Authors: Kevin Brennan
One thought occupied my mind as I angrily revved my bike way more than was necessary to exit the yard: the only people that will ever treat couriers fairly are other couriers. Fuck everyone else.
The traffic was eerily light at this time of the year, a stark contrast to the previous week, and I bashed out the two drops pretty rapidly. I was free in Clonshaugh Industrial Estate by ten past one.
“Four Sean,” I said abruptly enough to let Bollicky Balls know that I was sulking.
There was no answer.
“Four Sean, four!” I repeated, louder and angrier.
Even though I had seen, less than 20 minutes ago, that Aidan did not man the base when there was no work to be dispatched, I could feel the fury of being ignored building up inside me.
However, I also saw a window of opportunity to avoid standing by on the northside. I knew that he had nobody out here and dreaded being asked to take lunch where I was to give him cover.
“Four Sean, Clonshaugh rollin’ in.”
This time I didn’t want my base controller to answer.
The closer I got to town before there was any more communication, the better my chances of getting my own way. Consequently, I also drove like a maniac to get myself as far in as possible by the time he called me.
“Four Sean, four.”
“Yeah, go ahead.”
“You were callin’ there, Sean.”
“Yeah, I’m empty. On my way in for lunch.”
“You know you’re the only courier I have north side. Where are you now?”
“Marino rolling in.” I was actually only in Artane, a good mile and a half further north.
“Didn’t take ye long to get that far in.”
“Freezin’, starvin’ and fuck all traffic. Anyone in the base want anything in the shop?”
“I want couriers who don’t leave an area until they’re told.”
“It’s lunchtime, man, an’ I was callin’ ye for ages. I had to make my own decision when ye didn’t answer me.”
“You know that I would’ve told ye grab lunch ou’ there. I have too many couriers in the base as i’ is!”
Fuck you, Fatso! I’m not going to eat on my own today. I thought.
“Sure if something comes in northside after I’ll head back out for ye.”
“I know you will. Get me two cans of Club Orange while you’re in the shop.”
The atmosphere was great in the base, with the couriers enjoying the fact that they were getting paid for doing little if any work. Everybody who had been there earlier was still there except Twelve Joe who was out doing minis.
I went straight to the hatch with Aidan’s two cans of Club Orange, which had been maliciously agitated before being put in the top box.
“That’s one pound twenty please.”
“One twenty! What fuckin’ shop did ye get them in?’
“The chipper. I had to have a hot lunch today.”
“Ye could’ve saved me at least twenty pence if ye had a’ gone to the shop while the chipper was cookin’ yer grub.” He placed a pound coin on the hatch while continuing to search for the twenty. “Y’know tha’ there’s loadsa couriers ou’ there that’d pay for their base controllers refreshments!”
“Really? Twenty pence more please.”
I picked up the pound coin and one of the cans as I said this, generating a string of abuse from the fat man as he changed position to get his hand deeper into his pocket. Eventually he found two ten pence coins, which he slapped angrily onto the hatch.
“I hope you don’t need any favours off me today!”
“Like all the favours you’ve been doing for me so far?” I answered sharply, replacing the withheld can and sliding the two coins into the palm of my left hand in one movement.
“I could get used to sittin’ around doin’ nuttin’ an’ getting’ paid for it!”
“Yeah, gettin’ paid fuck all!”
“Still, not usin’ up petrol, not dealin’ wi’ pressure, not wearin’ meself and me bike ou’. An’ we’re on fuck all money ‘cos there isn’t a basic here. The basic in Letter Express is up to three fuckin’ fifty.”
“That was for the puddin’, ye can be sure tha’ the fuckin’ millionaire in there won’t be dishin’ ou’ tha’ sorta bread to his couriers this month.”
“Paddy Murray’s basic hasn’t gone down.”
“Paddy Murray’s top dog in there. You wouldn’t walk in
there tomorrow an’ get a three fifty basic off them.”
“But if I had gone to them at the start of December I’d be sittin’ pretty now.”
