Scott Clark

Extract from Protestant Work Slump

Chapter Two

Waking up early and needing some water, Ah have a wee snoop about the gaff to get my bearings. On Monica’s living room desk rests a typewriter, with a letter in it:

Ridicule is Nothing to be Scared of

Londoners all the time ride bicycles without helmets on. / Oh, The Brave,

The Unconscious! / Frenzied commuters battle delivery drivers for the cycle lane.

Cycle paths; / Impotent socialism.  / A misplaced step in the right direction.

Public Gardens, Paid of course. / Half an hour’s wage for an Iced Latte.

Ah imagine she has more tae say on the matter, it being still in the machine and all. Ah live for all this hard-done-by working class hero pish. Ye can imagine Mark E. Smith with his mushed-up wee features, his ugly grimace, chanting this shite oan stage.

Ah cough, and it cuts into ma throat. Fuck me Ah’m thirsty.

Guzzling down the first pint of mineral-rich tenement water, Ah spy a picture of Monica with some pal in what seems to be that cunty Sketch restaurant. The very Wes Anderson one, wae the egg toilets that every bastard gets a picture in for their Instagram. Truth be told, Ah’ve even got one oan ma page, next tae the David Shrigley paintings. Looking into my glass before filling it again, there is only a slight build-up of sediment. Impressive. Ah usually find a thick mucusy scum at the bottom of half the glasses from my taps.

We spoke about it last night together but it’s still crazy to me that Monica and I were not just living in the same city, but in the same borough as well. For years. It half cringes me out, as I was a proper begging cunt when I was living in London. What if we had passed each other at some point, been on the same train, or in the same park. She would have been repulsed at the jock-the-lad patter I was laying on thick back then. Ah like tae think I’ve matured now, settled into a more confident self.

Hard to tell though, introspection being biased and all.

Skimming over the rest of the letter, it’s uncanny because it feels as if I wrote this haphazard resentful outburst myself. Ah don’t think Ah’ve ever seen a typewriter in real life either, and right now Ah’m a little bit annoyed that Ah had not yet delved into the pretence of having one myself. Ah wonder if she makes a habit of using it, or if it’s more straightforwardly cosmetic.

The top of the margin reads: For CONCRETE, Vol. 4. [The Sins of our Fathers]. Makes me chuckle, as it’s the kind of thing we were ripping the stones out of just last night. Ah had disclosed to Monica my failed stint at being a writer a few years ago, submitting to every shite zine and magazine I could. Too bad, she laughed. One thing that struck me last night was that she doesnae tolerate sulking or moaning. Cut from ma ain cloth, this lassie.

With one hand chugging a second pint of water, and another scratching ma belly, Ah find my shirt on the floor of the kitchen. Ah enjoyed our first screw last night. We listened to Bjork and did it on the countertop. Ah remember being frustrated as fuck on the taxi tae the gaff as it felt the drink went straight to ma prick. Never have I been so ecstatic to pull It out and see it at least half hard.

Funny how we just bumped into each other last night. Suppose bumped is a liberal way to put it, as Ah had already asked if she was going, and knew she was. Bumped isnae the word at all. Either way, we ended up spending most of the night tossing word salad to and from each other’s ears. One of the most distinct moments was me pulling out ma wee notebook, which had some scrawls of images and poems Ah like tae jot down for a bit of fun. I showed her my most recent scribble:

Fog Descends, / Unwieldy Consequence.

Gaze and Glare, / Look, Look! No Underwear!

Pigeon Hopping, / One LEG Lost.

Word Salad, / Finger Toss.

The cunt belly laughed and patted me on the head. Ma face was scarlet for about five minutes even when she had the mercy to change the topic of conversation. Ah was so biscuit ersed that I wasn’t even concentrating as she was putting the first moves on. Bastards got ma fucking number.

There’s a temptation to pat myself oan the back for shagging Monica, as she’s technically my boss. Like, she’s no really my boss, perse. If ah’m tae get all technical, she’s my counterpart with more experience. Ah’m an Assistant and she’s an Advisor – same difference. Sounds more ballsy when Ah say she’s the boss, though. Ah say this as everyone kens Monica’s the one with the trousers. When she comes doon tae oor floor, tae deliver her set of orders in the Monday morning meetings, her word’s sacrosanct.

