We Can Do Your Weeds

McGurk is de only scout among us.  But he’s a traitor to der cause as every bob-a-job week he swipes an extra card in de scout hall and we use dat to get money for ourselves to rent out videos.

McGurk wears his neckerchief to be more authentic.  Well, he is authentic.  He’s a real cub scout.  He’s just a traitor.

Me and Dixon aren’t not authentic, we aren’t.  We both showed up at de hall once or twice and became cub scouts like McGurk, blow-ins though, for we never had it in us ta go back.  McGurk has it in him I tink because of his fadder.  Mr. McGurk is all in to dat stuff.  Camping, fishing, nature.  Mr. McGurk’s full of shit.

McGurk is always up front wit de scouts in de Maytime Festival Parade.  Like he’s de top scout.  And de town luks on wit pride as he marches along and de photographers are out snapping for de paper.  Dey’d change der tunes if dey knew he was de most successful arsonist in de town.  And a traitor in der very midsts.

--We can do yer weeds, Missus, one of us usually says because everyone wit a nice garden wants dose weeds done.  Or we can do yer weeds, Mister, if it’s a man who answers de door.

We decide to hit de big houses in Ard Easmuinn as dey seem to be all rich up dere but after knockin on countless doors hardly annyone will have us.  I thought dey’d take us serious because McGurk’s wearing an expensive-luking duffle coat wit his scout neckerchief at de top, he luks prim and proper, but me and Dixon and our chape oul tracksuits must have bin too much fur dem.

It luks like we’ll be goin home wit empty pockets until dis old kind woman gives us two pounds to tidy up her front garden.  She doesn’t have many weeds.  But what ones she has we get.

It’s a straightforward two pounds.

Two pounds would only get us one new release or jus two older fillums in Easy Weir’s video shop.  Dixon suggests we go along Emer Terrace and try to get anudder pound and dat means we cud get one new release and one older fillum.  Dat sounds much better.  So we go along de houses.

De first house on Emer Terrace: de door is answered by a wee boy who’s younger dan us.  He says dat his mudder and fadder aren’t in and only his old grandmudder is dere and right now she’s watching Saint and Greavsie and never has anny money so we might as well forget it.

So we do.

De next house is de one wit de scummy green door and de purple curtains dat are always closed so we keep walking past de way we always do – onwards and upwards – me and McGurk dat is, not Dixon who stalls behind us and we turn and see de headcase standing in front of dat scummy green door as if he’s about ta knock on it.

--Let’s try here, he says.

--Are ya mad? I say to him.  A Satanic cult lives in dere. 

--Dat’s bullshit.

All my life around here, dat green scummy door on Emer Terrace has cast a shadow.  I can’t remember who it was first told me about the Satanists who live in dere and who prowl de town fur blondie gerls and puppies to sacrifice in der living room, jus behind dose awful purple curtains, but I believed dem den and I believe dem now. 

--Hay, I live in dis area, Dixon, yoo don’t.  I know more about de place dan you.

--Ah bollix, says Dixon.

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK. 

Dere’s no doorbell.

I have a gud mind ta run away but I don’t. 

McGurk moves in closer to Dixon and prepares for de opening gambit.

De door opens.  And dere’s de big figure of a man standing before us.

We can do your weeds, Mister.

De Mister is someone we know.  It’s an old pervert we sometimes see in Easy Weir’s video shop.  Whats-his-name?  Toner.  Johnny Toner.  We managed once to rob some of de dirty videos he rented because he left dem behind in de butchers.  Dixon still has dose videos somewhere in his house.  I feel guilty every time I’m in Easy Weir’s when I tink about it knowing dat we took dose blues and never gave dem back.  Because Easy is a nice man.  Dis cunt isn’t.  For a second, I tink he might know we took de videos on him but den I remember he was such a sneaky bastid dat he probly never boddered goin back to de butchers at all because den people wud know de kinds of videos he rents.

--Whut do yooz wunt?

--We can do yer weeds, Mister, says Dixon.  Bob-a-job.

--I’ve plenty of weeds out in dat back garden.

As perverts go, he luks de part.  He cud be a model on de cover of a magazine fur perverts.  He must be about 35 or 45 or somewhere in-between, I don’t know.  Maybe only a few years younger dan my fadder.  He usually wears dis horrible brown leather coat but now he doesn’t have it on and you can see dis huge huge belly on him drippin out of de bottom of his sweaty T-shirt like a hairy half-moon on its side.

--Wait.  Yooz aren’t scouts.  I’ve seen yooz in Easy Weir’s.

McGurk unbuttons the top of his expensive duffle coat and pulls out the neckerchief for proof.

--I’m not convinced, says Toner.  I was a scout meself as a wee man, ya know.