“Ye’d be just as bored an’ ye woulda made hundreds less than ye did over the puddin’. Ye’re better off bein’ kep’ goin’ without any basic an’ fuckin’ earnin’ yer wages honestly.”
“Puttin’ fuckin’ money in the pockets of rich bastards.”
“Ye do tha’ with the basics too. D’ye think ye’d last long in Letter Express if ye weren’t pullin’ yer weight? They add up yer dockets every week just like they do here an’ if they find tha’ they’re puttin’ too much money to yer wages every week, you’re gone. Whadda you think, Shy Boy?”
“I think I might be gone from here in a minute!” I whispered.
“Wha’?” Al lowered his voice to a whisper also, while holding his left hand to his ear and leaning towards me. I just winked and placed my forefinger to my lips, as I set about unravelling my smoked cod and chips.
It wasn’t long before the noises that I had been expecting came through the hatch. Phfssst chsss ssst
“Ah for fuck’s sake! Shy Boy!”
I had deliberately seated myself with my back to the hatch so that I could aim a chortle at my workmates that wouldn’t be seen from the hatch. I selected a large chunky chip and popped it into my mouth before turning to face the music.
“Wha che mah er.” The desired muffling effect of the chip on my reply was multiplied by the convulsions the temperature of it sent my mouth into.
“The fuckin’ matter is tha’ this fuckin’ orange is after spray-in’ all over the fuckin’ place in here. Did you shake this can outside?”
“No jus threw in the box wi’ the grub.”
“Next drinks ye get for me ye carry in yer fuckin’ pocket! An tha’ goes for the rest of yiz as well. Bastards!” And he was gone, presumably to wash the sticky mess off his face and hands, leaving me to revel in the mirth of my prank with my workmates.
I knew that I might as well enjoy the moment, since I was
bound to pay dearly for it at some stage.
“Somebody was playin’ the maracas with Bollicky Balls’ refreshments!” quipped Naoise, laughing.
“More like a bleedin’ game of hurlin’!” chuckled Paddy.
“Nah, for that much of a result ye’d have to strap it onto a paint mixer in a bleedin’ hardware shop. Is tha’ what ye did, Shy Boy?”
“Actually, Al,” I paused while throwing a nervous glance at the hatch behind me before continuing in my lowered tone, “all it takes is a couple of well aimed taps along the reinforced circle at the bottom of the can against a wall followed by a bit of a shake to get the best results.”
“Most dangerous results, when ye’re doin’ it on yer base controller – a dangerous man to piss off.”
“He pissed me off earlier Paddy, yez all heard that direct to Clonshaugh.”
“You were complainin’ about the cold, though. Base controllers hate that, it’s bad for morale. Is it cold out, Naoise?”
“No way, man. It’s never cold out, just fresh: even when it’s freezin’ fuckin’ fresh!”
“If ye think cold, ye feel cold. If ye feel cold, ye want to go home. If ye want te go home ye’re no good to yer base controller.”
“I was only cold ‘cos he had me standin’ by so long in Sandy-ford.”
“So stand by somewhere warm.”
“I was in the middle of an industrial estate on the side of a mountain. Where am I goin’ to find somewhere warm there?”
“Some reception.”
“Just walk in and ask if I can stand by there?”
“No, of course not, you’d be turfed out like the heat seekin’ scumbag that ye are. Ye make up a job, tell her the contact and heat yourself up while she rings around lookin’ for it.”
“Make sure to take yer jacket off.”
“Jacket off?”
“There’s no point in standin’ in warm air with yer jacket on. Take it off and get the warm air into yer inner layers where it’ll
benefit ye quicker and longer. Even better if ye can find a radiator to throw yer jacket on while you wait.”
“What about that furniture shop on the Kilmacud Road?” “What about it?”
“Sure that’s only a spit away from the industrial estate.”
“And?”
“Ye coulda stood by there.”
“Like Macker from Quicksilver!”
“The very one!”
