Repeat to Fade

by Stephen McEwan

‘I-van!’
…
…
‘I-van!’
…
First of all, I try and ignore him
…
‘I-van!’
…
‘I-VAN!!’
…
Then I look up from my magazine. ‘What?’
…
‘Take another!!’
‘Again?’
‘Yes!!’
‘You’re still at it?’
‘Take another, Ivan!! Now!!’
‘That’ll be nine.’
‘I know!!’
‘In one afternoon.’
‘Yes!! But!!’
‘That’s a lot.’
Ernesto grabs my magazine, throws it on the floor then points at the table, his chin jutting out like the tray of a jammed till. ‘Please!! Take!!’
I glare at my cousin, sit forward on the couch. ‘Nine,’ I remind him.
‘Yes!’
‘In three hours.’
Ernesto. The guy’s been doing his nut since I gave him my verdict on the first one, when he started scrutinising my face like I was a coma victim threatening to take away a secret to the grave. And he’s been pacing about the room more and more and muttering in his native Portuguese as well. It’s mad, it’s like he’s praying to the Patron Saint of Dodgy Drugs or someone who, if he exists, is obviously just messing with his head, the way he’ll command me to ‘Smile!’ or ‘Get up!’ now and then, with ridiculous amounts of faith.

I delve into one of the bags, grab a pill and throw it down my mouth, then I get my magazine and stretch out again. ‘Save a bit of time, Ernesto. Take one yourself. You’ll see. Duds.’

Ernesto doesn’t answer this, he just peers at me more curiously than ever, his arms folded, his foot tapping.

The third guy in the living room, the silent one by the door, the fat, greasy crumb-catcher in the new leather coat, is my other cousin, Kev. None of us, I should point out, are pals.

Well, those two probably are.
But I’m not.
‘I-van!’
…
‘I-VAN!!’
‘What?’
‘Please!!’
‘What is it?’
‘Dance!!’ He grabs my arm and points to the stereo, the magazine hitting the floor again.
‘No.’
‘Yes! You must try!’
‘I told you, no.’
‘Come on.’
‘No. I’m not fucking dancing to Pink Floyd.’
He stares at me for a second before he suddenly snaps his fingers like a good cop and motions Kev to the stereo. He heads across and changes the CD.
‘Now, Ivan!’
‘Oh, give us a break, Ernie.’
‘Come on! Is important!’
‘It’s not, it’s a waste of time and anyway, you’re obviously mad.’
‘I am not! I am worried!’
‘You are. You are if you think I’m dancing to fucking Derek and the Dominoes.’

How did I get here? Really? This can’t be what it’s all about, watching my Friday afternoon eat into my weekend gubbing fake Es with two muppets I can’t stand or get away from: whiny, weasely Ernesto and slow, psychotic Kev. What am I doing? And these should be happy times for me, exciting times, with my uncles’ imprisonment forcing the family business under new management and everything. 

My uncles. They hardly noticed me till I was twenty-five. As they expanded their horizons they realised how useless Kev and Ernesto were and asked me to do some work for them. After leaving school, I’d gone through all sorts of daft jobs in the hope of finding one that would give me enough cash to build my record stall while not sending me off my head, and since when Ross asked me to take the arcade keys one morning I was between two particularly daft jobs, I went for the extra cash without a fuss. And then I got there and realised I wasn’t just going to be freeing stuck coins and scaring kids from the front door like I’d thought- those would be Ernesto and Kev’s jobs; mine would be different, mine would be sitting alone all day in the middle of the room in a box. Yip, in that box- the change box- the place where that same miserable bastard sits the world over, that dreary, resentful scumbag who, no matter how nicely you speak, how warmly you smile or how much cash you give, still just sneers like you’re a sex offender asking for your medication.

Before I’d set foot in the arcade I could never work out just how they could so resent visits from their own customers. And it wasn’t like they were busy in there or something, or had been on a ten year vow of silence before you’d asked if they’d change of a fiver.

That’s what I used to think anyway. That’s what I believed before I sat in there myself.

Now I know the truth.
It’s not them.
It’s you.

The change-givers weren’t born like that, they’re just what happens once you’ve been in there a while. First it’s the intensity of it all that rips into you, the zipping lights and clanging zooms that go on and on like some sort of Toy Town nuclear attack. And you can’t escape it, stuck in that box, there’s no hiding place, and you can’t shut your eyes either because people keep coming and asking for change. And it’s those people who’re really the problem: the men in the shapeless joggers, the women with the tattered purses and the kids in the Halloween masks, all, to be honest, looking like the last people who should be pinning their hopes on a series of gurgles and bloops on a Wednesday morning. And I can actually handle them blankly feeding the machines all day until trudging out deflated as well. And I can put up with them peeling notes from a bundle that I know is supposed to last a fortnight. I can deal with all of that. But what I can’t handle is their smiling and politeness while they do it. I mean, they’re the ones losing cash by the bucket load, they’re the ones shedding shoes, bus fares and dinners, and I’m the one getting the pleases and thank yous.

