twelve

I’m just coming out of Murray’s bathroom when I hear him calling for me. I step into the lounge and see him bending over, leering into his goldfish bowl on the end of the bookshelf.

    “What are you doing?” I ask.

    He waves me over without turning around, “Come and have a look at this!”

    I sigh and walk over, dropping a two year old edition of Vanity Fair on the coffee table as I pass.

    “What?” I ask again.

    “The goldfish is in the middle of going to the toilet again,” says Murray; his nose is touching the glass.

    “Really,” I say.

    “Yeh, look,” he says, pointing, “you can see the little black string hanging out of his backside.”

    Catching myself off-guard, I actually peer in next to Murray, “When you think about it, fish have got rubbish bums.”

    Murray shakes his head, “He just can’t seem to snap it off, poor bugger.”

    I stand back and head into the kitchen, “Why don’t you take a photo?”

    “I can’t,” says Murray, following me, “I just get flare from the flash.”

    “Right,” I say, rubbing my hands together, “we’ve been drinking all night and I’m hungry. What have you got? And don’t say fish.”

    “I’ve got some sausages,” says Murray, opening the fridge door and pulling out a packet, ” and bacon.”

    “Breakfast rolls it is, then.”

    Murray takes the bacon and I unpack the sausages. I try separating them from eachother by pulling at the skin holding them together, but they won’t give.

    “This is hopeless,” I say, and try a succession of blunt knives to no avail. “Have you got any scissors?”

    “Yes,” says Murray, “but I have no idea where they are. I’ve got some nail clippers in the bathroom cabinet.”

    I get the clippers and snip the sausages free from eachother. The doorbell rings and we both look at our watches. It’s just gone eleven.

    “I’ll go,” I say and leave Murray to the greasy nightcap. I open the door and find Molly propping up the doorframe. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

    Molly smiles and ,fluttering her drooping eyelids, swaggers through the door past me. She follows the smell into the kitchen. I follow her.

    Murray turns from the frying pan, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

    Molly stands between us and rests her hands on our shoulders, “I knew you were having a session and I thought I’d come and join you. I’m so hungry, all I’ve had is salad.”

    She walks to Murray’s drinks cabinet.

    “So where’s..Raaandolph?” I ask, and me and Murray giggle to eachother.

    Molly sighs as she pours herself a scotch, “Randolph has gone home. He has pilates at eight in the morning.”

    We look at eachother, “Piiilaaaataayyyess…”

    Molly knocks back her scotch and pours another. She points at me, “You’ve never liked any of my boyfriends, have you?”

    “That’s not true,” I say, “that priest you had a fling with seemed alright.”

    “He,” says Molly, wagging her finger, “was not a boyfriend. He’d just temporarily lost his faith, that’s all.”

    “He’d temporarily lost his marbles more like,” mumbles Murray from the stove.

    Molly wanders over to me and prods me in the chest, “I went to see Ruff’s band on Wednesday. You didn’t go again.”

     “I know,” I say. “I feel bad…”

     “Yeh, yeh, yeh…”

     I pour us all some more drinks, “So what are they called this week?”

     Molly belches, “Digital Thrush.”

     “Catchy,” says Murray, flicking the bacon and sausages onto a plate.

     Molly takes her drink, “Ruff told me he asked you to join his band again.”

     I nod, sitting down on the couch, “He did.”

     “And you said no again.”

     “I did.”

     “Why?” says Molly in disappointment. “It would be great for you.”

     “So would round the clock blow-jobs.”

     “You could at least try.”

     “I can’t,” I say, drinking, “I’ve lost my mojo.”

     Molly tries not to laugh, “You’ve lost your ‘mojo’?”

     “That’s right.”

     “You ain’t git yer mowjow workin’?”

     “It ain’t workin’ babe.”

     Molly shrugs as we hear the sound of something dropping on the kitchen floor, “Well, it can’t be that difficult to get your mojo back, surely.”

     I shake my head, “You’ve obviously never had a mojo.”

     “I played ‘Little Donkey’ on the recorder in the school Christmas play. Remember?”

     “When we were seven? I must have missed the part when you set fire to your instrument and ate your own pigtails.”