--No wurd of a lie, says McGurk.

--Whut’s de motto den?

--Wha?

--De scouts’ motto.

--Be prepared, says McGurk.

--And are yiz prepared?

I take out me kitchen scissors and show him, McGurk his swiss army, and Dixon the plastic bags.

--Fair enough.  How much for de job?

--One pound, says I.

--Well, I suppose dat’s a sound price.

--Each, adds Dixon.

--Tree pounds?  Are ye mad is dat it?  Alright.  De back cud do wit a trim.  Come on in.

We step inside and de house doesn’t smell as bad as it luks from outside.  I’m expecting a horrible smell of farts and piss as I go in but it doesn’t smell dat bad...at first...and den de body spray hits ya.  He must be spraying himself wit Right Gard day and night.

--You’re Jemmie Dixon’s son aren’t ya? Johnny Toner says to Dixon as we walk through de hall.

--I am, yeah.

--Dey were a deadly band, de Hurrymen.  It’s a pity dey’re not still around.  All de music dat’s around now is fur quee-uhs.  He wus a gud singer, yer fadder, so he wus.

He takes us through to de kitchen which smells like Oxtail soup and more Right Gard and den out to his back garden.  De fresh air is once again lovely after de Right Gard.

It strikes me den dat I’ve never bin out de back of Emer Terrace before.  We know de backs of all de streets in dis area but fur some reason we never got around to Emer Terrace.  And now to luk at it I can sort of see why.  It’s a wilderness for sure, bushes everywhere and arched-over trees and barbed wire runnin through everyting.  It wud take an army of bob-a-jobbers and Johnny Toner’s garden might just be de worst of dem all.  Ye can hardly see sky fur de weeds. 

--Go to it, says Toner.

--We’ll get as much done as we can, Mister.  But dere’s a lot of weeds here.

--Yeah, just give it a trim.

And Johnny Toner goes back inside.

So we get to work.  Holy shit, it’s a lot of work and de sun gets to us, manages its way through de long grass and bush to make de tree of us sweat.  And sweat we do.  At one point, I’m clipping one particularly hard weed and when I pull back the swing makes a load of sweat shoot from my brow directly into McGurk’s face – as he’s clipping away almost half a metre away from me.  Tankfully, war is chaos, and he doesn’t cop on.

De curtains are drawn in the windows of Toner’s back room but sometimes there’s a rustle and we tink it’s him spyin on us.  Dere’s music playin in de room: is it Michael Bolton?  I don’t really know for sure.

--Do ye tink he’s a Satanist? McGurk asks.

--Dat header? says Dixon.  No Satanic cult wud let him in, hay.  De smell of him.  Dere’d be uproar in Hell.  Satan himself wud object.

--Imagine we all end up like yer man in dere, I say.

--Whut do ya mean?

--No wife, no family.  Just sittin around watchin blue movies fur de rest of our lives and listenin ta Michael Bolton.

--Dat’s not Michael Bolton, Dixon says.  It’s Joe Dolan.  I tink.

--Dat won’t be happening ta me, says McGurk.  I’ll never listen to anny of dat muck.  And I’ll be a success, I swear to ya.

About an hour passes.  And we’re just about done.  Jesus, de sweat’s dripping off us.  And we did a fair job on de place.  Five plastic bags full of weeds.

The door creaks open and Johnny Toner steps out again.  In my hopes and dreams, he steps out with glasses of water fur us and a smile but, get dis, he comes out wit a scout necker on.  Well, an oul rag, choong gum-coloured, chomped away by de motts.  Not a glass of water in sight.

--Lookit, he says.  I wus a scout leeder, so I wus.  Formidable in me time.

--Gud man yerself, says Dixon.  He slips a bit of lip into de way he says it but Toner doesn’t notice.

--Annyway, we’re done here, Mister, says McGurk, holding up his bob-a-job card. 

Toner looks around at de work we’ve done, nodding his head.

--Alright, alright, he says.  Fair enough.  Just a second.

He goes back inside for a minute and den comes back out wit change jangling in his hand.  Lots of it.  Dixon approaches him and holds out his hand.  Den Johnny Toner lets a load of coins spill into it.  Our faces light up tinkin we’ve struck gold wit dis old pervert who it turns out is really a nice man and even though he’s a moany perv and everytin when all gets said and done he can be generous and----- BUT OH NO!  When we look down at de coins he’s dropped into Dixon’s hand, it’s not de coinage we wur after at all.  De money’s real alright, big and silver wit bulls on dem, it’s not monopoly money, but dey seem to be coins from de last century, pocket change from Wolfe Tone’s day you’d have in a museum.

--Whut de fuck’s dis? says Dixon.

--It’s a bob.  Fur de job.

--Dis money’s ancient.

