THE DAY GRAN STRUCK A CHORD
I wrote a two-chord song which I played to my family on Christmas Day. Everyone applauded politely but I knew there was something missing.
“It’s a bit too political,” my dad said.
“It’s a bit too naughty,” my mum said.
“Can you play Danny Boy?” my gran asked because that was her favourite.
I didn’t have a title for the song but the chorus went:
‘Is that a weapon of mass destruction in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me? If Hans Blix turned up on your doorstep would you invite him in for tea? And if he discovered you’d run out of biscuits there would be a ruction. So let me get my hands on you weapon of mass destruction.’
The chord change was from ‘G’ to ‘C’ every eight bars and when I played it in my bedroom it had sounded fine.
“What about putting an A-minor in the middle?” my gran suggested. I just laughed but when I tried it, the difference was amazing.
“How did you know how to do that?” I asked.
My gran just smiled and shifted her false teeth in and out her mouth.
SIMON LE BON FOR PRESIDENT
George W. Bush appeared to me in a dream last night. I was sitting on the front step having a smoke while everyone was in the house dozing after Christmas dinner when he drew up in a car and got out. He sat down beside me and pulled at his fingers, snapping them like firecrackers.
“Can I ask you something?” I said.
“Sure, as long as it’s not about politics.”
“It’s not.”
“Okay then.”
“Michael Moore said you’re functionally illiterate. Is that true?”
“No.”
“So what are you reading just now?”
“Ulysses.”
“Is it any good?” I asked.
“It’s okay.”
George wanted to ask me a question and I thought it only fair to say yes.
“Do you ever wish your life had turned out differently?” he said.
“All the time,” I mumbled.
“I always wanted to be the lead singer in Duran Duran,” he said with a sigh. “If Simon Le Bon was president, what do you think he’d do?”
“Probably change the national anthem to one of their songs.”
“Which one?”
“Rio maybe?”
“Good song,” he said and started singing the chorus, putting his hand on his heart. “That might work.” he said and I nodded, even though I wasn’t convinced.
He stood up and stretched, then walked back down the path. When he got to the car he turned round.
“Remember, Paul, don’t say a prayer for me now, save it ‘til the morning after,” he shouted, giving me a salute as he climbed into his car. I never even had time to tell him I didn’t believe in God.
BROTHERLY LOVE
Frank wants me to look at his balls. I ask him to say it again but when he drops his trousers to his ankles, I know I heard him right first time. He tells me he has a lump and starts crying.
“I don’t want to die,” he wails, as I take a half-step backwards. The last time I saw him cry was on holiday when he dropped his ice-cream cone in the sand but he was five then and I was seven.
I wish dad was still here. He would have known what to say. He told me to look after Frank as well as mum – “You’re the man of the house now, Michael,” he whispered in my ear – but I hadn’t expected this.
If only I had been the younger one, none of this would be happening. He would be asking one of his friends, maybe even his wife, but he doesn’t want to worry her, not yet anyway. She’s downstairs helping my wife with the dinner while the kids cram into the living room, the younger ones playing with the new toys that Santa brought them while the older ones watch a DVD.
I could tell him to see a doctor but he’s always wanted me to make things better. I crouch down and Frank guides me till my trembling fingers graze it. The lump. I cradle it in my fingertips as he releases his grip, and close my eyes, struggling for something to say as tears drop on to my head.
AN IRRATIONAL FEAR OF FLYING
He sits down opposite me and our eyes meet. He looks away first, towards his feet which peek out apprehensively from under the long grey gown he is wearing. I take in everything about him. The white hat with its intricately embroidered pattern. Gold, horn-rimmed glasses. Fingernails perfectly manicured. A thick black beard which hangs from his chin like an upside down pyramid. These things might be important later.
He puts a rucksack on his lap and opens it. Is that an alarm clock I can hear? He glances up and this time I look away. I don’t want him to get suspicious.
I see a little girl sitting on her father’s knee, eating a bar of chocolate from a selection box. Beside them, a teenager is asleep, his body having slid down the chair. A Yankees cap covers part of his face.
I spy the man peering into his rucksack and resume my vigil, noticing for the first time that I’m not alone. He pulls out his passport and places his flight ticket in it before zipping his bag. It would have been x-rayed before he got to the departure lounge, I reassure myself.
But what about his other luggage? A ticking case might already be heading for the plane. Do they x-ray that? I glance round, trying to see if there’s someone I can ask.
A voice booms out from hidden speakers.
“British Airways flight A256 to Paris is now ready for boarding. Would passengers holding boarding passes numbers one through to sixty five please make their way to Gate Seven.”
The man examines his ticket and then stands up. He throws the rucksack over his shoulder and heads towards the queue which is forming at the Gate Seven desk. Countless pairs of paranoid eyes follow him as he takes his place behind a woman who is reading a newspaper.
One or two anxious faces at the head of the line notice him as they wait to board the plane, staring intensely for a few seconds then looking away.
I let out a deep sigh and relax. I flick through my book ‘til I find the folded corner which signifies my place, and start reading until my flight to Glasgowis called.
GIVING UP
I gave up smoking and started shitting a lot more. I wasn’t sure if the two were related. If they were, I would have bought a packet of cigarettes right away. I knew which I preferred. Kirsty made an appointment with the doctor because I wouldn’t.
He got me to drop my trousers and then stuck a rubber-gloved finger up my bum. I don’t think it gave him any answers but we didn’t talk about it later.
I had to go for an x-ray. A nurse drew two circles on my stomach where they wanted to take pictures. I was too nervous to ask what of, but wished I’d paid attention in biology class at school. After they’d finished, I got dressed and went home to wait for the results.
When the doctor called, I decided to go alone. Kirsty wasn’t happy but I told her it was no big deal. I’d phone if it was serious.
I was sitting at the back door when she came home. It had started snowing and there was already a white carpet on the grass.
“I thought you’d given up?” she said.
“I have,” I replied, blowing smoke out into the garden.
You can email me at author@paulcuddihy.com or tweet me @PaulTheHunted
