of prison officers. She banged glasses of tequila and Seven-up on the table and half-heartedly urged ‘Underlay, underlay’ as the screws knocked them back.
I could hardly look at her. Jealousy had corroded a hole where my stomach used to be. Even though it wasn’t her fault she was born both beautiful and over-confident. But I couldn’t help feeling that it was all very unfair. What about me? Why didn’t I get anything?
63
When we escaped into the warm evening, Chris suddenly seemed to notice me again. He slung an arm around my shoulders, in casual, friendly fashion, and we strolled through the streets.
I couldn’t help feeling glad. Maybe he did like me after all.
‘How did you get into town?’ he asked.
‘Dart.’
‘I’ll drive you home,’ he said. And something in me warmed with gladness. I liked what he said and the way he said it, I felt taken care of.
‘Unless you want to come back to my place first for coffee,’ he suggested, with a side-long glance that I couldn’t fathom.
‘Er… OK,’ I stammered. ‘Fine. Where are you parked?’
‘Stephen’s Green.’
So we strolled to Stephen’s Green, in harmony for the first time that night. And when we got to Stephen’s Green we discovered that the car had been stolen.
Whereupon Chris did the Dance of the Stolen Car. Which goes as follows. Walk four paces beside the empty place, then come to an abrupt halt. Walk four paces back in the other direction, again coming to an abrupt stop. Two paces in the original direction, stop, then back again. A frantic headspin to the left, a frantic headspin to the right, followed by frantic headspins in all directions, culminating in a full-body, three-hundred-and-sixty-degree pirouette. Another pirouette in the opposite direction. This is where facial directions become very important. Pop your eyes, wrinkle your forehead, let your mouth hang open. You may sing at this point. ‘But where…? I parked it here, I did, I definitely parked it here.’
Pause. More pacing, a lot more agitated this time. Up down, up down, up down. Faster, faster, faster.
Another pause for more singing, this time with arms outstretched. ‘Was it here I parked it…? Maybe it wasn’t… But I’m sure it was, I’m fucking certain.’
