Read Online Eureka Street: A Novel of Ireland Like No Other by Robert Mclaim Wilson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robert Mclaim Wilson
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big decisions. Most of it was, by its nature, imprecise and he had spent much time hazarding estimates. However, he was confident about most of them.
He wrote his list. This is what his list said:
On my thirtieth birthday
I had
walked approx: sustained an erection for approx:
grown approx: had sex approx: earned approx:
3 2,000 meals
17, 5 20 litres of liquid (approx: 8,ooo of which contained alcohol)
20,440 miles
186,150 mins, 3,102.5 hrs, I29.27 days
5.40 metres of hair 175 times
no fucking money
He tacked the paper to the wall where his Pope photograph had been and sat back. It pleased him to think that he had been asleep for so long. That was exactly how it had felt as he considered the waste of his past life. He felt that he had always been sleeping. But it was not a depressing statistic. If you took a sanguine view, it meant that he was still young: it meant that he was really only eighteen years old.
He smiled to think how much and how long he'd pissed. His bladder was famously weak and it had been, perhaps, pressed into more work than it deserved. Some fastidiousness had prevented him from calculating his defecation rate.That was something he hadn't wanted to know.
The aggregate of his copulations depressed him. Though the total duration of his life's waking erections was fairly impressive, he hadn't had anywhere near enough sex. It was only 12.5 times per year since he was sixteen. There'd been enough girls - they just hadn't hung around for long. Max would change all that. He didn't know anything about couldn't even claim her he had a feeling that she would improve his averages.
He was going to telephone her now, he decided. It would wait no longer. Despite the new rapprochement with his mother, he didn't want her listening in. He decided he would sneak out to the phone box on Sandy Row. Leaving the sheet tacked where it which his mother would marvel while he was went downstairs.
The night was conditional, as dark as undark chocolate. Chuckie loved the gentle commencement of his city's mild summers and, though the rain began again, his mood lifted further.
The phone box was empty, which somewhat daunted him. He had counted on a wait while he marshalled his thoughts for this big call. But he stomped in there with the full vigour of intention. Doing it was the only way of getting it done.
He picked up the phone. He pressed its cold plastic against his cheek, sharing the streptococci of a double hundred Sandy Row Protestant neighbours. He dialled her number.
Chuckie was confident. Chuckie was more than confident, he was adamant. The telephone was his instrument, his device. He preferred the telephone to the non-electronic conversation. On the telephone he was incorporeal, he was all voice. Chuckie knew that he wasn't thin. He was fat but he was ambulatory. On the telephone, the plenty of his flesh hindered him not. On the phone, he could be as slim and pretty as he needed to be.
`Hello,' the telephone said.
Chuckie exhaled. `Hi. I'm looking for Max.'
`You found her.'
`Hello. This is Chuckie Lurgan. We met last week. Lunch in the Bot. The Botanic Inn.'
`Yeah, I remember.'
`You said that I could call you if I liked.'
`Yeah.'
`Well,' Chuckie smiled audibly, `I liked.'
They talked. For twenty-three minutes while a queue formed and grew, they talked. They talked of America, of Ireland, of her mother, of his mother, her flat, her flatmate, his prospects, her passport, the way the leaves were just showing on the trees, of horticulture generally, of the chances of a good summer, of his friends, her friends, alcohol, love, secrets, life, God, and what was showing in the Curzon that weekend.
As the twenty-fourth minute arrived, and there was audible grumbling from the four-strong queue, the proposal was made. Max started a winding precis of her commitments for the weekend while she made up her mind. Chuckie stuck his hand through the broken window of the phone box and gave his neighbours a little
He wrote his list. This is what his list said:
On my thirtieth birthday
I had
walked approx: sustained an erection for approx:
grown approx: had sex approx: earned approx:
3 2,000 meals
17, 5 20 litres of liquid (approx: 8,ooo of which contained alcohol)
20,440 miles
186,150 mins, 3,102.5 hrs, I29.27 days
5.40 metres of hair 175 times
no fucking money
He tacked the paper to the wall where his Pope photograph had been and sat back. It pleased him to think that he had been asleep for so long. That was exactly how it had felt as he considered the waste of his past life. He felt that he had always been sleeping. But it was not a depressing statistic. If you took a sanguine view, it meant that he was still young: it meant that he was really only eighteen years old.
He smiled to think how much and how long he'd pissed. His bladder was famously weak and it had been, perhaps, pressed into more work than it deserved. Some fastidiousness had prevented him from calculating his defecation rate.That was something he hadn't wanted to know.
The aggregate of his copulations depressed him. Though the total duration of his life's waking erections was fairly impressive, he hadn't had anywhere near enough sex. It was only 12.5 times per year since he was sixteen. There'd been enough girls - they just hadn't hung around for long. Max would change all that. He didn't know anything about couldn't even claim her he had a feeling that she would improve his averages.
He was going to telephone her now, he decided. It would wait no longer. Despite the new rapprochement with his mother, he didn't want her listening in. He decided he would sneak out to the phone box on Sandy Row. Leaving the sheet tacked where it which his mother would marvel while he was went downstairs.
The night was conditional, as dark as undark chocolate. Chuckie loved the gentle commencement of his city's mild summers and, though the rain began again, his mood lifted further.
The phone box was empty, which somewhat daunted him. He had counted on a wait while he marshalled his thoughts for this big call. But he stomped in there with the full vigour of intention. Doing it was the only way of getting it done.
He picked up the phone. He pressed its cold plastic against his cheek, sharing the streptococci of a double hundred Sandy Row Protestant neighbours. He dialled her number.
Chuckie was confident. Chuckie was more than confident, he was adamant. The telephone was his instrument, his device. He preferred the telephone to the non-electronic conversation. On the telephone he was incorporeal, he was all voice. Chuckie knew that he wasn't thin. He was fat but he was ambulatory. On the telephone, the plenty of his flesh hindered him not. On the phone, he could be as slim and pretty as he needed to be.
`Hello,' the telephone said.
Chuckie exhaled. `Hi. I'm looking for Max.'
`You found her.'
`Hello. This is Chuckie Lurgan. We met last week. Lunch in the Bot. The Botanic Inn.'
`Yeah, I remember.'
`You said that I could call you if I liked.'
`Yeah.'
`Well,' Chuckie smiled audibly, `I liked.'
They talked. For twenty-three minutes while a queue formed and grew, they talked. They talked of America, of Ireland, of her mother, of his mother, her flat, her flatmate, his prospects, her passport, the way the leaves were just showing on the trees, of horticulture generally, of the chances of a good summer, of his friends, her friends, alcohol, love, secrets, life, God, and what was showing in the Curzon that weekend.
As the twenty-fourth minute arrived, and there was audible grumbling from the four-strong queue, the proposal was made. Max started a winding precis of her commitments for the weekend while she made up her mind. Chuckie stuck his hand through the broken window of the phone box and gave his neighbours a little
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