Unpulchritude.
Unbeauty.
Eon Brennan tried to think of another word, but he just couldn't. She really was an ugly fucker. He knew it was sexist, but thought she might have been nice if she lightend up and shaved a bit more. But that just reminded him that he needed a fag. He knew he should be better at this game, because he had played it with his last two wives. She waited for him to speak. He waited for her to speak. But she wasn't his wife.
'You don't mind?' he said, as suavely as he could, wrestling a fag out of his jacket pocket and jabbing at his mouth, a bit like pin the donkey, only with a fag, until he got it right.
'Yes, I do mind!' she said imperatively, master of the pseudo Jungian speech patterns or something like that, only more pissed off.
Eon Brennan went through the same process, with his matches and sparked it, defiantly, before lighting up. He was sure she would understand. She was his addiction counsellor.
Eon sat in his plastic chair and watched his leg do a funny little dance, all on its own, while she spoke more then she had in the last month, making him think that maybe he was married to her after all. She turned into a human tape recorder, spewing out a monotone monologue, which he helped conduct with his lit cigarette:
'..rules and regulations...'
'...proper conduct...'
'...appreciation...'
'...proper procedure...'.
The sun was shining. It was a good day to be alive. Maybe she needed counselling. And when it wasn't a nice day you had a fag to help you along, or a glass of this or that. There was no harm in it.
'What happened about being nice to each other?' Eon earnestly asked that question before he left. True to form, she went back to saying nothing.
Eon got his answer two day later.
'What happened to brown envelopes?' he said, 'that telegraphed you the news before you opened them, so you didn't need to'.
He was welcome to reapply, online, for his job as a waste service operative.
Eon Brennan had been for a job in Bairds. He'd have pulled his skip cap further down over his head, but they hadn't been invented yet and he still had a luxurious head of hair that made him look a bit like Marc Bowlan, only trendier, but none of these things mattered, as the guy kept asking him question after question. Eon, for once in his young life was stumped, but kept gamely at it, getting one answer wrong after another. The corker was when the gaffer took him down to the workshop and they had an engine sitting in bits and Eon was asked what this bit was and what that bit was.
'For fuck sake,' said Eon, finally mustering up enough know-how to give up, 'I only want a job as a mechanic, not a fuckin' nuclear engineer.'
The sun was shining, so they had to block off the windows with some old jackets that were lying about, sometimes still on people's backs, in The Dancing Grannie's Pub. Eon Brennan was playing Tam Scobie, at pool, for pints. Whoever lost would buy the other the next round. And the one after that. And if Eon lost the one after that then he'd be better jumping off the Erskine Bridge, only it hadn't been made yet, so the equivalent was the Erskine Ferry, but that wouldn't work as it wasn't very high and he was a good swimmer, a good all round sportsman. All Eon needed to do was pot the black ball off the side dyke and in off the full balls and there would be no need for all that palaver. It was the easiest shot of all time. You could hit it hard and it would hit the other ball and go in. You could hit is soft and it would just roll easily on down into the bag and in. The one thing you couldn't do was miss the ball on the dyke.
Eon Brennan let out a sigh, long enough to strip lead from roofs, without him even helping.
'I don't believe it,' he said, but the empirical evidence was there, in front of everyone's eyes, 'I mean that's just like the time I went into that big store beside The Atlantis, to buy one of those new colour tellys. The one I picked had been used as a model for people to come in and have a look-see. There were a couple of scratches on it, but nothing to worry about. And it was going cheaper. I said to the guy, “I'll take it.” And he did all that “yes sir...no problems sir, when will sir pick it up and how will sir pay crap?” I told him I'd be back later. When I went back to the shop, just before it closed, there was another guy there, putting the telly in its cardboard box. I told him that was my telly and he picked it up and followed me out of the shop. I was parked pretty far down Kilbowie Road. I let him carry it all that way. He stood back, out of the way, while I put the back seats down in my old Ford so that I could get the telly in. When he got it in he turned to go. Then I said one of those things that I don't actually believe that I said- It was as if my whole life flashed before my eyes- “Who do I pay for this mate?” I wanted an extra leg that was hinged, with a foot attached, so that I could swing it over my shoulder and boot myself right up the hole. That's what I feel like now,' Eon said eyeing the pool table.
Third leg or third eye, that didn't matter, what mattered was it was Eon's round, again. But what he couldn't foresee was that Tam Scobie would get him a start.
'Oh, fuck aye,' said Tam Scobie when Eon told him about his interview with Bairds, 'just come into the yard tomorrow and I'll get you a start. You've got a driving license haven't you?'
'Aye,' said Eon. He had a license, and it was his, but it was just in his brother's name. A bit of paper didn't mean that he couldn't drive.
Tam Scobie worked with the Cleanie, the Cleansing Department. He didn't just work with the Cleanie, he ran the Cleanie. He had his own wee office. And hanging on the walls were all the keys for all the bin lorries in Clydebank. He handed Eon a set when he came into his office. All he said was, 'I won't embarrass you with one of those daft driving tests. Just see wee Willie Dalziel outside and the rest of the boys will keep you right.'
Eon Brennan had a bit of trouble with the bin lorry at first. The gates were too narrow. Other lorries scooted through, but Eon just couldn't manage. The problem was he just couldn't work out how to reverse. Tam Scobie had to come down from his office and drive it out for him.
He parked it, half on and half off, the pavement outside.
'Just treat it like a tank or a taxi. You're allowed to park it anywhere, and tell those fuckers,' he said, 'waving in the general direction of Eon's crew, 'not to fuck you about'. He waved him away, with the same dismissive gesture.
The first few weeks were the hardest. Eon had to miss whole streets and lanes, like those in Dicken's Avenue, that he just couldn't reverse down.
'Fuck them, said Willie Dalziel. There was no dissenters. The pubs opened at eleven and their crew didn't want to miss that. Give people a chance to moan and they'll moan about anything.
Eon Brennan,smiled and thought about applying for the post of waste service operative. All he needed was a computer, somebody that knew how to work them, and some electricity. His powercards had ran out. There was no hurry with the application he had two full working days. He didn't want to be negative, but thought, maybe my days are no longer working days.
