for a minute and then it would die again. That was what he needed. He wanted to ignore it. To downplay it. He needed hamburgers and basketball and vanilla ice cream and none of the drama of his female friends.
‘So you and Matilda…?’ That was how it would come out. The question barely tagged on at the end.
And that was how it did come out and at the same time Arthur felt the gentle slap on his back from his friend.
He stopped and over the noise of the traffic he looked up at Gallagher and only had to shrug and shake his head. At times like this he loved his friend’s company. No more questions. No more emotion. No more analysis of things that should never have been said.
The Chief looked away. He put his gloved fist deep into a coat pocket again. He squinted in the cold. He turned quickly for an instant as a police siren flew past.
‘Probably better off,’ he said and his words were spoken up into the wind. And Glassman nodded without looking at him. They watched the street for a moment, both wondering what the other man would say.
‘Are you watching the fight on Friday night?’ The Chief asked then.
‘Yup.’
‘I’ll guess I’ll see you there.’
And with that The Chief turned and walked towards the Precinct. He had said exactly enough to leave his friend feeling calm and safe and on that day in February Glassman felt normal again.
The next day there were three messages on his answerphone and they were all from Matilda of course. He knew as soon as he opened his hall door and stood with the key still in the lock and the red number 3 flashing in his face.
He listened to the first one.
It began with her taking a slow deep breath.
‘Hey… it’s me… I know we said we wouldn’t do this… I miss you, Glassman… could you come over?… I’m just finding this really hard.’
He knew he shouldn’t listen to the second message but he did.
‘Arthur, why didn’t you return my call? Look. I’m sorry. I just… I’m having a hard time with this. I miss you and I don’t understand why we can’t be friends. I love you – Arthur? Are you there? Please pick up…’
And the third message was just the sound of her breathing and an angry little click as she put down the phone.
5
Elvis Has Left the Building (June 1991)
Melancholic adj. – 1. Feeling or tending to feel a thoughtful or gentle sadness 2. Experiencing psychiatric depression (archaic).
Pappy stands behind the counter of our shop. Behind him there are white chocolate mice, clove drops, bonbons, Love Hearts. On the other side there are boxes of red apples, cooked ham, stacks of eggs, today’s bread. The morning sun comes through the open door in a long white beam, like a searchlight. It is Saturday so we stand in a row behind the counter but no one says a word, not my pappy, not my brother Daniel, not me. There is a red leather barber’s chair in the corner of the shop and next to it a small white sink. There are three pairs of rusty scissors standing in a glass and an electric clippers. But since summer we only sell sweets and groceries, we do not cut people’s hair. In the background The King is singing and outside our shop seems to overflow and spill itself on to the footpath. We live in Oldcastle, on the Main Street. The shop is painted shiny red and outside there are two chewing-gum vendors, four cylinders of gas chained together and a plastic ice cream. And Elvis croons. He is always with us, a sort of wallpaper, a fourth member of the family now.
Every day Pappy gets up at seven and he puts a low side parting into his hair. He does this with a new brown plastic comb and then he drops the new brown plastic comb into the bin. The bin is beside his bed and because it is made from metal there is an odd rattling sound. It is the first sound we hear every morning. Except on Sundays when Pappy stays in bed.There is a picture of four white horses pulling a carriage on the bin and every weekday morning when he drops the comb
‘So you and Matilda…?’ That was how it would come out. The question barely tagged on at the end.
And that was how it did come out and at the same time Arthur felt the gentle slap on his back from his friend.
He stopped and over the noise of the traffic he looked up at Gallagher and only had to shrug and shake his head. At times like this he loved his friend’s company. No more questions. No more emotion. No more analysis of things that should never have been said.
The Chief looked away. He put his gloved fist deep into a coat pocket again. He squinted in the cold. He turned quickly for an instant as a police siren flew past.
‘Probably better off,’ he said and his words were spoken up into the wind. And Glassman nodded without looking at him. They watched the street for a moment, both wondering what the other man would say.
‘Are you watching the fight on Friday night?’ The Chief asked then.
‘Yup.’
‘I’ll guess I’ll see you there.’
And with that The Chief turned and walked towards the Precinct. He had said exactly enough to leave his friend feeling calm and safe and on that day in February Glassman felt normal again.
The next day there were three messages on his answerphone and they were all from Matilda of course. He knew as soon as he opened his hall door and stood with the key still in the lock and the red number 3 flashing in his face.
He listened to the first one.
It began with her taking a slow deep breath.
‘Hey… it’s me… I know we said we wouldn’t do this… I miss you, Glassman… could you come over?… I’m just finding this really hard.’
He knew he shouldn’t listen to the second message but he did.
‘Arthur, why didn’t you return my call? Look. I’m sorry. I just… I’m having a hard time with this. I miss you and I don’t understand why we can’t be friends. I love you – Arthur? Are you there? Please pick up…’
And the third message was just the sound of her breathing and an angry little click as she put down the phone.
5
Elvis Has Left the Building (June 1991)
Melancholic adj. – 1. Feeling or tending to feel a thoughtful or gentle sadness 2. Experiencing psychiatric depression (archaic).
Pappy stands behind the counter of our shop. Behind him there are white chocolate mice, clove drops, bonbons, Love Hearts. On the other side there are boxes of red apples, cooked ham, stacks of eggs, today’s bread. The morning sun comes through the open door in a long white beam, like a searchlight. It is Saturday so we stand in a row behind the counter but no one says a word, not my pappy, not my brother Daniel, not me. There is a red leather barber’s chair in the corner of the shop and next to it a small white sink. There are three pairs of rusty scissors standing in a glass and an electric clippers. But since summer we only sell sweets and groceries, we do not cut people’s hair. In the background The King is singing and outside our shop seems to overflow and spill itself on to the footpath. We live in Oldcastle, on the Main Street. The shop is painted shiny red and outside there are two chewing-gum vendors, four cylinders of gas chained together and a plastic ice cream. And Elvis croons. He is always with us, a sort of wallpaper, a fourth member of the family now.
Every day Pappy gets up at seven and he puts a low side parting into his hair. He does this with a new brown plastic comb and then he drops the new brown plastic comb into the bin. The bin is beside his bed and because it is made from metal there is an odd rattling sound. It is the first sound we hear every morning. Except on Sundays when Pappy stays in bed.There is a picture of four white horses pulling a carriage on the bin and every weekday morning when he drops the comb
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