And the worst of it was, I was only in there for twenty minutes.

I couldn’t handle it, asked Ernesto to take over, and since he was having bother with the boys outside he jumped at it. He was born to be in that box, slipping inside like a kid in a racing car.

This was when I got to know Ernesto. After turning up at Archie’s door some years before and then hanging around every summer, he’d finally come for good. Although I’m five years older than both my cousins and so was able to avoid him over those years, I also suspected he’d never find too many lights on in Kev’s and would soon come looking for me. And the afternoon he stepped into my room, noticed my records and whispered ‘Aaah, you like The Floyd, yes?’ and made the smoking sign with his fingers, I knew I’d have to get better at hiding.

I stayed out of his road for another six months, right up till I started in the arcade, and that was when I realised how much of a pain he really was; how he claimed to love everything about his new home- the music, the TV even the weather, but really meant everything except the people. I suppose that’s what happens when Archie is your mentor, you’re compelled to see Glasgow as he sees it himself- a den of junkies, scroungers and neds. To be fair, he’d later teach Ernesto that people are the same everywhere- just junkies, scroungers and neds. I wondered how long Ernesto would take to see his dad and uncle as the biggest neds of all.

We didn’t argue much, I quickly saw how a remark of mine could sometimes draw out a reflective pause and I didn’t exactly want us to be mates. But neither did I fancy losing the rag and falling out with him- my uncles now owned half of my mum’s new house and to me, Ernesto was a way to know what they were up to. At the same time I had my doubts they trusted me, that they thought I might steal stuff or ask too many questions, so in this way I guessed Ernesto was a grass. And he was. I know he was because he told me, he told me moments after I decided to share something with him of myself; that, just like him, I too had an undying love for Pink Floyd. It took an awful lot of guts admitting that, and I can’t say I was too pleased to see him just shrugging like I was some sort of idiot, that of course I was mad about Pink Floyd, who wouldn’t be? But it worked- the very mention of them seemed to warm him to me, seconds later he confided that I had my uncles ‘a little bit worried’ but I wasn’t to bother, he’d told them I was cool.

I should say that telling him I liked Pink Floyd wasn’t being totally honest, closer to the truth would have been to say I thought Pink Floyd were the most awful band ever to have existed- the most hypocritical, wallowing hippie shite of this or any other time. And the idea that their music makes you feel like you’re on drugs is actually true: they’re so mind-blowingly fucking boring you can only assume someone’s messed with your head. Well, it’s either that or Pink Floyd aren’t a band at all but just a public schoolboy prank; it’d make a lot of sense, the longest and least funny public schoolboy prank in history.

Anyway, within months, I found out Archie and Ross had been dealing in a lot more than just electrical gear. I’d already guessed this by the cash they flaunted and their shady trips abroad, and wasn’t too shocked to find it had been coming from jewellery. Ernesto’s assurances to Archie and Ross had paid off; I’d start to find the arcade’s back room door open and glance in to see my uncles handling pieces back and forward. They’d glare out disgustedly at me but not say a word, and I knew this was just their ill-mannered way of telling me I was trusted. I didn’t ever see more than the odd bracelet in all my time, I didn’t ever hear more than the safe thudding shut, but with the characters that came around, either not knowing about the ‘business’ entrance or just fancying a go on the machines, I got an idea of what my uncles were about; a few of them were the smug types just like them, but most were the thieving neds they claimed to hate.

So, for five years this is what I’ve been getting up to. If I haven’t been hanging around the arcade then I’ve been dealing in electrical gear- from widows in London to market holders in Glasgow. Five years of this. Five years of watching my mum getting slowly worse as well. And five years of being no closer to getting my record shop.

Oh, and five years of Pink Floyd. Five years of hearing practically nothing in that van but Pink Floyd. I’ve actually ended up getting quite used to it, their pitiful drone eventually slapping me into a sort of dazed semi-vegetative state; a state that I’m sure Ernesto- the way he looks across with a knowing grin when we get to what I can only assume are the best bits- often mistakes for a serene joy. It’s just madness really, a madness that’s matched only by Ernesto’s cluelessness: by his polite surprise if I suggest a change of band, his confusion at my refusal to smoke a joint, and his blaming himself when a CD gets lost or, you know, sort of broken.