--It’s a wee bit old but it still works.

--Are ye mad-in-de-head, Mister?  DO YA TINK WUR FUCKIN STEW-PITT?

--Dat’s about eight shillings.  Dat’s a whole bob dereabouts.  Yer lucky ta get annyting, ya wee cunt.

--Yoo owe us tree pounds!

--I don’t owe yiz annyting.  Now go on.  Hop it, ye wee toerags.

Dixon looks really angry.  Like he’s going to tump de head off Johnny Toner.

--No, we’re not leavin, says Dixon.

--Gway now or I’ll bate de shite out of ya, ya wee quee-uh.

I’m a little shaky now, McGurk too, as Dixon actually squares up to de old pervert.  I don’t know what Dixon’s playing at because Toner towers over him.

--We’re not leavin dis place until yoo give us de money ya owe us.

Johnny Toner smirks.  Den he lifts up Dixon by de scruff and shoves him up against de wall.

--I’ll flitter ya if yer not careful, son.

--I’m not yer fuckin son, ya oul cunt, says Dixon, struggling to get loose.

--Leave him alone, Mister, says I.  It’s oweny over a bob-a-job, shur.

--No, it isn’t, says McGurk.  It’s over tree pounds, dat’s what it’s over.  He owes us tree pounds.

Toner turns to McGurk and growls: Yoo wanna box in de head too?

--Ya wudn’t try it wit me.

--Oh why not?

--I’ll get de scouts after ya, de whole lot a dem.

--AH, fuck away off, says Toner.  What will de scouts do?

And den, almost as if he’s trying to offend every scout dat ever lived, Johnny Toner makes a fist like a hammer and punches it into Dixon’s stomach.   It luks like a sore one because Dixon’s head puffs up like his lungs are bursting and den he drops to a heap on de ground.

--Dat’s it, says McGurk.  I’m tellin de scouts on ya. You’re not one of us.

--I never wus, says Toner.  Dem bastards always treated me badly.  Yous can go and fuck yourselves.  Now get out of here.

After quickly getting our tings, we help Dixon up from de ground, make our ways back into de house and head fur de front door.

As we hobble along de hallway, we can hear Toner yelling after us: And ya can tell your fadder he was a shite singer.  And de Hurrymen were a shite band.  Music fur quee-uhs!

 

We managed to leave wit de shillings de pervert gave us and as we walk up de Castletown Road towards Easy Weir’s video shop, McGurk is holding dem up in front of his face, inspecting dem like he’s on de Antiques Roadshow. 

--Why did ya say de scouts cud help? I ask McGurk.

--Because dey wud.

--I don’t tink de scouts wud come to back yoo up.

--Why’s dat?

--Yer a traitor in der very midst.

--Ah, bollix.

--But Johnny Toner is a bigger traitor, no doubt about dat.

I luk over at Dixon as we walk.  He’s very quiet.  He’s often quiet, but not dis quiet.  He’s rubbing his stomach softly as he walks.  It must have bin some punch he got from dat fat cunt. 

It’s a sad ting to tink dat dere will always be bullies like Johnny Toner.  Even when dey’re all grown up, dey’ll still be bullying ya like dat.  And dey’ll be bullying yer children and yer grandchildren too.  I’m afraid Dixon will be haunted by dis fur de rest of his life.  He luks haunted enough already without more haunting. 

It’s a pity.

It might be a while before we do someone’s weeds again.

 

*

We still have de two pounds from de old kind woman so in Easy Weir’s we opt fur tree older fillums instead of a new release.  We’re not interested in anny of de new releases.  We get: Eliminators (1986), Revenge of the Ninja (1983), and Brewster’s Millions (1985).

We go back to McGurk’s house and sit ourselves down in front of de TV and relax and Mrs. McGurk brings toast.

-- Whut’ll we watch first? I ask.

--Brewster’s Millions, says McGurk, still fondling de ancient coinage.  We need a gud laff after all dat.

--NO! shouts Dixon, his hand still rubbing his stomach slowly.  He shakes his head and looks down at de video cases.  But he doesn’t say annyting.  He doesn’t have to say annyting.  We know what he’s tinking somehow.  Dere’s a kind of telepathy goin on wit de tree of us. 

Me and McGurk can see de hurt in Dixon’s eyes, it’s dere alright, but we can see someting else too, someting good and mad and I tell ya it’s in my eyes and McGurk’s eyes too.  And it’s sometin dey wudn’t condone in de scouts.

I grab one of de video cases, take de cassette out, and stick it into McGurk’s player.  De last prick who rented de video didn’t rewind it.  Prick.

WHIR

WHIR

WHIR

WHIR

WHIR

WHIR

CLICK.

PLAY.

Brewster and de millions can wait.    

Ninjas it is!