From the Archives - Por Una Cabeza

I almost choked to death on some rootbeer today, and when I finally coughed it out, it went up my nose. I also worked a lot. Nothing else happened at all. Here is another story, which I wrote some time last year--it's better if you listen to an orchestral arrangement of Por Una Cabeza (like maybe the one from Scent of a Woman or the one from Schindler's List) while you read it:

Por una cabeza
de un noble potrillo
que justo en la raya
afloja al llegar,
y que al regresar
parece decir:
No olvidé, hermano,
vos sabés, no hay que jugar.
Por una cabeza,
metejón de un día
de aquella coqueta
y burlona mujer,
que al jurar sonriendo
el amor que está mintiendo,
quema en una hoguera
todo mi querer..

--Por Una Cabeza, Carlos Gardel

So, it's a rainy morning in nineteen eighty-seven. I'm supposed to be riding to school with Fred and his dad, but we're in a fight. He took my green pen, I called him a twat, Mrs. Robertson heard me, and she put my name on the four o'clock list. That is to say, I got detention. She kept me in till I'd written "I will speak in a manner befitting a young gentleman" one hundred times. Two hundred times, in fact, since the first time I did it single spaced, and she'd told me to double. Waste of paper, that. Who double-spaces lines? Point is, it was a whole lot of times, and by the time I was through, I was five minutes late for my music lesson. I ran the whole way and all, puffing and panting with my big heavy backpack, but Mr. Jones (cuntyballs extraordinaire, that one) had already rung my mum. That got me stuck raking leaves that whole evening, on top of the two hours of Isidor Philipp exercises Mr. Jones doled out by way of punishment. That was three punishments I got, in case you weren't keeping track; lines, exercises, and raking. And Fred (who's such a twat that calling him on it is no more an offense than calling a buttercup yellow or the sky blue) got off scot free. Mrs. Robertson didn't even shout at him. And I didn't even get my pen back, for Christ's sake. Triple twat, that Fred. Triple fucking twat, and I don't say it lightly.

Anyway, as I was saying, it's a rainy morning in nineteen eighty-seven, and I'm walking to school in my good shoes. On most rainy days, I'd have on my boots, but the dog was sick in them last night. Mum stuck them out on the veranda to air, and of course they got left all night in the rain. So I'm shoved out the door--"Mind yer shoes, the noo."--on my way to Fred's. Except I'm in a fight with Fred, so instead of turning right up his driveway, I walk straight by. I'm going along quite the thing, good shoes safe on the pavement, when it dawns on me Fred's dad'll see me when he goes by, and he'll stop to pick me up. Then, I'll be stuck in a car with Fred, and I'll have to explain my presence on the roadside to boot. It might even get back to mum, and I'll be punished again, four times for one fight. So, in place of the usual left turn on Mansfield, I keep going straight into the woods. That cuts fifteen minutes out of the walk as well, so I'll be good and early.

One step under the trees, I realize my mistake. It's bloody raining, and there isn't any pavement in the woods. Daft git that I am, I've plunked my foot straight in a mud puddle--sploot. It's not the thick kind of mud, either, the kind that dries and then you can kick it off in clumps. It's the wet, gooshy kind that seeps through your seamholes and into your socks, landing you in a world of dutch. I'm not even supposed to be in the woods. If Mrs. Robertson sees my shoe and sock all manky, she'll know where I've been. She'll tell my mum, and mum'll tell dad, and I'll get the belt. "Yewannagitsnatched?", he'll say, in that clippy-quick way of his, talking without spaces. "Chilesnatchersinnaforest. Ootwiyerarse. Thisllteachyez."

Obviously, I'm in quite the state, here. Dismayed, sort of thing. I turn around, meaning to call the whole thing off and go back to Fred's--if I get a lift, I can be at school by eight-fifteen, and have my shoe and sock washed in the cloakroom before God Save the Queen. No-one'll be any the wiser. I'm not in luck, though: I've no sooner turned round than Fred's dad speeds by--whoosh! He doesn't see me, but his back wheel goes through the gutter, spraying me with dead-leaf water.

"Fuck," I go, and I don't say it lightly. It fits the situation, 'cos that's what I am now, right fucked. Walking through the forest, I'll still arrive early, but not early enough to sneak into the cloakroom undetected. I scrape my good shoe on the pavement, but it just gets a scuff on it. I go "fuck, fuck, fuck" (really quiet, though, in case Mr. Sinclair is hiding in his garden, which he does sometimes), and walk around in circles. On the second circle, I get an idea. I sit down carefully in the path, using my bag as a cushion, and peel off my shoes and socks. I can take them down the pond on my way through the forest--it's barely a detour--and give 'em a wash there. I can rub off my feet on Mrs. Robertson's own lawn coming out of the woods, then put on my shoes for the rest of the walk. I'll have wet feet for English and half of maths, but no-one'll be any the wiser. I'll even have time to be seen ignoring Fred-the-twat before the bell goes.

