The lost Weekend of Argent Lutomski

 
   He pressed the button.
A female voice came out of the intercom speaker: Who is it?
Me mum.
Who’s me? … Don’t answer that I know who it is, she says.
The lock made a grrrrrrrr sound and he pushed open the close door. Took a step forward and let the door swing back against his brightly polished red shoe. For some reason, or reasons, that were not at all apparent to him, he’d woken up outside wearing a suit and shiny shoes, a shirt, tie and tie-pin. The whole fucking bit. Dressed totally for a night on the town. He looked fine, from the neck down absolutely fucking acceptable - he would have had no difficulty in entering the finest of establishments were it not for his unshaven coupon, horrendous hair and seriously alcoholic breath. His mother came along the close towards him. What’s keeping you? she asks. I’m thinking, comes the reply. That’s your bloody trouble, she says, you’re always thinking about shit that doesn’t concern you: and even when a thing does concern you you don’t think about it, you think about that other shite that likely you’re thinking about now, which has nothing to do with anything that might be important to your immediate life but might have relevance to global fucking warming or geo-political power balances… Awright, he interrupts, less of the language. I’ll fucking language you my boy, she says. They stood staring into each others’ eyes for a moment.
Well, are ye coming in or what?
Aye, he says, aye, I am. He entered the close-mouth looking down on the top of his mother’s head. It was a fucker that… of late he couldny get over the fact that she seemed to be shrinking. It was a well known outcome of the aging game: he understood that folk often got a little smaller as they aged and that was his ma into her seventies now. What made this thought worse was the idea that she must’ve been nearly forty when he was born. Where’s the fucking test-tube? was a question that had a habit of popping into his head and this was a question that had fuck all to do with geo-politics or global winter-woolly warming. It had much to do with his immediate life, even if the event under consideration had occurred right at the very beginning of his little life.
It’s lucky that you’ve turned up, she says. And smiled up at him in a weirdly girlish-auld-woman-motherly way causing him to dis his concerted manner.
How’s it lucky? he asks.
There’s an envelope in there for you. Really?
Aye, she says, it’s a local postmark but I don’t know why anybody would send a letter here for you, it’s no as if you’ve ever been anywhere that people would lose touch.
Awright, he laughed, but if the sending party has only recently returned from various travels to the other side of the world then they maybe wouldny know a thing about my lack of moving anywhere. Too fucking true, listless you are, says she. He laughed and they went in ben the house. I see you’ve been taking the sarcastic pills again.
Fuck all wrong wae me, she says, I could still arm wrestle you under the table.
Aye awright Misses muscles.
Fought aw your battles, she says.
He laughed again.
I’m gonny have an oatcake and cheese, she says, what do you want?
Well no cheese, he says. She stared at him in an amazed silence then broke it with: I know that, it was me who discovered the allergy. Never mind they doctors, fucking half-wits, I guessed it right away. Cheese allergy says I, that’s what I told them right off and what did they do? - aye, five centuries of tests afore they got round to cheese by which time you coulda been dead of cheese poisoning.
Don’t be daft mum.
Aye well, she says, my boy having a cheese allergy and coming from generations of milk men, the fucking embarrassment of it. Jesus Christ but son, your faither would’ve been going round like a set of helicopter blades in his box doon yonder. She made a sweeping gesture with her arm which signalled a lot more of a vista than the merely yonder direction of the cemetery in which his da was buried.
He took a seat on the settee. It was nice and comfy, just let the eye-lids shut and off he’d go, away into the world of sleep. Away from the immediate awareness of the sense data that flowed in and in and in. She was right of course. A cheese allergy was an embarrassment for the whole family, even very distant relatives that he hadn’t clapped eyes upon for years were red-faced at the thought of him. Charlie Cheddar Heid, they’d called him, then at school the Heid bit got changed to Knob. That wisny any fun, that was no fucking fun at all and that was a fucking bad one when she'd battered two cunts in the street for shouting Charlie Cheddar Knob after them. And on a Saturday too, it wisny even a school day with its attendant escape routes from whatever problem happened to be on the go. Never mind, from hence forth the ever recurring questions: So you’re allergic to cheese but not milk or any other dairy products? Corrrrrrrect. Is that not very unusual? Corrrrrrrect again.