In nomine Goth Mommy et itty bitty’s et jacked legs that I want tae be smothered by.  

[We clench our jaws and raise our eyes high, as if to say Amen]

Campbell’s there almost purely for cosmetic reasons. He stands at the front at all times though usually does little talking. A big classically handsome jock is necessary for both managing our shy techy wagecucks and the image-orientated stakeholders. He makes all the techy shite mare palatable, usually by following up an advisors report with In layman’s terms… then some unobservant statistic repeating. Everybody loves it, and I still haven’t grasped why. 

Monica’s flat smells of bergamot and fresh laundry. It wasn’t Monica’s smell, but it complimented it. My mouth feels gammy and dry. Another pint is needed. Ah look down at my stomach, pregnant with liquid and anxiety. In the kitchen I notice a Moka pot, a Nespresso machine and a Cafetiere. Nae rest for the vicious. Next to her fruit bowl is a clay tea pot and tins of loose leaf. Opening one, I felt a shudder pass through my balls. Posh fanny simply hits different. 

Sewn in-between epithets of short king and daft cunt, Monica won me over last night by inundating me with her passion for all kinds of literature, music and philosophy. She had started off the night correcting my pronunciation of Cocteau Twins, as I had opened by saying the band playing at the time bared a resemblance. She had done this in front of her pal, whose giggle had caused me to blush, and my crotch to swell in a confused arousal.

‘Who gies a fuck about Jung and Foucault. It’s fir wee anxious teenage boys who idolise silent protagonists in arthouse films. We’ve outgrown the ideas as a culture.’ Monica had said, in reply to me regurgitating what I had read in the spring. Ah had only mentioned them to make myself seem clever, and it seemed to not have the intended effect.

Her busting my balls didn’t even let up when Ah gave her the tried and tested working-class hero mythology spiel. It was one of my best performances yet, of illustrating how mummy and daddy were hard workers on the breadline. How Ah had carved my way into a position most people happen to find themselves in through passive and or disinterested nepotism. Instead of fawning over my big strong forearms, she instead reciprocated considerate academic responses, and engaged in the dialogue with brief images of her own upbringing. Ah’m no sure why, but her casual attitude to my sob story and her following engagement made me want to pump the fuck out of her there and then.

There is a frustratingly alluring aspect of her that Ah have no idea how to unpack.

Spread across her glass coffee table are photography and lifestyle books. One titled Soviet Bus Stops catches my attention, and reminds me of Craig’s newfound passion for all things Slavic; or rather, Soviet. When asking what he’s up to, his new patter after the usual work sitrep is telling me about how many new phrases he’s learnt that day. The language, though, is anything but tentatively grasped, let alone mastered.

The other day I showed Craig a picture of a Soviet plate depicting a babushka sewing a field, Cyrillic circling the image. Found it funny how crude yet beautiful it was. Craig started to identify and conjugate the characters accordingly, forming his own translation. Ah felt bad, but it was necessary to point out the English translation underneath, which bared no resemblance to his own. Poor gadge just wants tae seem interesting, but Ah cannae have him feeling somehow intellectually superior tae auld daddy. Craig is what you might refer to as, according to sexual dominance fetish play, a subdominant. A part of that act is they love to be reminded of the fact, which ah’m happy tae oblige.

Monica comes into the living room, at speed.

Haw, ken where the phone is? she asks.

I scan the room, locking in on a clock. 7:35am. It’s only after Monica barks at me, that I pick up on the ringing. Lifting up cushions and pulling the sofa back, we’re both scoobied. Ah’m transfixed on Monica’s back, lit up by her modern so-well-lit-it-hurts-my-poor-wee-hung-over-eyes tenement apartment. We had just spent the night between each other’s legs, but her bare body startled me. In fact, I felt myself a tad uneasy seeing her naked body in such a stiff formal animation.