When I get to the pond, a complication arises: Shawn's older brother's there (John the wanker, not Patrick who works at the Spar shop), getting up to no good with some other boys from the grammar school.

"Ey, Bob," sez John.

"Ey, John," sez me, playing it cool.

"Ey, Bob's got 'is feet oot!" That's Thomas talking. He's a nutter, that one, a complete utternutter, straight from Bedlam. Mum says every time he opens his mouth, trouble falls out. Mum doesn't know shite most of the time, but she's right about Thomas. So I don't answer or anything. I just stand there like a dosser with my feet out and everyone looking at them.

"Bob, why's yer feet oot?" goes John.

"To keep the mud of my shoes," I tell him. "I've stood in it already, see. I've just come to wash it off, and then I'll be going." I kneel on a flat rock where turtles do their basking in the afternoons, and give my sock a dip.

"We've got grass," sez one of the other boys, some wee spotty one.

"Shut up! He'll grass on us, if yer not careful!"

"Ey, I'm just washing my sock," I go, placatorial sort of thing. "Just gimme a sec, and I'll be going."

But they're all looking at me now, and John's got a thinking look on, stroking an imaginary beard. He's probably hairy enough to have a real beard, him, but beards aren't allowed at his school. Neither are moustaches, earrings, or coats that don't have the school crest on them.

"We gotta make him smoke it," goes Thomas, the cunt, fucking everything up. Everyone's all "Yeh, yeh, yeh," holding out this complete bomber joint. This thing, it's fatter than my thumb, dripping ash everywhere.

"I'm not smoking that," I protest. "I've gotta go to school. It'll smell."

"You gotta smoke it so you can't grass us up."

After that, the idea's well stuck in their heads. They all gang up around me, puffing on this joint and chanting "Smoke! Smoke! Smoke!" By that time, my shoe's as clean as it's getting, and I've got to be on my way. I look at my watch: if I leave right now, I can make it at a brisk walk.

"Okay," I agree. "Just a puff, though. I've got to be in school." John passes me the joint, all solemn-like, and I snort back a lungful--whoosh! I get it right back there, straight to the alveoli, and imagine I can feel my outraged bronchioles contracting against the invasion. I hold my breath--one...two...three--then let the smoke out in a slow stream. I try to blow a smoke ring, but I haven't got the hang of it yet. Something to do with blowing round your tongue, but mine just gets in the way.

"Wee man!", cheers John. He's impressed. They all are. None of them could suck it back like that at my age. They break up like the Red Sea, and I take my triumphal walk out of there, hoots and giggles sending me on my way. I'm a bit not right in the head, woozy and all, but I'm not sure if it's the joint or just exhilaration at impressing the older boys. News of my puffing exploits'll filter down to our school by the end of the day, and I'll be a hero. Even Fred'll have to be impressed. Especially Fred, now that I think of it. Last time Fred got some smoke down him, he coughed so hard he boaked it all over Mrs. Hislop's begonias. Me and Jim laughed so loud the old lady came out, and she chased him down the street screeching "Monster! Monster!" It was brilliant, pure brilliant.

So I scoot off down the path, already imagining my playground victory. I could put my shoes on this second and they wouldn't get dirty (coz I'm floating on the air, see). I'm hurrying, but not running. I'm in loads of time...and then old lady Hislop appears, as if I've summoned her up just by thinking about her. She's pushing that stupid shopping cart of hers--not the kind tramps have in the pictures, but the kind old boots take to the shops, with a rack for some bags and a seat up top for their dogs. They all have dogs. Mrs. Hislop has a dog, a Yorkie called Hamish. He sees me first and sets up yapping, machine-gun style. "Yappa-yappa-yappa! Yappa-yappa-yappa!"

I duck behind a tree. If old lady Hislop sees me, I'm beyond fucked--and I couldn't be saying that less lightly. She's a dreadful old cunt. She hates kids, and if she sees me, she won't only tell mum I was in the woods. The way she'll tell it, I'll've been in the woods with my willy out, pissing up the first crocus of spring. I'll probably've kicked Hamish, to boot. (Honestly, I'd take the punishment for kicking him gladly, but only if I'd had the pleasure of doing it first. Bloody thing's bit me at least twenty times, and tried more like a hundred.)

