Boy Who Made It Rain (10 page)

I called my dad Willy Loman. Not to his face. I said it in my head. Just me and my head. As soon as we read ten pages of
Death of a Salesman
and Mr Goldsmith began to talk about the protagonist, all I could think of was dad dressed in Willy's clothes, saying his lines and eating his food. In a flash it all became apparent, dad was the embodiment of Willy Loman, in soul and spirit. Chasing something that was unattainable. The poor bastard. Selling factory to factory, shop to shop, door to door, man to man, day to day, year to year is enough to break the strongest of men. My dad, like Willy, was broken. At least Willy had the gumption to have himself an affair, get some fun along the way before his downfall. Dad, on the other hand, was weak willed, let people walk all over him, allowed himself to be given orders, to be undermined and humiliated by recent sharp-suited graduates with no sense of anything other than themselves. I fucking hated those graduates. But what a state to get into nevertheless; the poor, pathetic bastard. If ever there was a motivation to learn from your parents' mistakes... One thing for sure, none of those graduates were breaking their balls selling for their feed, no, they were too busy sucking the devil's cock in order to fatten their wallets. None of those graduates were half the man my dad was. None of those graduates were going to Glasgow.

You don't get the feel of anything from the back seat of a car. The back seat symbolises the least important person in the car. And us driving to Scotland symbolised the least important person in dad's company. There was no conversation to be had because the music, which was just barely discernible in the front, blared in the back. It happens in cheap cars. Therefore we didn't get beyond the ‘can you turn that down a bit, please?' level of conversation. Reading was out of the question in case I projected vomit over the back of mum's brand spanking new demi-wave. I'm a bad traveller. Everything just whizzed past in series of greys, greens and whites. I fixed my eyes on a dead fly stuck to the window; the car was filthy. It could have been worse, that fly could have been me. I was alive and raring to go.

The M6 was as far North as I had ever been in England. For some reason I could tell it was the north I was travelling through. You hear stories about the divide, usually perpetrated by the south's snobbery about the north, but I have to say the further north I travelled the duller it got. Forty, or even twenty years ago the sky would have been dark from the furnaces, the chimneys, the work, now it was just grey from rain clouds. Zooming up the M6, towards Scotland, even the sheep looked to have an air of resignation about them: a foreboding sense of what was north of that border. They knew, they had sheep family in Scotland. And then the sign:
Welcome to Scotland
approached us. Or, rather, we approached it. We gave a collective cheer, more out of ritual than joy. Then we all reverted into the recesses of our minds and secretly, I'll bet, thought:
Christ Almighty!
I did anyway. As soon as we entered Scotland, or left England, (whatever way you want to look at it) the signs for Glasgow came thick and fast.

It took about an hour for us to escape rural Scotland. After which there was no doubt that we were within touching distance of Glasgow. High-rise flats could be seen far in the distance, like monolithic military men standing to attention, closely watching our every move. Protecting us as we advanced, overseeing our every movement, maybe. The welcome was intimidating. I wondered how many people were crammed into this place. What clever architectural mind was behind such atrocities? What illicit activities go on in and around these colossal concrete structures? What life flies by inside the tiny boxes that formed them? This was a proper city with proper city fixtures. It was a million miles from Eastbourne. It smelt different, felt colder. In the back of that car it seemed like a million miles away from us too. As we took in our new surroundings not one word was uttered between us.
Bloody Hell's Fire…Oh, God Save Us…Shit
couldn't exactly be heard but it was tangibly floating around the car nonetheless. Until mum broke it.

‘Well, here we are.'

‘Yup,' dad said.

‘It's big,' mum said.

‘Yup.'

‘A bit different from Eastbourne,' she said, trying to make light.

‘Yup,' I wanted to slap the back of his head.

‘I'm sure they'll be lots of record and bookshops, Clem,' mum said.

‘Yeah, can't wait?' I said, immediately cursing my immaturity. I wanted to slap my own head.

