"I'm walking here under the black sky, casting no shadow in the faint light. I have decided to get a proper Glasgow haircut after looking at my horrible mug in dozens of shop windows. The only place I can find is called Central Barbers. I peer in through the window and Jesus, the barber looks at least sixty and carries all the trademarks of a lifelong boozer; ruddy, sagging face, bloated belly, one thatch of hair left on his vein marbled melon. I stood there, trying to imagine what that plump, shaking hand could do with a straight-razor. He beckoned me in. I waved and politely walked on. I like my ears on my head, not on the floor of a Glasgow barber shop.
I thought I might walk down the alley beside The Gateway Supermarket and check for tramps. I was not disappointed. Huddled in a small doorway off the alley were three haggard old men in filthy long coats. They mumbled to each other in drunken, incomprehensible Glaswegian, each holding a tall can of Tennants Super. I approached them and introduced myself. They were a little shocked at first, but the red, folded faces began to open up when they saw I was genuine. Their bloodshot eyes were sunken, framed by deep wrinkles and grey skin. Rather than fix on you, they swam in permanent pools of rheum. They introduced themselves as Ian, Duncan and Randy. They were all three pissed, and tottered together in the doorway to stay upright. What one said, the others would slobber grunts of approval to. I asked them about the danger of walking through the Gorbals.
Duncan said, "Bah boy, this is Scotland, not America."
Ian slapped Duncan on the arm and waved his finger in the air.
"Listen to his accent. They hear that..."
Ian turned to me.
"I know what Duncan's saying, but you have to be careful. Go in the daytime, never at night,"
I continued my attempt at small talk by asking them about good pubs nearby.
Duncan laughed.
"Christ, we're alcoholics. You're asking a bunch of alcoholics where the pubs are?"
I told them we couldn't get Tennants at home. Duncan tipped the can towards me.
"Have a sip, lad."
Well, since I was a guest in their alley, I took a swig. It was warm and thick. I looked down at the can. 9 per cent alcohol. My God, and it tasted even stronger.
Duncan laughed again.
"Christ, I bet he's an alchy himself."
I choked it back and told them it was good stuff. It wasn't. I asked if I could get it in a pub.
"Not that," Ian said. "It's too dear in a pub. Ya get that at on off liscence by the can."
Next, Ian offered me a slug from his can. What could I do, but accept his kind gesture?
We chatted for the next few minutes, though the drunken Glaswegian was very hard to understand. Mainly, we cursed Americans.
Duncan offered me the foamy remains of his can. I took a sip and handed it back.
"No, go on. Finish it."
As I gulped the last of the warm foam, Duncan opened his mouth in a full on laugh. I saw his pale tongue push a wave of saliva through the stubs of what yellow-black teeth he still had. At it's widest, his mouth seemed to freeze frame, showing me his dental record of debauchery and rot. A counter wave of nausea hit me, and I had to clamp down hard not to manifest my stomach contents right there on Duncan's shoes.
They were out of Tennants strong, so it was time to scavenge more booze. They shambled in an alcoholic triptych down the alley, each steadying the other. I shouted after them, "thank you and take care gentlemen."
Duncan stopped the group and turned.
"Gentlemen. We're not gentlemen. You're the only gentleman here. You be careful lad."
Then he turned and led his boozy dependents onto the street.
As soon as they were gone, I left the alley and flagged down a black cab.
Once back inside Melanie and Iona's flat, I brushed my teeth pratically bloody for at least twenty minutes.
That night, I had dental nightmares of tramp rot.
No comments:
Post a Comment