Through the glass tabletop between us was a MacBook, a couple of magazines and a box chess set. Ah wonder who she plays with, and where. An old boyfriend might have gotten her it, or perhaps a friend that didn’t know her too well. Picking it up, I notice that ‘Monica’ is crudely etched into the side of the box. So, she made a habit of taking it out, enough to put her name on it. Maybe she’ll teach me some if I ask her. I always wanted to play, but wee Davey Newton from the school used tae get constant bother from the boys because his maw made him go to the upper-school’s chess club. Ah didn’t fancy being lambasted and bullied just for playing a board game.

Gotcha, Monica says, shaking her phone towards me. Ack, might be a while.

Fetch yersel something tae eat; got toast, cereal, fruit; whatever. Ye can sit oan the balcony wae a book as well, if ye want. I’ll be about fifteen, he says.

Nodding and getting up, I test the waters by grazing a finger up the back of her leg. Monica listens in on the phone, stiffening her back, but not at my touch. Ah don’t think it was acknowledged.

Brian, do you really need me to explain to you why it’s inappropriate to call me on a Saturday morning? Monica says.

Ah, she’s talking tae Brian. Proper tapped cunt. Craig works wae him, and from time-tae-time he spots Brian playing with a practice butterfly knife and checking Crypto whilst reading reports. The purr cunt doesnae know Ah’ve already laid ma claim. He always tries tae justify the ‘good intentions’ of online extremist groups like the Proud Boys and Incels. Wan tae keep an eye oan and arms distance from. Ah cannae believe some cunt has intruded on oor wee bit ae heaven, especially someone from the work. I want tae bust Brian’s heed open and scream from ma baws. Also, why’s he calling on a Saturday? Fucking chancer.

Leaving the living room and entering the kitchen, Ah grab myself an apple and a banana. Coffee time. Putting the kettle oan, wanting a big mug ae the yeehaw juice, Ah dart into the living room to find something to read. She’s got books cosmetically placed in bundles on her shelves and surfaces. Ah get worried at first as all Ah can find is Sally Rooney, Joan Didion and Patti Smith. These are uncertain waters for this particular fish. She’s redeemed as Ah glance over copies of Ezra Pound and Alan Hollinghurst. I even get a little tingle when I see one stack of Kerouac, Burroughs and O’Hara. Soft boy corner, my corner. Lunch poems will do.

Outside, on the balcony wae ma breakfast ae champions, I can hear Monica bullying Brian into submission.

Brian, if you come to me with topic this again… She says, then it fades to an inaudible whisper. Whatever it was it seemed pertinent.

You don’t have to apologise, Brian. You just prove to me you can pull your weight, then, by finishing your assignments by Monday. No arguments, Brian. Monica says.

Ambient city noise from below knocks me from my train of thought, and it returns to its usual base self. Monica’s got this big full mouth that Ah suspect she gets from some sort of Mediterranean heritage; her skin’s much more olive as opposed to my bright blue milky hue. Makes me shiver. Ah’ve been proper intae Mediterranean lassies recently, as my porn habits have been indicating. There’s this subreddit called r/MediterraneanGirlsSuckingCock which has been the go-to recently. I have willed it, manifested it! Ack, the daydream is once again distorted by commotion outside.

Checking my watch now, reading 7:45, I’m wondering what’s taking so long wae this phone call. The thought of no having to be in the office for another two days makes me almost weep with joy, and this phone call is an intrusion. Ah peer over through the kitchen and see Monica stood up in her underwear, scowling down at her computer, still on the phone. Everything about her is attractive. Weird how she doesn’t have this same gaze with me, at least not now. Makes me feel not perverted but rather guilty. I’m forming an idea about her whilst she’s preoccupied, so it’s not really harmonious. There’s no blossoming going on, only the creation of an image.

Over-intellectualizing the situation is, however, deep-frying my brain.

Let’s have a scan ey the dogeared Lunch Poems.

Tarantula Deadly Cargo by Sleaford Mods blasts from inside the gaff.