     “You need to get some raw emotion running through your veins. Try drowning some fluffy kittens in a bucket and then get drunk and write about how it makes you feel.”

     I look at her, “I could try drowning you and write about how that makes me feel.”

     Molly lets her tongue hang out as Murray comes in to the lounge.

     “Had a bit of a to-do with the nosh,” he says, downing his scotch. “Dropped most of it on the floor.” Then he does a ‘ta-da’ and holds up a sausage on a fork.

     Molly suddenly gets up, “I want that! I’m sooooo hungry.”

     Before Murray can react, Molly swipes the sausage off the fork and crams it into her mouth.

     “Hey!” says Murray.

     Molly gives him the ‘up-yours’ with both hands.

     I get up and put my jacket on, “I’m going to head home.”

     Murray points at Molly who is smugly chewing, “Can you take this parasite with you?”

     I look at Molly, “You do realise that those sausages were cut with Murray’s nail clippers, don’t you?”

     Molly stops chewing and starts to go green.

     I leave just as Murray is propelling Molly towards the bathroom.

eleven

“Hey, guess who I bumped into on Friday.”

    I pour us both coffee and hand one mug to Molly.

    “Boxhead?” I ask with hope.

    Molly wrinkles her nose, “No, thank god. I saw Futter.”

    “Futter? Really? I haven’t seen him since he tried to get his musical version of Rosemary’s Baby made.”

    Molly laughs into her coffee, “Shit, I remember that!”

    “So what’s he doing now?”

    “He’s still hanging around pageants.”

     We go into my lounge and sit down. We sit in silence and Molly eyeballs me.

     “What?” I ask after a few moments.

    “I met a guy,” now she’s grinning from earring to earring.

    “Really?” I say, “and who is this…guuuuy?”

     “Well,” says Molly enthusiastically, “his name’s Randolph-”

     I choke on a mouthful of coffee and it dribbles down my chin. I put the cup on the table and try and catch it.  Molly shakes her head tiresomely.

     “Yes, his name is Randolph. Ho ho fucking ho. Get over it you big kid.”

     I’m too busy wiping coffee from my neck with my hand to get over it, “This is no good, I can feel it under my collar.”

      Molly pulls a wipe from her handbag and passes it to me. I slip it between two shirt buttons and clean up.

     “So where did you and Rudolph meet?”

     “Okay, you can quit the lame name gags.”

     “Okay, I’m sorry. Do tell.”

     Molly smiles again, “Well, we met at evening class, actually.”

     “Evening class? You? Since when?”

     “Since last Thursday.”

     “Evening class in what?”

     “Creative writing, dahling.”

     “Oh,” I say, returning to my coffee, “I was into that when we were at school.”

     “I remember,” says Molly. “Your stories were total crap.”

     “I know,” I say, “I could never come up with interesting characters or situations; all they ever did was sit around talking nonsense.”

      “So anyway,” says Molly, “at the end of the course a few of us went to the pub and Randolph and I started chatting and we stayed on for a few more drinks…and we discovered we had something in common.”

     “Is your middle name Randolph?”

     “Opera.”

     “Opera?”

     She grins, “That’s right.”

     “But you hate opera. You once described opera as four hours listening to a giant pair of tits feeling sorry for itself.”

     ”I know,” says Molly. “But I wasn’t about to let Randolph know that. Not with that gorgeous body and hairstyle. Anyway, we ended up going back to my place and it was fantastic.”

     I hold a hand up, “Please, this coffee is still quite warm. Don’t make me throw it over you.”

     “Don’t worry, I was going to save the intimate details for my sewing circle.”

    “I’m glad to hear it.”

    We drink our drinks for a moment.

    “So,” I say, “does this have a future. Is he boyfriend material?”

    “In almost every way, I think he could be.”

    “Almost? What does that mean?”

    “Well, it’s nothing really,” she says a little guiltily, “but you know how I have a thing for men’s eyes and how I’m totally into them?”

     “Randolph doesn’t have any eyes?” I say with shock, “That’s awful! No wonder you were able to seduce him so easily Molls.”

     “Sod off,” she says. “He has a squint.”

     “A squint?”

     “When we were facing eachother his right eye was looking over my left shoulder the whole time. I know, I’m being really shallow.”