“A few years ago there was this old geezer from Darndale workin’ in Quicksilver. Bit of a bogey but sound enough. Married with loadsa kids, never spent fuck all on himself or his bike, yez all know the sort. Anorak an’ jeans wi’ a twenty year old lid wi’ no visor an’ a pair of docks on his feet. The type tha’ winter hits hard. Very hard. ‘Cep’ Macker was an old fox when it came to heat. Every time he had to stand by somewhere durin’ the winter he’d make a bee line for the nearest furniture shop.
‘Course the sales rep’d be over to him like a shot – the bleedin’ state of ‘im an all – an’ he’d deliver the same line every time.
“Son” – he’d say; Macker called everyone son, “I’m after gettin’ a claim from a knock I took last year and her indoors sez she’s goin’ to leave me if I don’t buy a decent three piece suite with it.” He said it was a great buzz to see the attitude change instantly every time. He’d have no problems getting his anorak onto the heater and his arse onto something soft and warm until his base controller needed him.”
“Didn’t he get into trouble once?”
“Not real trouble. The sales rep in that big shop on long mile road left him “checking out” a leather sofa to go and take care of another customer but then forgot about him and went on his lunch. Poor aul’ Macker fell asleep an’ whatever way the sofa was tucked away, was left there for over an hour until yer man came back an’ woke him up. There was no hassle with the shop, Macker jus’ grabbed his gear an’ legged it sayin’ “fuck her indoors, let her go. I’m buyin’ meself a new bike!” The hassle was tha’ he had turned his radio down so low tha’ it never woke
him up when his base controller was callin’ him – for forty five minutes. He got the bullet for that one.”
“What’s he at now?”
“Base controllin’ for some haulage company in park west. I hear he’s happy enough there.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Jaysus, my heart used to go out to him in the snow.”
“Well, no snow for him this year, cept’ goin’ to work, an’ sure that’s only one journey! Anyhoo, Shy Boy, in the winter ye’ve got to use yer smarts an’ grab heat wherever ye can.”
“Roger Paddy. Got that.”
“Sure, ye could nearly of gone home an’ hopped back in bed wi’ Vinno while ye where standin’ by!”
“Jealousy‘ll get ye nowhere, Naoise!”
Things picked up a bit in the afternoon but I still only got another four dockets under my belt. However, courtesy of a pissed off base controller, I dropped my last job at ten past six way out in the arse end of Blanchardstown. By that time I was well and truly chilled to the bone. I decided to call in to Eoin and Marie, a mere three mile blip away from my current position, instead of going all the way home so cold. The only contact I had had with them over the Christmas had been a well wishing phone call from my mother’s on Christmas Day. As I made my way to their house that I never visited these days, I had to contend with feelings that I had been neglecting the friends that had been so good to me when I needed them.
It was a huge relief for me to see the way Marie’s face lit up with delight when she opened the door. There were just the two of them in relaxing, still on holidays. Eoin, equally delighted to see me and as kindly intuitive as ever made a bee line for the kettle. I was in the process of explaining how crazy things had been in work and how I was never in this area anymore to Marie when he returned from the kitchen.
Their insistence that I needn’t apologise for not visiting had me at ease immediately and we focussed on the business of our catching up. I stayed there for an hour and a half chatting,
drinking tea, and absorbing heat. They were sorry to hear about Tramp’s death and the crash at Whites Cross, but delighted to hear about the two receptionists I had briefly dated. Marie assured me that there was no need to worry about not developing any feelings for either of them and complimented me for the honesty that I had displayed in the way that I had behaved.
When I told her that I still felt like a user, she proclaimed that to be proof that I was a good guy, albeit roughened and vulgarised by my profession, and that maybe the next one would be the one that I developed feelings for - the next step on my road to recovery.
Eoin, whose attention had waned a little while his wife was discussing feelings, was back with us a 100 per cent on hearing that I had already selected my next target. She was the receptionist in a relatively new account that had started using us mid-November and she was drop dead gorgeous. The account was Faulkner- Turner Solicitors on Hatch Street in Dublin 2.