Monica comes outside wae a cafetiere, two cups and a fruit bowl. She’s shaking her hips side to side, with an end of bread hanging out her mouth. Anymore coffee and ah’m gonnae faint. My mind reverts back to my perverted lens, as Ah scan her sturdy legs, bound by shorts. Hark! To crawl up and die between those cunts…

Wit sports did ye do at school? I ask.

Eh, Hockey, Swimming and Running. Only really liked Swimming, though. How? She says.

Nothing, ye just look like you’ve done sports your whole life. I say.

Aye, well Ah keep up the Swimming and Running. Got quite into Cycling last summer as well, but haven’t been out in a while. You don’t need tae tell me ye dae yer running, ye got the same wiry legs ma dah has, haha, she says.

Suppose Ah am a wee bit ey a daddy, eh, I say.

Monica feigns cringing.

Aye, Ah bit eh running. Oh, and cycled everywhere at school. Fitbah was pretty shite, as the pitch was always filled wae the dregs from ma estate. Ah was probably a scrag end as well, mind, but suppose I thought myself above them, I say.

Ah used tae love fitbah, until ye get tae that age when ye start tae notice that the boys are always there watching yer casual kick about. Making wee comments, shite like that. You do anything apart from running? she asks.

Dae a lot eh climbing the now, I say.

Always wanted tae start climbing. Remember Ah told ye Ah was in a band? Bex, oor bassist, she does it all the time. Apparently proper good at it. She’s a bit ey a hard wan tae get tae know, though, so av never asked tae tag along. Maybes ye take us sometime? Monica asks.

That’d be fun, I say, wondering what Monica does in her band.

Looking at her hands, Ah notice she’s got long slender fingers. But that doesnae really tell me much about what she could be proficient in. Ah ask her.

Ah play drums, and well, we all sorta sing. So that as well, but Ah wouldn’t call myself a singer. And aye, it is screaming angry dyke music, she laughs, as if Ah am so predictable.

Haw, ah’m no gonnae judge ye. In school me an ma pals had a band called Moon Unit, named after Frank Zappa’s daughter, and we made loads ey album covers but never played anything. No a chord. Ah was supposedly the bassist, but Ah only touched one a handful ey times. In fact, Ah still don’t think I’ve ever gone oot ma way tae listen tae Frank Zappa.

Monica laughs, hopefully finding it endearing. She goes on tae tell me the goss about all her band members. Dani, the sort of frontwoman of the band (though Monica insists it’s an ensemble), is a dominatrix and finds any form of genital stimulation disgusting and writes lyrics accordingly. Bex, the bassist, is a self-proclaimed snow bunny (which Monica says makes Bex feel somehow right-on in the current climate) and an amateur tattoo artist. Monica lifts her t-shirt to show a jumping horse over her right hip, which Bex done fur her a few months ago. Again, she is hard tae to ken; a distinctly private person. Then there’s her best pal in the band, Sylvie, a tall Lithuanian lassie who’s doing a PhD in Philosophy and only wears black and brown wool clothing.

And yersel? I ask.

Oh aye, and there’s Monica. Goddess and renaissance woman, she laughs.

Aye, fancy yersel eh, I laugh.

           There is a pause that only lasts a few seconds but feels like an eternity.

No an awkward silence, mind, but a pregnant one. Monica looks at us as if she’s just stepped inside of me and burrowed herself. Ah look at her and she seems completely vulnerable, her face relaxed and her head at an angle.

What shall we get up to today? Monica asks.

We discuss what might make for a fun day in the impending vicious Scottish summer heat. Suppose tae meet Craig today fur the Rangers game, but he knows the score. I’ll gie him a message:

Doug: Laying mad pipe today, ken.

Doug: Apologies

Doug: Let’s get pinted the morra

Doug: Yawrite?

Doug: Shout me when yer up.

Ah’m no really sure how to play this, the whole office romance thing. Ah’m no really sure what the script is. Ah do hope the soft touch is alright as well. I’ll see him soon enough. That being said, it all goes out the window when push comes tae chuff.

*

Walking hand in hand, our footwork never hesitated to synchronise.

Monica is flicking through the ‘Female Singers’ section, wherein Madonna and Kate Bush sit side by side.