     “That’s alright,” I say, “I once finished with a girl because she kept having too many delayed-reaction orgasms.”

     “That,” says Molly, “is sooo not true.”

    “So what’s the big deal about a squint?”

    “I know, it’s stupid. I’ll have to get over it. I mean it can’t be that big a deal seeing as I ended up having sex with him anyway.”

     “After he seduced you with that ‘come to bed’ eye of his.”

     “Do you want to meet him?”

     “Are you sure you want to risk it?” I say, “I might be repulsed by his hideous occular deformity and be sick in one of your Manolos.”

     Molly stands up and slings her handbag over her shoulder, “We’ll be in Mintzies on friday night. Don’t bring Murray.”

     I stand up too and walk her to the door, “Don’t worry, Murray’s going to be out of town on an office team building exercise in North Wales.”

    ”I bet he’ll love that.”

    “His boss thinks he’s been a little stressed at work,” I open the door.”He’s got himself all wound up because people keep urinating in the cubicles and not putting the seats up before they start.”

     “Eugh,” says Molly, stepping out into the corridor, “men are animals. I bet Randolph doesn’t do that.”

     “No,” I say, “with his freaky peepers he probably misses the toilet completely.”

ten

It’s one of those fantastic July days when it rains around the clock; not harsh driving thunderous downfalls or slight refreshing showers, rather that monotonous soul-destroying half-arsed drizzle that only ever seems to throw itself across the British Isles. Murray and I duck into a trendy coffee house. I hate trendy coffee houses.

    Murray stirs his coffee thoughtfully for a few moments.

    “Why do you suppose women have two breasts?”

    I swallow a mouthful of tea.

    “Thinking of writing a letter of complaint?” I ask. “What do you care anyway?”

    “I’m just wondering,”says Murray. “It just seems to me that two is a little excessive. Two hands; of course. Likewise two legs. Two buttocks even.”

    “Two buttocks are essential,” I cut in. “Think how difficult it would be to vary fart sounds if you just had the one buttock. We’d never get anything done.”

    Murray nods contemplatively, “Do you think the hole would be to the left or the right of the remaining buttock?”

    I shrug.

    “No,” says Murray, a few creases spreading across his forehead, “it would have to be in the middle of the remaining buttock otherwise we’d lose all of our natural symmetry. That’s why I never liked the Millennium Falcon.”

    “What’s wrong with the Millennium Falcon?”

    “Nothing!” says Murray, holding his hands up, “I just wouldn’t feel comfortable sitting in a cockpit that’s stuck on the side of the ship. I don’t like the idea of only being able to see out of the right hand side of the window.”

    “It is a waste of plexi-glass. They could have put up a photograph of Han Solo and Chewbacca frolicking on the beach on the left hand side.”

    “That’s what I don’t understand about women’s breasts, ” says Murray. “Two breasts; both do exactly the same thing. Why the need for two?”

    I think about this for a moment, “Maybe it’s because men have two hands…”

    Murray nods and finishes his coffee, “Still, it does seem to be a little superfluous.”

    “You,” I say disapprovingly, “are quite possibly the most ungrateful person in the world.”

    “What do you mean?” says Murray, “I love breasts as much as the next man!”

    “But you would be quite happy with a fifty per cent reduction.”

    Murray wags his finger at me, ” I didn’t say that. I just think the spare breast is like a toilet seat cover; it’s soft, comfortable and easy on the eye but completely unnecessary.”

    I finish my tea and play with my spoon, ” I wish I knew how to make mayonnaise.”

nine

It’s a freezing cold night and I’m waiting with Murray and Ruth in the queue to go and see Ruff’s band play at the Fig & Thistle. None of us has seen them play yet and we’re either starting to feel a little guilty or we are running out of convincing excuses.

    “What’s his band called again?” asks Ruth, searching in her handbag for her menthols.

    “Well, they were going to call themselves ‘The Scurvy’,” I reply.

    “I quite like that,” cuts in Murray.

    “But now they’ve settled on ‘Battery Acid Bimbos’.”

    “Not so much,” says Murray, screwing his nose up.

    Ruth lights up, ” Well, so long as the music’s good who cares what they’re called?”