And I haven’t had any help from Kev either who, in his own way, probably finds the band quite calming. I mean, he might sneer if he hears a bit too much, but it’s nothing compared to when James Blunt or some boy band comes on the radio, when, very slowly and very quietly, he’ll growl out a warning like someone’s cat is pissing on his lap.

The thing is, Kev’s supposed to be the daft one, but he’s always had more of a clue about me than Ernesto has. Even though I haven’t actually done anything, he’s suspected for a while where I’ve stood in all of this. And it’s not that intense, brooding silence of his that’s got me thinking like this either, I realised a long time ago how that’s just his way of keeping up. It’s more that vacant but unnerving glare he’s been giving me. I see it a lot when it’s just the two of us in the van, and especially when I throw in a CD. It’s taken him long enough, I suppose, it’s taken him more than four years to notice that when Ernesto’s not around, Pink Floyd are never ever played. Well, of course they aren’t- there’s just no way I could take the charade to those sorts of proportions, I mean, the very idea. But the thing is, over these last few days I haven’t felt that’s been the reason either, he’s been glaring at me in all sorts of places. Kev can be quite a scary guy really. Anyway, I know this is about Archie and Ross. I’m sure Ross told him I had something to do with them going to jail.

I didn’t. I’ve got no reason for wanting them sent there. Any pleasure that might have surfaced was pushed back by the thought of them ditching my mum once they got out. The three of us found out about their arrest at the same time. Ernesto’s step-mum phoned the arcade to say Archie and Ross had been stopped at the Euro star heading for Belgium- stopped with two briefcases of forty-thousand quid’s worth of jewellery.

Ross suspected me because on the first morning of the trial I’d driven Ernie and Kev to the court and bumped into an old schoolmate, Paul Strachan, at the entrance. Paul wasn’t in great shape, he’d lost a few teeth and was looking at everywhere but me. I thought he was at the courts because he was in trouble so didn’t ask much.

I think Ross had seen us talking from a window.

Paul was the one who’d tipped the cops about him and Archie.

So what am I still doing here? There’s only so much fun to be made from letting slip the odd time what I really think of Ernesto’s favourite band. And it’s not like my uncles left us huge piles of cash or the details to their big account, there’s only really the arcade. And even if they still planned to live up to their promise to my mum, I’m not much use while they’re inside anyway.

I’m here because you always sort of wait for the right moment before bolting. And also, I suppose, because there was about a thousand pounds.
I hoped I might get my share.
But not anymore.
Not anymore because our new boss has spent it.
Spent it in his first major business decision when he decided to break with family policy and get involved with drugs.
Get involved with ecstasies.
Buy them from a man in a pub.
A man he’d never met.
And not just a few either…
And after trying nine and finding each one a dud, I’m thinking it’s pretty safe to assume they’re all the same.

Ernesto snaps at Kev to get the music off and gazes at the pills on the table.
‘You can try one for yourself and we’ll call it a day. Put it down to experience.’
He narrows his eyes warily. ‘Oh, Ivan, I don’t know. People say that ecstasy, you know, it gives the depression.’
‘Don’t worry. Not those. They won’t give you fuck all.’
He looks at Kev. ‘You want to try?’
He grunts, shakes his head uncertainly.
Ernesto gazes some more before he reaches out and swipes one like a cage is about to fall. He throws it in his mouth, grabs some Irn Bru and swallows with a grimace.

With his eyes darting around like there’s a feeling in his head he’s trying to pin down, he steps into the middle of the room and brings out an arm. He raises and slowly drops it, then, turning to stare at the other, does the same. He lifts both legs as well, shakes them about a bit, and I feel like I’m watching a puppet that’s come to life and wondering what its limbs are for.

Usually I’d tell him a buzz would take a bit more than five seconds but today there doesn’t seem to be an awful lot of point. He goes to the mirror and stares into it. Nothing.

Me and Kev exchange nods and Kev goes to the stereo. ‘This one?’ he asks, holding a CD.
‘Yes,’ Ernesto moans, trudging past and collapsing onto the chair ‘The Floyd, Kev, The Floyd.’ He puts his head in his hands and peers through his fingers. ‘Shit. Ivan?’
‘What’s up, Ernesto?’
‘Ivan, I think I did a big mistake.’
‘It’s starting to look like it.’
‘Yes. Tell me, you know, you live here longer than me…’
‘Uh-huh?’
‘And well…’
‘Aye?’
‘Please, Ivan…’
‘What is it, Ernesto?
‘Tell me. What we do now?’
Poor guy.
After all these years, he still thinks I’m his pal.

- Issue 17 of Product is coming soon. Meanwhile, have a look at some samples of the best journalism from Product and a collection of new fiction from debut writers in Scotland.