Two Weeks Earlier.
When I get bad news, I get shit-faced. That’s how it is, that’s how I am. And this morning bad news found me. I lost my job, and my girlfriend ran out on me.
Okay, that’s two pieces of bad news, which is probably why I lost my job. I can’t count, which when you’re an accountant is a pretty bad handicap.
Okay, being facetious here; of course I can count.
And I don’t blame Linda for running out on me. I was fairly beastly to her. I took her for granted. I ignored her. Except of course when I needed or wanted something. And I fooled around with other women. So all things considered I guess I had it coming.
But, still. I hate coming home to an empty apartment. I’ll gladly poke a woman I hardly know. Or, for that matter don’t know at all. But it takes me a long time to be really comfortable with a woman. Enough to drop my defences and display myself warts and all. (note: I don’t actually have warts.)
I had known Linda since college when I was studying accountancy and she was studying music. She plays the cello, and pretty damn good too. Although maybe in truth it’s simply competent, what would I know? being tone-deaf. Now I don’t know if you know this but a cello is not an easily carried instrument, being somewhat on the bulky side. And Linda is only a wee slip of a thing. It’s really very funny watching her lug along her cello – it’s practically as big as she is!
I met her whist she was trying to get off the bus with it. It was busy, people were rude and impatient, and the poor girl lost her footing, slipped and tripped over the cello.
I was standing right behind her and as she fell I stepped off the bus pretty sharply and caught her. The cello wasn’t so lucky landing on the ground with a thud and a great clanging noise, as the cello strings vibrated violently from impact.
“Are you okay?” I said.
“Fine, fine,” she mumbled, adding, in a stronger voice showing real concern, “My cello? Where’s my cello?”
Silly question, I thought, as you could hardly miss it, lying there on the ground. I say “cello” but it was the case lying there on the ground, the cello itself, presumably, was inside.
She released herself from my grip, mumbled a “thank you” and picked up the cello case, and leaned it up against the bus stop stand. She unfastened the clasps and opened the case. There was the cello, padded and snug. She scrutinised it with her eyes and fingers, her concentration so intense that I’m sure she was aware of nothing but the cello. She mumbled something about it being okay, and then closed the case and reattached the clasps.
I was still standing there, not sure why really as she’d already thanked me. But then the sight of a beautiful girl, helpless, is deeply attractive to a man.
She seemed somewhat surprised herself, and perhaps slightly embarrassed, to see me still standing there. “Oh,” she said.
I smiled. There wasn’t a lot else I could do.
“Well,” she said, “thank you again. But next time please catch the cello. It’s more expensive to mend than I am.”
“Okay,” I said. “Let you fall, save the cello.”
It’s not a particularly funny line but then maybe it was the way I said it, for she suddenly burst out laughing. I shan’t go into all that drippy stuff about the sound of her laugh and the way she looks when she laughs, because that sort of thing is subjective, and hearing about it quite nauseating.
God, I hate it when I get drunk. All this stuff locked away inside your head for years, completely forgotten, only to come flooding out because of bad news – all right two pieces of bad news – and too much Jack Daniels. It’s time I headed home anyway; they’ve either rang the last bell or the first of the last bell, if that makes any sense, which I think it probably does. Or doesn’t.
I left and stepped out on to the street. The air was cool and welcoming after the stuffiness of the pub. I looked both ways up the road looking for a taxi to hail. Just my luck, there wasn’t one.
Looks like I’m walking, I said to myself, which is what I did.