Mrs. Hislop stops. "What is it, Hay-meeeee," she creaks. "Do you smell something?" Snf-snf-snf. She snfs the air herself, like she thinks her veiny old beak can pick up my scent. "What do you smell?" Hamish starts running back and forth on his shelf, all yappa-yappa-yappa. Mrs. Hislop stands there sniffing and peering into the bushes like a vulture. "Is there a Peeping Tom?", she goes, sounding like she'd probably like it if there were. "Yappa-yappa", goes Hamish. She gets him out and sticks him down in the mud.

No, I screech (but just in my head, not out loud). Pick him up! Put him in! Go away! You're making me late!

Wee Hamish has other ideas. To me, this is torture. To him, it's a toilet break. He cocks his leg on a tree, then settles into a crouch for a good long shite. He squeezes and squeezes, but he must be constipated. He's taking ages. Mrs. Hislop starts encouraging him: "Poooooosh! Pooooooosh!" I want to die. I cover my ears, but I can still hear her. I will never, ever close my eyes again without this scene popping into my head. If I live to a hundred, I'll still be haunted by the memory. I look at my watch: half past eight. I'll have to run if I leave right now. If I don't get stopped by the lollipop lady, I'll just make it. Just.

Hamish grunts one last time and sniffs the tree he's just pissed on. Mrs. Hislop picks him up and lamelegs off, vanishing round the bend. I take off like a rocket, shoelaces flapping in the wind. My bare feet squidge in the mud. A cloud of midges infests my hair temporarily. Clegues grab for my arms, but I flap them away. I reach Mrs. Robertson's lawn, wipe my feet vindictively (imagining it's her stupid bogroll-curled hair), and pull on my socks and shoes. I dart out into the street, and am hit by a Norbert Dentressangle truck.

I just have time to say "Nobbies and Stobbies!" (reflexively, sort of thing), then the ground blindsides me from nowhere. I bounce once, twice, and thrice, and on the third bounce, I don't come down. I float into the air like a big red helium balloon. There's a whistling in my ears. It has a tune to it: The Bonnie Lass of Fyvie. I went to Fyvie once, on a class trip to see the castle. They've got a haunted room there, and a dungeon, and all. The castle floats by with a well-meaning band of morris dancers capering in its courtyard. The dancers have a giant stuffed dog with them, stuck on the end of a stick, and it's part of the dance. It opens its felt-tongued mouth and barks "Hamisha-hamisha-hamisha!". I float straight down its throat and into outer space. Miniature Saturns and Uranuses glide past me, borne on a tide of stardust.

"Ziggy played guitar," I go.

"Hamisha-hamisha-hamisha", booms the dog's voice, which is now the voice of God, and the only sound in the vacuum.

Vacuum. I remember about vacuums and space and violent human decompression. I open my mouth, and my guts are sucked out. My esophagus forms a treetrunk, with my stomach perched neatly on top.

I think about this song my dad once told me about (when he wasn't leavinootallthespaces). This berk goes to the racetrack, and he places a bet. It's a dead cert, sort of thing--he's got himself a tip, or something, inside information. So there he is, a lovely day at Ascot, with all the nobs kitted out in their weskits and hats. Even the Queen's there, and the royal family, and Lord This and Lady That. He can't see 'em too well, since they're up in the good seats and he's in the standing-room-only, but he isn't there for them. He's gotten himself into debt, see, and he's bet his last quid on this horse, to solve all his problems. The starter's pistol goes, and they're off. Zephyrs blow from the direction the stables aren't, carrying gardenia petals and the perfume of hay on their breath, but this berk doesn't care. He's got his eyes on his horse, who's ahead of the pack by three lengths. His whole world lives in the thunder of hooves. He feels every tremor coming up through his feet as though it's the hand of destiny shaking him out. It's not long to the finish now, but this other horse is catching up, this real thoroughbred sort. Arabian, or whatever. An ordinary horse wouldn't have a snowball's chance of covering the distance, but this one's magnificent. It's blacker than Vulcan's stithy. It's got more muscles than Hulk Hogan. It's so slick and sweaty it looks like a marble carving of a horse. And it's gaining. It's got this huge, groundeating stride, and it's just coming and coming and coming. The other horse, the one that's meant to win, is getting the whipping of his life off his jockey, but it's no use. He's falling behind, falling behind--but the finish line's almost there. Two more paces, just two, and--

--and the Titan horse positively plunges forward, and beats him by a head. Just one head. This berk in the stands can't believe it. He sees the rest of his life in that instant, and it's horrid. He loses everything. The bank takes his house, his wife leaves him, and his dog even bites him. And all for the space of one head.

If Mrs. Hislop'd only walked on by--
If John hadn't been at the pond--
If I hadn't stood in the mud--
If I hadn't walked by Fred's--
If Fred hadn't stolen my pen--

The End.