De ye think they saw a femme oan each of the covers and thought, aye close enough? Monica asks, detailing the distinct differences between the two.

One sells sex, the other romance.

In her hands is a copy of Never for Ever. Looking around, the store is what Ah imagine Rob’s from High Fidelity might look like. Being a cunty wee Romantic at 15, there was nothing better than the idea of cosmologising my empty heartache through chatting bollocks about music wae ma pals. The record store, though I rarely ever entered one, was a sacred space in my mind, where I catalogued my ideas of love and its ambition. The image permeates with Monica swaying to Bela Lugosi is Dead. Wee slice of heaven, is Monica. The sleeve of the Kate Bush record in her hand has this fluid flow of creatures bursting out underneath her dress.

Is all that coming out her fanny or her arse? I ask, pointing.

Uhm, well, it is bursting out. So, a fart would seem more reasonable. It might flow instead if it was her chuff, Monica giggles

Aye, it’s no really a sexual image, is it? More a playful one, I say.

I start to smell that dusty hot plastic scent particular to record stores, most likely from the sun-bleached items in the window.

Tag yersel, Monica says, poking my arm.

Scanning the cover, there are grotesque gargoyles, beasts and cute magical forest creatures.

Maybe the creature with the cone nose looking expressionless. He looks on the verge of cracking someone’s head open, I say.

Interesting, Monica says, miming writing on a notepad.

Tell me, doctor, do you also have dreams about sucking your mothers breasts? I ask.

A depraved response, Monica says, pretending to scribble again. One which doesn’t consider the human taboo of incest an altogether abhorrent concept. Hm. Do you dream of electric sheep? Monica asks.

Ah thought you didn’t care for Jung? Well, ah’d say you’re the swan oan the front… because you’re a big annoying cunt, I say, as a rattled reflex response.

A symbol of beauty and violence. And annoying, I say, laughing.

It was hard to tell how Monica took this, though she laughs as she continues to flick through a stack of records, with Never for Ever under one of her arms. Not replying straight away to what Ah had said prangs me the fuck out.

Can’t handle a woman making fun of him… oh dear, oh dear, Monica says, smarmy and smiling to herself.

Made myself look keen as mince, there. Biscuit ersed, as well. Fuck sake. Monica keeps bumping her arse intae us whilst looking contently onto the covers she’s picking up. She’s wearing a thin cottage core white slip-on, and it’s giving me violently sexual clouded judgement. Every time she smiles at us, Ah feel as if I’m gonnae fold over like a deck chair. Av nae strength.

Let’s get this one then, Monica says, holding up Never for Ever. You get this, and I’ll get us some lunch later.

I pay, and we find ourselves walking into a furnace. Edinburgh’s cobbled streets look alien, with an orange glow subduing the jakies on benches outside pubs like lizards. Cunt ae a day, this.

Monica holds oor hand as she listens happily to my theory about how white people shouldn’t take Ayahuasca.

EXT – SOAPBOX MOMENT – DAY, BAKING HOT

WISE WHITE BOY:

Simply put, the modern westernised mind that has already been cosmologised within commerce and seemingly free social mobility, cannot access the same pure visions as an indigenous person. The indigenous southern American conceptualises the afterlife as something that can easily be accessed through their (relatively limited) objective experience, that it can be perceived wholly rather than interpreted. They do not critique. They only perceive it as if it were the trees around them. We are far too sceptical and unkind to access such a pure state. That’s why white people chuck themselves in front of motors when they trip on the stuff.

Monica nods along and offers her own two cents, which Ah think largely upholds the same thread as my own. We lay down, and she tells us about how magic mushrooms helped her get over having so many panic attacks, and how fucky it is tae have an ego death. Ah used tae love mushies, and sadly never got tae the state of doing away with my sense of self, however hard a sixteen-year-old Dougy tried. Proper fucking tidy this. Monica basks wae her legs crossed and her head on ma stomach, chatting away. Her dark brown hair is roasting, but a luxury to touch, nonetheless. Ah hear some English and American drama students performing some shite near us, but it doesn’t annoy me. Ah don’t think, right now, anything can ruin this.