    Murray and I nod in silent agreement. The queue shuffles forward a couple of millimetres.

    ”I thought Roper was coming tonight,” says Murray.

     “He was,” I sigh, “but Gussie got to him first.”

     “That woman,” says Ruth, exhaling, ”has got a lot to answer for. I’m soooo better looking than her.”

     “That’s true,” says Murray, “I don’t know what she’s going to do for a face when King Kong wants his arse back.”

     I decide to change the subject, much as I like Gussie-baiting, because I can’t think of any decent insults.

     “I saw Brian Wilson on the Underground this morning.”

     Murray’s eyes light up, “Really? Was it young Brian Wilson or old Brian Wilson.”

     “Old Brian Wilson.”

     “Wow, I wish I could have been there.”

     “Yeh, it was really something.”

      “Guess who I saw last week?”

      “Hit me.”

      “Dwight Schultz and Kathleen Turner!” Murray says, and he  looks genuinely starstruck.

      “Dwight Schultz and Kathleen Turner? Were they together?”

      ”No they weren’t together. Come on, what kind of a match would that be?”

      “What’s wrong with Dwight Schultz and Kathleen Turner being a couple?”

      Murray screws his nose up even more and makes ‘meurgh’ sounds.

      “I get it,” I say, “you still have a thing for Kathleen Turner, don’t you? How many times have you seen Body Heat ? “

       Murray slowly shakes his head, “What I wouldn’t give to be William Hurt’s mitts in that movie.”

       “Who’s Dwight Schultz?” asks Ruth while sending a text message.

       “He was Murdoch in The A-Team“, answers Murray with a tinge of impatience in his voice.

       We take a step forward.

       “I think Dwight Schultz and Kathleen Turner would make a great couple,” I say after a few moments.

       “Yeh, right,” snorts Murray, “the day Kathleen Turner needs someone to build her an aircraft carrier out of a screw and a peanut.”

        “You’re just jealous because the most you’ve ever made is an aluminium eggcup in third year metalwork. And the egg kept dropping through the centre.”

        “That eggcup would probably be worth a fortune now,” says Murray defensively.

        “I don’t like eggs,” says Ruth. She receives a text and reads it. “Shit!”

        “What’s up?” I ask.

       “I was supposed to be meeting a guy for a couple of drinks after the gig. He’s bailed.”

       “I bet he’s married,” says Murray.

       “Oh, I know he’s married,” says Ruth, stamping out her cigarette, “I’m only seeing married men now. I kept asking all the single ones to marry me so I thought if they’re already married then there won’t be any point in me doing that, will there?”

       Murray and I glance wide-eyed at eachother as the line shuffles forward a little.

      “I’m busting for a piss,” says Murray.

      “Go right here,” I say. “We’re packed in pretty tight, no one will notice if you point it straight down.”

      “Really? Do you think I’d get away with it?”

      “Sure,” I lie.

       Murray hesitates, casually looks across the crowd around us, then lowers his hands towards his flies.

      “Okay,” he says under his breath, “cover me.”

      “Oh, god,” says Ruth, lighting another cigarette.

      I shuffle a little away from Murray as he starts. Nobody seems to notice, at least not until a plume of stagnant steam starts rising before us. I put a hand over my face as various people begin to take notice and realise what’s going on. Murray’s face contorts and I realise he is trying to stop midflow. I can hear the disgusted comments that are coming in our direction and I surreptitiously point across my nose towards Murray, deflecting any accusing glares away from me. Ruth has already threaded herself out of the queue and onto the kerb. I resolve to do the same, and as I do the queue lurches forward and I just glimpse Murray with his hands over his crotch, losing his balance and falling into his own piss.

      “I’m going home,” says Ruth.

      “Really?” I say, “but it’s still early. Let’s go somewhere else.”

      “No,” she says, “I’m not in the mood. I’ll see you.”

      She gives me a peck and hurries off. Just then Murray is thrown from the crowd towards me, still doing himself up.

      “Where’s Ruth going?” he asks.

      “Home,” I say.

      “So soon?”

      “Well,” I say, looking down at the damp splat on his trousers, ”when you gotta go, you gotta go.”