So here, here ye are, she says. Pointing a white, rather formal looking envelope at him. He took it in his hands, held it diagonally at the corners between his index fingers and sent it spinning with a flick of his thumb. It spun out of control onto the carpet; as he leant down to retrieve the envelope he stopped mid way. That’s fucking odd, he says, that’s really fucking odd.
What’s up? she asks.
My socks, look at my socks, one’s fucking black and the other yins fucking white!
So, she says, and what’s the big deal about that?
There’s something no right about it. Definitely would’ve noticed putting on two socks that were eh… well… so divergent, he says.
It’s nothing, she says sternly.
Och Christ you really are off you’re head. It’s definitely no nothing: if there is one thing it is not it’s nothing, awright, it’s not, it is definitely not nothing.
Okay, she says, there’s no need to go on about it.
Don’t get me started.
He lifted the envelope up off the floor. His name ‘Argent Lutomski’ was written in gold pen, underneath was his ma’s address and one those wee ‘c/o’ care of signs.
Must be from someone that knows you, she says.
Could be.
You gonny open it then.
Maybe, he says, and bit his top lip.
Maybe, what do you mean, maybe? Just open the bloody thing and let that be an end to it. I don’t know why any body would write to you here, anyway…
Sometimes I’m elusive.
Don’t you be daft.
Right enough it’s hard to be elusive with name like mine.
There’s nothing wrong with your name, it’s a fine name, she says. It means…
And at this point he joined in with her: SILVER, they shout in unison as Argent waved the envelope briefly above his head in mock, mock-triumph.
Looks like an invitation.
Maybe, he says.
Well, the writing’s in gold pen, that’s a bit of a clue, she says.
Maybe, he says.
We’ll never know if you don’t open the thing, come on let’s see. By the way, the irony wasn’t lost on me you know.
What irony? he says.
You know, gold pen, your name being Argent, Argent means silver and silver always comes a second place to gold. Just represents your whole life that really. Gold as a kind of opposite to silver, I say a kind of opposite because of gold’s perceived superiority. I don’t happen to think gold is superior to silver at all, but you can see how who ever addressed that envelope could’ve been being ironic with the use of gold pen. Just to underscore the type of second rate failure that they think you are. I would never suggest such a…
Awright, awright, awright, just leave it alone will ye. I’m no opening it the now and that’s that.
But it’s been here for nearly a week. You need to open it right away or you might miss whatever it is.
I don’t need to do anything right away. If I don’t want to open it then...
Don’t be bloody ridiculous, she says.
As if Lutomski wisny bad enough, you had to call me fuckin ARGENT. Talk about A Boy Named Sue. Argent’s a totally different universe, what were ye thinkin ma?
To be honest son it wisny me, it was your da. He insisted on that name.
But in Scotland! What were yous aw aboot? Aye there’s lots of wee fellas called Argent, we’ll just add another one to the team - is that what was going there, eh?
Aye but your dad wasn’t really Scottish, I mean no really, I’m Scottish but he just – wisny, really. So who was I to interfere with his cultural judgment? As far as fucking names were concerned it sounded good to me at the time.
Aye but you’re mad about silver, you’ve got hundreds and hundreds of silver knick-knacks and earrings and jewellery and fancy cutlery and…
Exactly, she says, your dad knew how much I loved silver so he called you after silver then he would know that I’d always love you.
That sounds… that sounds like a right pile of shite to be honest ma. And what’s this with the second rate failure thing…
What?
There a minute ago, you mentioned second rate failure.
Now there was a context to that. I can’t remember exactly what it was but…
But you were saying that you admired their sense of irony, who ever they might be…
The letter addressers, she says.