‘Well, they'll be lots more to do, that's all I'm saying.' I loved my mother in that instance. I apologised to her in my head. She hadn't bought into this crap. I knew this wasn't her dream sitting next to her with his hands stuck on the steering wheel. Motionless.

Emotionless.

She smiled, remained positive, kept her own counsel and failed to allow Glasgow's grey cloud to descend. I needed to be more like her. Stuff all that chip-off-the-old-block shit. It wasn't for me. I was a mummy's boy. She was the one I felt sorry for. The one I aspired to be like. He could escape and do what he does everyday…make a living. I had school. What did she have? If it wasn't for me, would she have been sitting in this car in the first place? Or, would she have realised the error of her ways and made a quick exit? Did she secretly blame me for her situation?

Driving to our new home, in the south-east of the city, led us through a succession of downcast faces and expressions. There was uniformity about the buildings, solid tenement structures everywhere. The hard buggers of the housing world. The elements didn't mess with these guys. They imposed their will upon the city, dwarfing the street activity below. One of these tenement flats was to be our new home.

Obviously it wasn't my decision to come up here. As young people we're just told where and when to go. Slaves to the parents, man. Well, you hear all these stories about Glasgow, don't you? Knives, sectarianism, gangs, violence, Buckfast for breakfast, rain. All that clichéd rubbish. If truth be known, I welcomed the adventure. Anthropology. I figured I wasn't going to be here that long anyway. A year max. Max!

Then back down south, not Eastbourne though. No way. Brighton maybe. Who knows, right? I knew I could stick a year. I'm not a problem child or anything like that.

The thing that tickled me was the accent. I thought it was brilliant, full of character, sheer energy. It does sound like one big constant argument taking place all over the city though. I'm still trying to get to grips with it. I'd say that for one in four people I have met, I haven't a clue what they are saying. I just nod my head to them. The Pakistanis are sound though. Up here they have this cool accent that blends the Glaswegian and Pakistani accent. Vocal melody. Music to the ears around these parts.

It was the noise that was the big difference. It came in all directions swirling through every corridor attacking my ears. It was not a distinguishable noise. I'd go as far as saying that I hadn't a clue what was being said around me. All the voices blended into this huge imperceptible din. And then, of course, the staring. I had prepared myself for this. The realisation that I was new. The spanking new boy. That day's difference. That day's talking point. In my paranoia all eyes were on me, shaking me down, checking me out. Girls asking themselves the question: would they or wouldn't they? Guys asking: Who the hell is that? Is he competition? Could I take him in a scrap? The iPod was loaded. Blocking everything out.

I wasn't concerned that I had no friends. I knew that there would be a transition period, but, really, I didn't need any friends. My plan was simple, keep the head down, get the grades and get out. Get to a good Uni. Not unreachable. I'm not saying I would close myself off to the possibility of meeting new people, but I'm not really into what's going on right now: computer games for a start, Play Stations, Xboxes, Facebook, My Space, Twitter, downloading ringtones, getting all the cool apps for whatever phone is in vogue. All that crap. I'm old school in my new school. I watch films, read books, listen to music, play my guitar. Nothing special.

I used to play rugby at my old school, you had no choice really, but I wouldn't say I was, like, Mr Sports Fan, either. I appreciated that I may not have been the life and soul for other lads my age. I wasn't appealing. People wouldn't clamber to be around my sharp and witty diatribes. I'm not good friend material.

