Dropping Off the Record

Posted: 21 May, 2012 in Daily Droppings
Tags: , , , , ,

Shuffle says: “Last Things Last” Rachels systems/layers

The record player was one of those faux vintages. It auto stopped and put the needle back when it got to the end of an album. So Cillian never had one of those naps where he woke up to the steady sound of romantic vinyl static.

He soaked his face in the water of the bathroom sink, then returned to the bedroom to grab his rucksack. The gun sat there on his desk. He stared at it, unsure what to do with it. It struck him that he had no real intention to do anything with it. He just wanted to have it. Cillian stuffed the pistol inside his jacket and headed out the door


Oasis was playing at Slane castle that night

Colm, Gareth, and Eno were going. There was room for him in Colm’s Da’s car if he wanted to go. They were waiting for him at Niamh’s (though he guessed it was really Maria’s. She had been there first, had known him first too) about a mile away, down by Merchant’s Quay, where she lived with Maria and Andrea. He told the lads he’d be there an hour ago to start the pre-party.

You couldn’t tell from the front, but the building was actually disconnected. Cillian hopped the back fence into the space between instead of ringing the bell and climbed on top of shack where the girls grew weed. According to the optical illusion of the building that space shouldn’t’ve existed and Mrs. Ready, the landlady who also owned the pub downstairs, apparently didn’t even know that it was her property. So two years ago Marie, then later Niamh when she moved in, became illicit horticulturists by opportunity more than anything else.

Cillian grabbed the bars on the edge of the balcony, hoisted himself up, and entered from the window.

—Fuck mate! Eno’s back was to the window and expressed his startle when Cillian placed a gentle though sudden and surprising hand on his shoulder.

Empty cans of lager, cigarette butts, and dwindling bottles of vodka and whisky made it plain that the lads had begun the session without him.

—Oi, howya Kill? said Tomsy

—Hey, Killer, said Colm

—Piss off Colm. I tole you not to call me that.

Fucking Colm. Cillian couldn’t stand the prick. No taste whatsoever, he always wore jerseys and grew his nappy, slicked, curly hair out long to make up for the fact that he had a deeply receding hairline by the time he was eighteen. He bragged way more than he should about getting laid and once even told a girl “suck it beautiful” (It was almost a year after Kill had heard that story he discovered it was from American Pie). If it wasn’t for the car. He’d’ve probably not been invited.

Gareth, former drummer of the Knotheads, White Craicers, and other failed projects, just nodded politely.

—Gar. Kill nodded back. He turned to Marie on the couch with her slanted blonde hair and exceptional lips. She gave a sweet and stoned wave. —Hey, Marie. Herself in?

—She’s just a bit, yeah? Sit down, cup of tea, love?

—Yeah grand.

She poured him a mug with the face of the pope on it, added milk, and passed it over the table to him along with a half smoked spliff.

—Where you been at? We been waiting donkeys like, Eno asked

—Doesn’t seem like you been waiting for anything. Anyway I was on the North Side.

—What For?


—Fer wa like?

—I’d say it’d have to be somethin fine for that gash of money I saw him stuff in his pocket this morning, said Tomsy

—Were you buyin a ring so? said Colm —Luck, mate. She’s too good for you

—Aye shut yer feckin gob willya?

Cillian Sucked hard on the perfectly rounded stick and let it right into his brain.

—Tomsy tells us you got a secret plan for becoming a rock star so, said Gareth

—Yeah, tell us. You startin another band like? asked Maria

—Aye, it’s called Dealing with Igits

They all laughed as Cillian exhaled.

—Hey, Kill

The innocuous greeting carried more power than it should have.

Niamh stood in the doorway. She wore her Doc Martins with the skulls and roses. Dressed in an outdated leather skirt like only she could pull off. Pixie-cropped black hair thinly streaked with elusive purples, pinks, and blues Her military-style jacket was ornamented with patches from cities you’d never been to and bands you hadn’t heard of. She was cool. There was no other way to put it. Everyone wanted her.

She chose him. Something he never understood. Why would a catch like her ever want a scrawny waster like him? So he did the smart thing and shut the hell up and didn’t ask questions

Andrea followed her into the room, her doe-eyed innocence clashing with Niamh’s all too knowing mischievous grin and sat on the arm of the chair next to Gareth.

Niamh saw the rock star in his soul. She made him feel like everything he wanted to be.

For the past week, she’d been in Limerick visiting her family. They kissed, he could taste wine on her lips. It left stains on her teeth. The sway she held over him at times cause him to wonder if she were other worldly

—How’s my glamorous indie rock n roll star?

—Well now, that’s for sure.

She put her nose against his then leaned back from him. —I’ve got a present, she sing-songed, swinging her hips and lolling her head.

—That so? You gonna tell me what it is?

Niamh looked over her shoulder and nodded at Maria —She knows.

—Oh! Oh! You brought it!?

—C’mon, what is it so?

—Well I just thought it wouldn’t be a proper Oasis show without a little something special. So I got something from me cousin last week.

She pulled a ziplock from her jacket pocket and tossed it over to Maria who held it up to display the snowy powder.

—Ah There’s the craic, said Eno

Maria laid out the white, pulled out a five note and passed it to Niamh.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s