Aye who ever addressed that letter, you said had an admirable sense of irony by virtue of the use of the gold pen, colour of ink and so on, until such a point as to demean me. Me … your own son.
Just open the bloody thing.
Nah. D’ye mind if I smoke?
Aye, I bloody do mind. Ma chest’s no so good now son.
He nodded sympathetically and put his hand in his jacket pocket but found no cigarette packet. What the fuck’s this? he says.
What, what is it now?
This.
He opened his hand and it contained what appeared to be…
Hair, she says.
He shook his head, a look of incredulity on his coupon.
I’d take a guess at dug hair, she says.
What the fuck?
What the fuck right enough son, she says, walking about wae his pockets full of dog hair and has the cheek to complain about his name. Which, if you ask me, and I know you’re no gonny ask, but if you did ask me I’d say it was a perfectly fine and respectable name. There was even a band in the 1970s called Argent.
Don’t I know it, he says.
They were quite good as I recall, quite the fucking thing. She breathed out and looked up at the ceiling. So… she says.
So what?
So what’s with the gear? Off to a wedding or what, and they red shoes where the fuck did you get them? They must’ve seen you coming.
Don’t know, maybe they did, eh?
Well you’ve always had peculiar tastes. Though this is a wee bit different frae your usual.
What’s wrong with my usual gear? he says.
Naw nothing, just … just no often I see you in a suit. You suit it.
Aye, ha ha.
Naw you do. Very smart and all that.
Listen maw…
Aye give us a minute. She stood up and went ben the kitchen - looked at her distorted reflection in the silver kettle as she filled it. In the biscuit tin she found a bar of chocolate. That’ll do him, she says to herself, put two tea-bags in the pot and poured the water. She heard Argent go into the bathroom. He observed himself in the full-length mirror, washed his face, combed his hair, looked into his bloodshot eyes and says to himself, What the fuck have you been up to? He shook his head. He was tempted to check his arse in case he’d been date raped or something. It’s not everyday you wake up by the road-side dressed in totally foreign attire. Pocket full of dog hair where his 20 menthol smokes should’ve been …And these two socks, a white yin and a black yin. Some bastard somewhere was having a right good laugh at his expense. He took off the red shoes and a wee bit of crumpled paper fell out. He smoothed it out - it was a bus ticket for ‘Easdale’. Where the fuck is Easdale? he says to himself. He heard his mother walking back ben into the living room.
That’s your tea, she shouts.
Right, he says.
Just as he was about to go out the bathroom door he was seized urgently by the need to go for a shite. Shit, he mutters, and sniggered to himself. He took the suit trousers and his boxers down… Boxers! since when did he wear fucking boxers? Nature’s call was too loud for him to give that matter much thought so he sat on the pan and let one go. It was all very relaxing in a way, the movement of the bowels that is - not any of this other weird shit, about which it occurred to him that this would be the ideal moment to open his gold-inked envelope. The envelope was sitting on the settee though and he’d better get in there right away in case she was tempted to open it. This was when he noticed that the suit must be brand new cause the trousers still had the wee tag with cleaning instructions and so on stuck to the inside of the pocket. What had happened to the clothes he’d been wearing when he left his house the other day? What ever other day it was in fact he left - he’d no fucking idea.
That’s your tea out, she shouts.
He heard a noise that sounded like the tearing open of an envelope - suddenly thought it very strange that his da should have died exactly one week after he was born. And he wasn’t in this small bathroom at all but inside his own grief in a new and different way, it was all black and warm, yet impossible. It was impossible to know where such a feeling, such emotion, could lead. What it was. Its source and its destination. What was it? He was inside this black and warm place, little cocoon, both protective and corrosive, and it was his history and his future and what was it he was to do now? Something about who he was and being inextricably joined to his ma. What ever it was, it was going to be what he had known he had to do a long time ago, and now it was upon him. He was finally going to have to be himself. Tears formed in his eyes and flowed down. He imagined a deep blue and yellow sky with wisps of white cloud, and he whispers the word- dah.