The place was like a town in itself. A maze of corridors and doors. I was lost. I flicked on the iPod and searched for
Meat is Murder
, I blasted
The Headmaster's Ritual
into my ear. How apt, I thought. I plonked myself in a secure spot in the school's foyer and took in my new surroundings. Were the students in this place of learning that different from those in my last school? Actually, yes they were. For starters they had girls here. Lots of girls. Now, I wouldn't say that on first glance the school was undisciplined but a quick scan of what was before me unearthed puerile scurrying, hostile harrying, pushing and shoving, the odd spit, dead arms, slaps on the head, vocal vandalism and bag throwing. In my last school, there was an eerie hush at this time in the morning; all students were expected to walk in the one direction down the halls and corridors. Military style.
Dead Poets' Society
style. Draconian style. Uniforms were immaculately worn. Collars starched. Trousers pressed. However, I much preferred the dress code here. I liked that many students had artistically altered the original, it said a lot about the place. The people. Although saying that, many didn't wear a uniform, favouring instead the uniform of the chav: the tracksuit and hat amalgamation. Abomination. The more self-aware stylishly tucking their tracky bottoms into their white socks…nice. Maybe I'd alter my uniform too. Maybe I'd go crazy and undo my top button or something more radical like turn my tie around to the thin side. What an iconoclast! Hold on to your seats.

Then there were the conspicuous groupings: geeks, rockers, goths,
Kaiser Chiefs'
f
ans (and groups of a similar ilk),
Topman/Topshop/H&M/River Island
clones, etc. etc. I sat there thinking what grouping this school would thrust me into; who'd label me first. For sure, I wanted to be in a minority group. A minority group of one: the English Geezer Group. I suspected the word ‘geezer' was a no-no however. The English Twat Group. That sounded like a good group to me. How many folk listened to
The Smiths
in this school? How many people knew who they actually were?

I had never seen so many girls in the one place, not all at the same time anyway. Especially this time on a Monday morning, with an intriguing array of styles and sizes…and attractiveness. I didn't consider myself unattractive, nor particularly attractive for that matter, but being new in a school did have a certain weight of allure about it. Perhaps the accent could weave its way into some girl's heart. Or more. After all, I had to concentrate on the positives. Plural.

I never know how many steps you should take, or how many seconds to count in your head, before you turn around to look at someone passing you by. The last thing you want to do is to turn at the same time and catch each other's eye. You want to avoid that awkward pause, which seems to last an eternity, before you flick your eyes off to something else, a place so incongruous to the reason for turning around in the first place. As much as I wanted to, I didn't turn around. I gazed from a distance. Stared from the security of a class back seat. Gawked behind a sandwich in the canteen. Each day was an exercise in voyeurism, but that's what being a hormonal teenager in school is all about, is it not? This was frustrating as well because I became all too (un)aware who was available and who was out of bounds. The last thing I wanted to do was to put anyone's nose out of joint. Not least my own. It's not as though I craved a girlfriend or anything, I was simply playing out my role as a teenager. Horny and on the prowl. A teenage prowl, not a perverted one.

For the first time in my life I felt isolated. Even though it was only to last for a few weeks, it took its toll. I began to loathe the idea of going to that school. Every waking moment away from the place was spent on reading or plucking my guitar, whereas at school I played catch-up. Academically the work wasn't too taxing. I coped admirably. It was easy street. Unlike the work, I found the school to be somewhat problematic at first; no one spoke to me, welcomed me, inquired as to where I was from, invited me to join them at lunch, commented on my accent, took the piss out of me. Nothing. I was invisible. In the music class I couldn't even get my hands on a guitar. I was too far down the pecking order. I had to endure awful renditions of
Oasis,
The Fratellis
and
The
bloody
Kooks
while I sat tapping away on a shabby keyboard. On numerous occasions I'd amble around the place and sense that people were staring at me, talking about me, even intrigued by me, but I wanted more. There were many clumsy moments when there was an unavoidable coming together in corridors, yet eyes would make a sudden flick to the side, heads would suddenly aim for the floor or, worse, there would be a boorishly impulsive change of direction. In my paranoia it felt like the entire school was compliant in its endeavour to exclude me, including the teachers. It was like being the only white person at a Black Panther's AGM…or something like that.

Like I said, it was my paranoia more than the reality. Nevertheless I couldn't help but feel disappointed by the behaviour surrounding me; before arriving in Glasgow I took solace in the fact that Scottish people, and particularly, Glaswegians were a friendly and tolerable bunch. Not on this evidence they weren't. On the flip side, my dad said that he was having ‘a great time in his new job and couldn't be happier with his new colleagues'. I didn't believe him.